Bad Cop, Worse Cop, Worst Cop

I scanned the body before me, tall and tapering, and I jerked my head toward the front door. "Over there, in the little thingie where the keys are."

"Yes sir," still with that little barely-defined note of mockery in her voice, and she was crossing the room with long, determined strides. "You know," she said as she went, and I could hear the deliberately casual note she put into her voice, "you did work me pretty hard today, Officer. I'm thinking I could do with a little backrub myself, maybe..." She came back squirting a little spurge of coconut-smelling shit into her hand.

I'd taken advantage of her getting up to claw my cock frantically upward toward my waistband, and the relief was immediate. And fortunate, since I felt myself spasm just a tad more as I saw her returning with both hands covered in slippery, milky white goo, like she'd just made a diving catch of a massive load of cum. Fuck me, the girl was really starting to grow on me.

And this was always my problem. There were plenty of chicks I could fuck without giving any kind of a shit; I'd bend them over, jam it in, and leave them with my cum running down their thighs, then not worry about any of it. But occasionally, maybe two or three times a year, a bitch will come along and just absolutely captivate me. My brother is like that with cars; he'll catch sight of one, fall in love, and go broke to buy it. Then he'll spiff it up and ditch it for the next project.

Ah, but while he's into it... well, there's nothing else in the world he cares about.

So I'm like that with chicks. And Emma, I was rapidly figuring out, was going to be my next project. As if it hadn't been clear enough already, I knew that this was a female who'd be taking my dick. Soon. Maybe even tonight; I felt my mouth go dry at the thought of it.

She nestled herself back into the couch, the TV droning harmlessly on in the background. She sat with her legs crossed, as we used to call it "Indian style" (though I'm told this is insensitive), and I'm not some sort of fucking metrosexual but I swear to God, when those slick hands of hers touched my battered old disgusting feet, it was almost orgasmic. I laid my head back on the couch and my whole body seemed to deflate, except of course for my dick.

She felt it, her face tightening just a tad in triumph; she knew what we were doing here, and it was going as she'd planned it. "Just a soothing little massage," she said quietly, "for a man who's on his disgusting feet all day." She was good, I'll give her that; she'd evidently done this before.

"Not quite." I was mellowing rapidly. "I'm usually sitting on my ass."

"Mm. Listening to bad music," she nodded. "Seems I saw you that way in your office recently, sir. Seems it was a memorable occasion."

"For me it was." I let her see my eyes flicker down to her chest, then back up to her face. "Do you find that's something that often works for you? Bursting half-naked into a guy's office?

She laughed. "I wasn't half-naked," she protested. "I had a bra on."

I let her see me roll my eyes. "A bra doesn't count as clothes."

She shrugged, her expression turning playful. "Sorta." I kept staring; waiting her out had worked before, and this time it took less time. She smiled slyly. "I think a lot of guys like to see me with my shirt off," she said softly. "I thought you might. Besides, like I said, I needed to get your attention." And then it happened, an overt and painfully slow movement of her huge eyes down to my groin. She let her gaze linger there, her hands toying with my toes. "It worked."

"Clever." I leaned back, for the train had left the station. She knew she'd made me hard. Might as well relax. "You're not dumb."

"I was a good girl for a long time," she went on, bringing her eyes back up to mine. "A few months ago, I was listening to some of my teammates talk about what kinds of things they did, and I decided I was sick of not doing some of them." She shrugged, a tiny movement. "So now I do."

I smiled. "You've got teammates who strip in front of police officers?" I asked. She jerked her head, her long hair tossing, and puckered her lips.

"Only the guy ones," she grinned. "And only when they need an awful lot of help." She was still rolling my foot steadily, her strong fingers nimble. "Did I ever say thank you, Officer?"

I sighed. "You're doing it now," I pointed out, and she laughed again. There was an edge to it this time, the laugh you give when someone is late seeing the punchline. She was smearing her slippery hands between my toes, the lotion cool all over my soles.

"If you think this is thanks, Officer LaFratta," she murmured, her lashes descending in a long, lewd wink, "then you've got a little bit to learn about me." And fuck me, it was all I could do not to leap across the cushions and shove my dick right up into her, her sweet face and long, lush body sitting there all grungy, mocking me. She'd be sweaty, stinky, smelling like cleanser and pussy, and I'd jam it into her for hours.

I sighed. "You're right, though. Definitely a memorable occasion," I reflected, hoping I was keeping my voice under control. She squinted across the couch.

"My shirt's filthy; it's not really doing any good where it is." There was a little bit of shyness behind the statement, but mostly it was just boldly, aggressively eager, her head tilted coyly downward, that little mouth of hers twitching into a smirk. "Want to see them again, sir?"

Holy motherfucker. I paused, trying to look cool, but in fact taking the extra few seconds to make sure my voice would be steady when I opened my mouth. "At some point," I began, mercifully phlegm-free, "it would be okay if you stopped calling me 'sir.'"

She arched her eyebrow, way way up on her forehead, and back came that odd grin of hers. "Oh, I couldn't disagree more, sir," she said at once, her hands slowing down on my feet. "You're a police officer, a man of decency and dignity. I wouldn't dream of showing you anything but the utmost obedience and respect." She paused, her fingers trailing lazily up and down my arches, tickling me softly. "Part of that obedience and respect involves showing you how grateful I am for what you did for me, and another part involves the simple little gestures of friendliness that any citizen owes to the men who protect us." She nodded to herself, biting her lip again, and then she was looking back up at me through those sexy lashes. "So. Wanna see 'em? You know I don't mind, Officer."

"Well," I coughed, my mojo starting to creep back as all this accelerated. "If it would make you feel more comfortable, Ms Kiley, you feel free."

Her mouth curved into a quick little v-shaped grin, then she set my foot down carefully on the floor and unfolded her legs. Before, she'd ripped off her shirt as though it was scalding her, and I hadn't been expecting it. Now, she arranged herself carefully and held my gaze the entire time. And she enjoyed it.

She took on her usual straight-backed posture, her legs straight out toward me like a pair of bayonets. She crossed her arms slowly over her body, then took a slow and deliberate grip on the hem of her dirty t-shirt. And then, so, so slowly, the shirt crept up her body, up past her navel, showing the sharp inward curves at her skinny waist, past where her ribs began to corrugate her skin when she arched her back.

And then came the main show.

The bra was scandalous, the kind of thing nobody should ever sell to a woman under twenty-five. The cups were black mesh, stretched tightly over the bulging skin underneath, with nothing but the mesh to get in the way of a clear view of two perfect, even nipples, dark and hard. The mesh was bound top and bottom by dark silk ribbon, plus a scatter of black lace along the tops. The whole thing was tight and very well-engineered, making her impressive cleavage look about three miles deep. I could see everything she had, and yet it was so much hotter than if she'd been naked.

She flung the shirt proudly over her stringy, dirt-spattered hair, then sat up with her hands resting lightly on her yoga pants and her shoulders back, looking at me with a vaguely challenging air. "Much better," she cooed. "Do you agree, Officer?"

Hell motherfucking yes. "Are you going to claim," I began, relieved at my control, "that that thing counts as clothes, or will you admit that you're half-naked now?"

She smiled, pleased that I was still able to flirt. "Oh no, sir," she confessed readily. "This isn't clothing." She raised her arms, graceful and perfect, and gave her tits that little tweak that women do when they need to settle everything down. This set off a tiny earthquake on her chest, and I let out an involuntary breath. "No, you're right this time. I'm at least three-quarters naked." She leaned over to reach for the table, where she'd left the suntan lotion. "I'm starting to dry out here," she giggled.

I stared, open and directly, as she intended. "Whatever that thing cost, Ms Kiley," I told her, "it was a bargain."

"Thank you," she nodded, still smiling; her chest was starting to turn pink. This was getting her turned on. She spread her legs slightly. "Now, where were we? Your foot, sir?" She waited while I got my leg up, and she guided it neatly between her own. "May I continue, Officer LaFratta?"

"Please," I croaked, and she looked squarely at me as she took my foot, grasped it firmly in her slick fingers, and pulled it straight up against her vagina, the bottom of my foot feeling the warm tightness of her midsection through the thin lycra.

"I need more leverage," she murmured, and then she was stroking the top of my foot gently, both our eyes getting bolder and bolder, and then she began moving my foot in small, rhythmic motions against her pussy. I was almost sure she wasn't wearing panties; I'd been checking her ass out all day, my practiced eyes looking for any of the usual evidence, and I'd found nothing but smooth, peachy perfection: small, yes, but firm and tight. "I find that footrubs are more effective if you use more than just your hands."

She was, too. Her abs were on the move. I felt waves of motion against my foot; her thighs were squeezing my ankle and her cunt was rippling against my sole, and her shuddering boobs were turning pinker. Her mouth was open now, her eyes lighting up. "You're very talented," I put in weakly, mostly just to fill the silence. "By all means, just do what you want."

"Thanks." Her voice was already just a little bit strained. "I will." She was moving faster and harder now, her hands twisting my foot this way and that, and I bent my knee to make it easier for her. It was pretty clear to me now that Emma wanted to get herself off using my foot as a sex aid, and who was I to say no?

All the while, her breasts stared at me. I was consumed with the need to get closer to them. She noticed, and leaned down. She hadn't blinked in what seemed like many minutes, staring with brutal intensity, and all the while she was humping my foot with her mouth open.

Abruptly, she took my toes and pushed them down, gently but irresistibly, to point straight at her pussy. There was a silent second or two there where we both just breathed awhile, our faces red, and then she hitched herself forward with a heave of her thighs. I felt my toe nudge hard against her body, watched her adjust her position, and then she finally shut her eyes as she started to grind her clit against my toe. Finally, like the ooze of steam from a locomotive, she let her breath out in a long low moan.

"Wow," was about all I could think to say. Lame? Sure. But there are few things in this life, I now know, that can prepare a man to become a surprise dildo.

She wasn't really present anymore, I could see. I watched, entranced, as she brought herself off. She'd clearly spent some time getting to know her body; she knew exactly where to put my foot and precisely how to move herself against my toes so that, within a minute or so, she'd gone bright red and breathless. I was amazed by the intensity of the damp heat blasting against my toes, almost as if they'd been put near a kettle. Her entire body was shaking, and I'd be lying if I denied I was staring with open-mouthed greed at her heaving, swinging tits, the obscene bra only making them better, like a really well-chosen frame around an Ansel Adams print.

"Yeah," she grunted quietly, frigging herself with my numb foot, and I hoped the end was near; I was cramping up, but there was no way I could take my foot from her clutching hands. This wasn't some bitch parolee, some crack whore I didn't mind degrading; no, this was a mysteriously enthralling little demon, and I was the suicidal fly headed straight into her web. There was no way I'd deny her this orgasm, especially not when I had a front-row seat.

She was close now, and I'd never seen harder nipples. "Gah," she cried, or something like it, and I felt her fingers crush my foot in a sudden convulsion, her thighs clamping along my lower leg; she was cumming hard, her butt scooting even further forward against the pressure, her face sweating through the streaks of grease and grit she hadn't bothered washing thoroughly while she'd been changing her bra for me.

I felt like cumming myself, but to be honest I was too busy watching her body heave to care very much.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, when she was finally able to speak. Her body was still rolling gently against my foot, now stiff and cramped. "Sorry about that. Did you enjoy your footrub?" she asked innocently.

"Uh," was about all I could say. There was no way to answer that question, mostly because it hadn't really been a footrub. She'd used me, without any kind of compunction or shame, to get herself off. I felt vaguely raped, not to mention ludicrously, comically erect.

"I certainly enjoyed it," she burbled on, smiling like a real estate agent. Her tits jiggled most pleasantly as she lifted my foot out of her damp lap and let it fall gently to the floor. "Sort of hot in here, don't you think?" She certainly did; she glistened from the waist up. She was wet below the waist as well, but maybe not with sweat.

"Shit. You're something," I marveled in the understatement of my life. For once with a half-naked female, I had absolutely no idea where to go from here. No clue what was supposed to come next. I sat there in very un-cop-like confusion.

She smiled a warm, genuine smile, her whole reddened face lighting up. "Aww, that's so sweet! Thank you, sir." She swung her own legs sideways. "I do aim to please, after all," she winked. "I still owe you for the locker, though, and I'd love to be your servant some more. Can I?"

Well, shit. What was I supposed to say to that? I grinned, certain I was about to ball this woman. "Why certainly, Ms Kiley. How about right now?"

She made a kissy face and shook her head. "Sorry, sir, but I've got to get home to my parents. They'll worry if I'm out late. It's not like they know where I am... or what I've been doing." She stood there and pulled her shirt back in order, getting ready to put it on. I felt my mouth fall open and followed her to her feet. "I'm afraid I'm going to need to put your toys away."

"Shit. You're going to leave me like this?" I gestured at my crotch, where my cock was plain to see as it tented my pants. "That's hardly respectful."

"Aww. I'm sorry, Officer." She winked. "I'm sure you'll be able to find a way to take care of it until I can come back. Now, come on. Say goodbye to your two friends here." She arched her back, grinning possessively at me, and what the fuck was I supposed to do? She was in total control, and what was worse, she knew it. In the back of my mind I saw the ghost of Old Larry, glaring at me in morbid disappointment, shaking his bullet head. What the fuck, Mikey? I heard his voice spit at me. She's a junior in high school and you're letting her play you like a fucking accordion.

Wordlessly, indeed unable to even think of what to say, I watched as my arms reached slowly up toward the girl's breasts, the nipples still poking out like gun barrels. Her warm grin faded to that cynical smirk I was more used to, a crafty and roguish look that told me I should tread carefully.

But I didn't. I took both those titties in my hands, hefting them, feeling their vibrant weight. She winked when my thumbs found her areolae. "Not too much," she whispered. "I need to get home." But I did hear her breath catch, just slightly, as I tweaked her nipples, her whole body tensing and then relaxing as I squeezed. I felt like a fucking molester.

"That's enough." She stepped gently back, then began drawing the shirt over her head. "If I let you go much further, Officer, I'll be here all night."

At last, I found my voice. It sounded strained to me. "That wouldn't be so bad."

"Maybe not," she allowed, "until my mom kills me." The magic went away as soon as she pulled her shirt down over her chest, heaving a deep sigh as she did. "Well. I'll talk to you at school. Am I still coming over on Wednesday to babysit?"

"Oh. Sure. Uh, and maybe we can continue this..." I cursed the hopeful way I said it; what was I, a fucking teenage nerd?

She just smiled. "We'll see, Officer LaFratta. You take care of yourself, and stay safe." She made a kissy face. "I can see myself out this time," she winked, and then the door closed over her retreating ass and I was left to think about the strange and unusual things that had just happened to me. And, my hard-on.

I needed relief, and badly. I thumbed greedily at my phone, seeing dozens, scores of bitches' names, and as I scrolled slowly down the list I realized I was standing by my couch with a phoneful of cunt, while the only one I really felt like penetrating had just left my house.

* * *

Tori listened to my story when I took her to dinner in West Adams a few nights later, her eyes wide. "Wow," she said at last, munching on her French fry. "This girl sounds freaky. I like her."

I nodded slowly, a little troubled by the realization. "I think I do too." Beneath the table I felt Tori's hand cupping my balls.

"Now, the big question," she went on, shrugging, "is who you called after she left you with your dick hard. I assume you must have given one of your crack bitches an epic night, huh?" She glanced at me sideways. "Dani's on her period, so it couldn't have been her. Good thing, too; from the sound of things, you'd have ripped her apart." She chuckled.

"That's the weirdest part of the whole thing," I admitted, sighing. "I did it myself." Her hand, which had been steady and tempting and coy as her thumb began to stretch up onto my shaft, stopped.

"Wait. What?" She put her other hand over her mouth, really shocked now. "You masturbated?" I sighed again, nodding.

"Took about eight strokes. Maybe nine."

She sat in silence, her fries forgotten, while she took this in. Then she nodded decisively and her fingers returned to work. "Shit," she observed. "You do like this girl. So, I guess that's it for Dani." She got back to her meal. "Too bad, too. She really enjoys you."

"Hey," I said defensively, "you know me better than that. I'm capable of fucking more than one bitch at a time. As I think you've learned very well."

She shrugged again, lowering my zipper without even looking. "Sure, but I know my sister too. She's not very good at sharing, Michael." I glanced around, instinctively; if I was about to get a handjob, I wanted to make sure nobody was paying attention. We'd done this before, a few times; usually, I just tipped extra for the napkin. "Hell, don't worry about it. She'll understand. You'll have this Kiley chick all next year, too. That's a great deal for you. She understands supply and demand."