Killer Cop Ch. 5

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...