Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 04

"What do you know, Trish?" I cajoled, gently, warmly, encouragingly – the good, sisterly, she-cop. For now. "Tell me: what do you know?"

"No..." she said, slowly and very carefully formulating a lie. "No, I don't think I know anything..."

"I think you do, Trish," I told her, less kindly. "I really think you do."

"No..."

"It's written all over your face there, Trish," I said, even less kindly now. "You've got 'LIAR' written all over your face, in big, pretty, blue-eyed dumb letters, right across your flawless little forehead."

Trish looked reproachful now. "Please," she said, softly. "I don't know, really I don't. Not for sure, anyway..."

I was ready to throw the 'good cop' routine out the window. I was never good at playing 'good cop' for long, anyhow. Now it was time for my most natural role: the 'bad, angry and horny slut-cop ready to cop a handful'.

I slid suddenly off the table and grabbed hold of Trish's chair, shaking it once in a manner designed not to hurt her, but to definitely grab her attention. "Tell me what's going on, Trish!" I yelled. "What has he done? Or what have YOU done?"

A bucket-load of guilt splashed across her face, and I knew that I had her. "Please, don't yell..." she tried.

"What have you done, Trish?" I bellowed at her. "What have you done? You've got your pretty, stupid little arse into some kind of trouble, and our big-hero big-bucks Mick has tried to step in on your behalf, and he's got himself neck-deep into the shit. Hasn't he, Trish? Hasn't he??"

"I don't know!" Trish cried, tears of guilt and shame spilling down her face. "Just leave me alone! Go away, go find Mick! He's not here, I don't know where he could be – just go find him!"

I tipped my head back and roared – I actually filled my lungs and let loose with an animalistic bellow, like some enraged creature of the jungle. I reached down, hooked my fingers beneath the top of her rolled-down dress, my hands having to sneak under her young perky oversized breasts to do so – they were warm and soft, fuck it all they must have been real, the lucky bitch – and with a hold on her just so, I pulled her to her feet, sudden and without restraint.

"You dumb slut," I hissed at her, frothing over with vitriol. "I know your type. I can't stand your type. You latch onto a rich guy like a tick on a dog, you suck and you suck and you suck at his big old cock and you don't give a shit if he's married or he has five kids or if he's hiding millions of dollars from his exhausted wife. You dumb fucking slut!" And I kissed her – I don't know what shocked her worse, my words or my kiss, for she stood there like a statue, frozen with utter astonishment.

"You dumb fucking slut," I murmured as I nibbled at her ear, as my rock-hard nipples drilled into her soft yielding bosom, as my hot, slickened cunt – bare and unfettered as my skirt lifted up – ground and rode upon her leg. "You stupid whore. You're nothing. You're a toy, a tool, nothing better than the cars he drives or the houses he owns. You're a symbol, a 'thing' that guys like Mick 'buy' to show the world how stupidly rich they are."

I stopped, and bent backwards to look her in the eye. "And now..." I murmured. "And now, you're mine."

As my words sunk in through her pretty little skull, I saw her eyelids flutter as she yielded to pure, undeniable, deprived and unabashed bliss – and she fell into my arms, returning my embrace with a fire to match my own.