Bad Cop, Worse Cop, Worst Cop

She was moping, still with that lip thrust out. I wanted to smack her. Because, see, that would make her tits jiggle. "I'd rather not say."

"Hey." I stopped short, and when you're walking with a cop, and the cop stops, you stop. She did, peering over at me through those paint-bristle lashes. "I'll check the computer, Ms Kiley. Who let you out?"

She sighed and looked away. "Mr Fuller," she admitted in defeat. Ah. A first-year teacher. Once I told Bourne about this, bad paper would be inevitable for the poor rookie, but tough shit. You don't let kids out during a lockdown. That's sort of why they call it that. I kept staring, Emma slumped her shoulders, and the rest of the story came oozing out. "I told him it was woman problems."

"Huh." Woman problems. Like that would stop me, with a filly as fine as her; I'd rip out the tampon and get to work.

Extra lube.

"It always works with guy teachers," she was saying. "Single ones, anyway."

"Huh." I kept on staring, the clock ticking, the dogs sniffing; by now, I figured I knew what she wanted from me. I could wait, but she couldn't.

When she looked up this time, the defiance was back; she actually had the balls to look down her nose at me, which worked because she was tall and I was short. "My brother has some Vicodin," she blurted at last. "He gave them to me to hold because he saw the cop cars pull up outside. You know, the K-9 truck thingies."

"Yes. I know the K-9 truck thingies." I kept right on staring. "Your brother. Is he James Kiley?" I didn't tell her, but James Kiley was fucked anyway; I'd planted three dimes of marijuana in his locker that morning. He was on my list.

"Yeah." She crossed her arms under her breasts, her outstanding breasts, her glorious and incomparable breasts, and I shuddered despite myself. I doubt she noticed.

"How much shit did he give you, Ms Kiley?"

She shrugged. "Just a few. They were in a Pez dispenser; I didn't count them."

I decided.

"Get back to Mr Fuller's class. Now. Once the dogs find the pills in your locker, I'll come and cuff you. It's Wednesday, so there ought to be a judge on duty tonight; if not, you'll be in jail overnight." I tossed my head as I looked away, dismissing her. "See you soon, Ms Kiley." I left her there, shaking, and headed straight back to my office. It's a real problem letting a student walk back to class unescorted, but not as big a problem as planting weed on her brother. Or looking up her locker, busting into it, and grabbing James' stash in its Pez dispenser before the fucking dogs jammed her up.

But I did all that anyway.

* * *

I had her called down to my office the next day, ostensibly to offer her counseling after the troubling arrest of her brother James. He'd been pretty surprised when he got fingered, but he'd looked at me as I cuffed him with dull, pinked-out eyes, high as fuck, and I guessed he wouldn't even remember whether the drugs were his or not. Besides, it wouldn't matter once he'd pissed into a cup.

She arrived in yoga pants and a hoodie, looking ordinary and normal and not at all like the peddler of titmeat I now knew she was. Her eyes were already asking questions as she sat down in front of my desk.

She launched right in, her lips gently pinked and with her eyelids carefully winged. Her hair was back in a ponytail, perfect for grabbing while she was sucking a cock. I could let my mind picture it easily; I'd checked her out. She was eighteen, her parents having held her back in the seventh grade. I wondered what had happened; her transcripts showed good marks across the board.

"Officer, I want to start by apologizing for what I did yesterday. I was, like, desperate." She sat up straight, as if she'd gone to etiquette classes. "I'm really ashamed."

"You've got nothing to be ashamed of," I replied, and I didn't mean it like she proabably thought I did. I meant her tits. "I understand. You were helping out your brother and trying to stay out of trouble yourself; I get that." I was going for the "caring cop" vibe, not friendly but not unfriendly either. "But there are consequences to your actions, Ms Kiley... may I call you Emma?"

"Please do." She was relaxing just a bit, those shoulders falling a fractional inch. She was getting her mojo back, sizing up the situation. She'd be wondering what I meant by consequences. And based on what she'd led with yesterday, I imagined she was thinking I'd expect her to go pretty far.

But no. She'd be good in bed, I could tell; she seemed feisty, and those girls were always fun. But I had other needs. "If you feel like expressing your gratitude, to me," I went on, sounding as professional as I could, "I can think of a good way..."

She leaned forward, her lips parting slightly. I saw her take a breath. "Please let me know, officer." I wondered whether she was expecting me to bend her over and take her right there.

I fixed her in a harsh stare. "Do you babysit, Emma?"

* * *

She turned out to be a very, very good babysitter. She had Jack sound asleep when I came stumbling in at 3:00am, reeking of beer and pussy. She'd done better than I could; I'd always been useless at putting him down. Most weekends that I had him, I just locked him in his room and he stopped making noise eventually.

"He's the cutest little kid!" she cooed, showing no signs of tiredness. I'd walked in on her sitting on my couch, tapping coolly on her phone. "He was no trouble at all." She was stretched out in tight, ripped jeans and the same t-shirt she'd taken off in my office, her legs up on the other cushion. She smiled. "Did you have fun, Officer?"

"I did, thanks." I scratched absently at my chin and looked around at the room I'd so hastily tidied. I hated cleaning, but I had no problem doing it in return for free babysitting. Well, not free; I'd sort of already paid for it by rummaging through her locker five minutes ahead of a slobbering Belgian Malinois, looking for a Pez dispenser full of hydrocodone. Four of the little pills had, in turn, paid for this evening's adventures with a probationer named Jillian.

All part of nature's rich cycle.

"So, like, I guess I should go." Emma showed no real urge to move, cocking one leg up on the sofa. "It's pretty late." Those big eyes were huge, and I tried vaguely to figure out whether she was expecting to have to put out for me. If so, she didn't seem too upset; mostly curious. Even in her slouched position, her chest swelled magnetically beneath the shirt. I wondered whether she was wearing the same bra. I could ask, I suppose.

"Sorry." I shrugged. "This is the price you pay for keeping your brother's shit in your locker."

"Ah." She swung her legs to the floor and sat there straight-backed. "And, like, was there more of a price?"

I stared at her. No doubt, now; she was expecting me to open her legs. I smiled coldly. "Oh yes, Emma," I replied, my voice a low hiss. "There's more." She arched an eyebrow, carefully. Her expression showed a certain recklessness, even eagerness. My cock, even in its current fucked-out state, twitched a time or two; shit, but the girl was mouth-watering. "I want you back here next Saturday. 3:00pm until after dinner." I smiled again, grimly.

She dipped her head and looked back up at me. "I see." She smirked. "How long after dinner, sir?"

Was I just hearing what I wanted to hear, or was there a little added smoke in that voice? I'd checked: nothing in her record even came close to suggesting that this girl had anything but a pristine history. I frowned. "Cleaning. Vaccuuming. However long that takes. You do realize how much you owe me, don't you?"

She blinked, then shrugged. "It's just that I'm not much of a cleaner."

"Ah. Well, what are you good at?"

Those huge eyes rose as she looked up, a smile curving along those thin lips. She sat quietly and waited until she saw me smile too, and then she got gracefully to her feet. "I'll think of something. I have to run," she announced, stooping to pick up her backpack. I looked: my earlier conclusion about her ass had not been a mistake, though the tight jeans were making the most of what she had. Whatever; there was enough to grab onto and a hole in between, so in the end it was all good.

I chuckled at myself. In the end. Emma cocked her head to the side. "What's funny?"

"Nothing. I'm just really tired," I shrugged.

"Ah." She shouldered the bag and turned. "You should get some rest, Officer LaFratta." She smiled whimsically. "Need me to tuck you in? It worked for Jack."

Shit.

I mean, I already knew I was going to get myself into trouble with this chick. To be fair, I'd known it as soon as I'd ascertained she was legal: when an SRO messes around with a student, it's always unethical and it'll always get you fired. But as long as they're eighteen, it won't get you prosecuted. Good enough for me; I'd looked that up the day after Brandino assigned me to this fucking gig.

I hadn't done that research from my work computer, obviously. People can read that shit.

But yeah, Emma was definitely going to be trouble. In asking around about her, I'd found nobody with anything bad to say about her. I was rapidly deciding, though, that it was all just an act she was putting on: this bitch was a predator. And she was targeting me. Which I was just fine with, but nothing said I had to make it easier for her. Especially if I could get maid service out of this.

So I stared at her, those big eyes staring right back, and put an Old Larry edge in my voice. "Your little jokes don't amuse me, Ms Kiley. You and I both know that your parents would be bailing both of you out if it weren't for me. Just how much vacuuming do you think that's worth?"

She nodded, her smile quirking into a weird and slightly mocking look of total seriousness. "Of course, sir. I understand completely, and I appreciate you taking care of me." Fuck! She was doing it again, these quick and subtle little digs at my libido. She turned. "Um, could you please walk me to my car? I don't know this neighborhood, Officer."

"Seriously?" I couldn't refuse, though, even though all I wanted to do was sit on the toilet and take a massive, beer-fueled dump. But I couldn't do that while she was there, obviously. "Just get some pepper spray, or a gun."

"Loan me one?"

"Not amused, Emma."

"I'm sorry." She wasn't. She brushed her hair back as we walked out the door. "It's just that single young girls like me are so tempting to bad men. You wouldn't want me to risk my body, I hope." Jesus, who even talked like that? In stony silence I stalked alongside her, trying to hold a fart in, to the little blue Honda she'd parked down the street.

She drove off with a jaunty wave, and I stared after her for a few moments in the starlight, surrounded by a flatulent nimbus.

* * *

The next night, I had Daniella over. I boned her comprehensively, including a total of 114 minutes with my penis inside her vagina (yes, I timed it), body shots of semen, and a small amount of sodomy. We finished all crusty and exhausted, both completely satisfied.

But I think even then I was already thinking about Emma.

* * *

She came over to clean at 3:00 that Saturday. I ignored her, catching up on paperwork while she puttered with her earbuds in. At one point she was squatting in a pair of yoga pants and a smudged long-sleeve concert shirt, scouring at the base of the stove when I came in to get a cup of coffee. She looked up at me with a long dark streak above her lip, where she'd wiped her nose on her sleeve. "This is fun."

I took my mug and shrugged. A sports bra, I decided. That was the only explanation for the fact I wasn't getting much out of looking down her shirt. "You could be doing the same thing down at County, like your brother," I pointed out. Well, not really; he'd made bail. But she got the point, anyway.

"True that." She scraped at the last bit of shit under there. "Ever had a servant before?"

"Can't say I have, actually," and to tell the truth, it felt odd. I'd enjoyed learning about kings and dukes and serfs and peasants once upon a time, and the idea of having someone wait on me hand and foot had been attractive to a devious little bully like me. But I was finding that the reality was weird. I always had a strange urge to clean the place up before she got there to clean the place up.

"I've never been anyone's servant, either." She reflected as she tossed the scouring pad into the sink, the whole kitchen smelling of pine-sol and bleach. She stood and stretched, her arms far above her head as she bent her back sideways. Her body was lean and taut, her belly firm where the shirt rode up. I looked, and I didn't really care whether she noticed; by now, she knew this dance well.

Definitely a sports bra.

"It's kind of cool, in a way," she observed, hiking her butt onto the kitchen table. "It's like I get to find out all your secrets." She laughed softly. "Well, the household secrets anyway. Like when I was emptying your trash. Or arranging your medicine cabinet." She looked at me boldly, her eyes big and bright. "Sorting your socks..."

I looked at her, half-lidded as I sipped at my coffee. "Might be a good career field for you," I joked. "The place has never looked so nice."

"Well, thanks," she drawled, and then she reached around back to pick her underwear out of her ass. She did it very calmly, just a normal piece of maintenance. "Goddamn wedgie. If I'm done cleaning, I might go wash my face, Officer."

"Please." She knew where the bathroom was, and she grabbed her backpack on her way in. I looked greedily after her as she left; even a non-stupendous ass looks fantastic in yoga pants, I reflected. She was gone for awhile while I made a fresh pot of coffee and stared aimlessly out the kitchen window, wondering where all this would go. When she came back in her face was pink and damp and her shirt was splattered. She walked to the front door to put her backpa -

Holy fucking shit. She'd changed out of the sports bra.

They were back, those perfect fucking titties. Whatever she was wearing under there now put them right back on a display shelf, where they belonged. For Christ's sake! What was she trying to do to me?

I cleared my throat. "Want some coffee?" It felt slightly depraved, being alone with her and having her clean up after me.

"Sure," she agreed, and then she was walking coolly into the living room and plopping herself onto the couch, a guest now and not a maid. "Mind if I put the TV on?"

I brought her the mug, a big double-size one. "Why? You're not camping here for the night, you know."

She giggled. "No, that's next time I babysit." I looked at her in incomprehension as I sat at the other end of the couch. "When I take care of Jack again? Last time I got home near four am. This time, I might as well just crash here."

"Yeah, that'd go over well." She flickered rapidly through the shows. "You lied when you said you weren't much of a cleaner."

"It was a fib." She settled on one of those foolish Hollywood quasi-news shows. "Maybe I was hoping I could get you to change your mind. You going to have me back another time, Officer? Have I shown you I can be useful?"

"Too useful. Now that I know what you can do." I looked down at the fresh vacuum tracks in the carpet. I'd never turned the damn thing on. "You'd have needed to have thought of something else you're good at, anyway. So far, nothing."

"Oh, come on, Officer," she scoffed. "Just because I haven't told you, doesn't mean I'm not good at anything else." She squinted mischievously over her coffee mug. "I can do backrubs."

Shit. "Not to me, you can't," but this time I kept the Old Larry edge out of my voice.

"The volleyball girls say I'm good," she pressed. "I think it's why they keep me on the team." She leaned over to put the mug on the coffee table, her shirt riding up in the back. "What's the good of having a servant, anyway," she went on, "if I don't serve you?"

"Can you change the oil in my truck?" I asked bluntly. "Because that's the kind of service I need at the moment." Child support was killing me; vehicle repairs were out. My dick was sending warning twinges; I had a sudden urge to lick the grease off her face.

"I don't do machinery," she snapped, but she was grinning now. "Personal service only." She sat back against the cushions, way back, and rested her feet on the coffee table in a very domestic pose. The sound was low on the TV. "If you don't want a backrub, I'm afraid I'm out of ideas."

"I didn't say I don't want it," I replied, draining my own coffee. "I said you can't do it to me." I looked over at her severely. "A foot rub. Maybe." Nice and demeaning, too; my feet were a fucking swamp.

"Oh ho," she said softly, her eyes lighting up. "Because that's not a cliché at all. A girl giving a foot rub to a man..." The smile had gone whimsical again, and even a bit crafty, her tiny lips pursed.

"Like it's any less cliché than a backrub," I pointed out. "I just think my feet hurt more than my back does. That's all."

"That's all," she mocked, but she was sitting up already. "Let's get your shoes and socks off, sir." Okay. The show was well and truly on the road now. Whatever was going to happen had started to happen. I wasn't even thinking about Dani, or even Tori.

"My feet are fucking disgusting," I warned, nearly shivering at the thought of this good little girl putting her hands on my cruddy feet. I loved that she was filthy already, this little angel who'd been scrabbling in my filth all afternoon. My dick was painful down my leg. I swung my feet up to the couch, Emma scooting her ass around to the far corner. "You sure you're up to this, Ms Kiley?"

"Personal service," she reminded me. There was just a little bit of fire in those Tokyo-art eyes now. "You just let me know if there's anything else you want me to do," she smirked, pulling my shoes off. "Anything at all." Shit, the stench nearly made my own eyes water, but she just stared into my face as she reached up into my jeans and rolled my socks down my leg the way a bitch rolls a condom down a shaft. "My," she said, arching her eyebrow when her hands encountered my ankle holster. "What's this?" I opened my mouth, but she beamed and held her hand out. "Wait! I'll never get another chance to use this line." I frowned as she sat up, arched her back, and put on a naughty expression. "Is that a gun down your leg," she grinned, "or are you just happy to see me?"

Motherfucker. Such an angel.

"Better let me handle that, ma'am," I replied, mock-serious, and she watched as I pulled out my little Smith Model 37, the corner of her mouth rising.

"In your home?" She blinked. "Lordy, officer. I can understand a police officer with a gun, but here? Are you afraid the Taliban will come to East Adams?" She watched me unload it and put it on the table.

"You never can be too careful, Ms Kiley." I straightened my legs, laying them clear across the couch toward her. And then it came back, on cue, that grinding Old Larry rasp. "Get to it, servant."

Wide eyes went wider. "Yes sir," but I'd put on what I thought of as a reassuring smile and it seemed to work. She whipped my damp socks over her shoulder and, with a curious half-eyelid glance at me, she examined what I was giving her to work with. I saw that expressive little lower lip of hers make its appearance as she gave a thoughtful nod. "You don't have any lotion or anything, do you?"

I had plenty of lube, but that's not what I figured she meant. "Sunblock," I told her evenly.

She chewed on that lip of hers, then shrugged. "Can't hurt. And it will sure make your feet smell better, Officer LaFratta," she added with a note of accusation. With quick, fluid motions she pushed herself to her feet. "Where's it at, sir?"