Is That a Billy Club in Your Ass, or Are You Happy to See Me?
“I need to see your license and registration, ma’am.” The hot cop leans closer, apparently studying me from behind his mirrored glasses. His blue fitted polyester-blend shirt boasts a shiny badge labeled “Sgt. Franks” atop some tight abs. His snug black police pants tell me he’s got quite the package underneath the ugly-ass uniform. My drunken gaze stutters past the gun holstered to his hip and alights on the billy club behind it.
I flap my lashes at him. “You won’t believe this, officer, but I left my wallet on the tour bus.”
His glasses bounce as he quirks a brow. “Tour bus?”
I grip the steering wheel and stretch into the seat to give him a full glimpse of the tops of the tits about to pop out of my low-cut tank. Then I shake out my long, red hair. “Yeah, I’m a musician. Letty Dillinger. Lead singer for Killer Buzz Float. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” I blink twice and flash a demure grin.
He smirks. “I’m afraid not.”
Well, harrumph. I thought everybody knew me.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No.” I pout, fold my arms, and stuff them under my boobs to plump them in case he wants to take another gander.
“I clocked you doing 87 in a 45 zone. Where were you going in such a rush?”
I cock my head at him and let my fingers drift over the left bra cup, making a long, slow scrape of it with my arm. The nipple pops out accidentally on purpose. “Oh Christ. Sorry about that.” I giggle and press the back of my hand to my lips. My exaggerated movements induce the other tit to show her pale, round face, and that nipple winks up at him too. “God, I can’t seem to keep myself contained over here.” I adjust in the seat, spreading my legs enough for the red plaid miniskirt to climb within an inch of mounting the peak of Mt. St. Pussyville. I casually reach under the hem and slide the flimsy fabric of my thong aside. Humid night air fans the mouth of my lady cave. My eyes give him their best impression of an innocent doe, and I lick my lips.
The guy’s cock stretches and fills up the polyester like a blimp guzzling helium. He acts as if he didn’t even notice. He leans closer again, right where I want him, and his nostrils flare. “Ma’am, have you been drinking? I smell alcohol on your breath.”
Genius is just now figuring it out? Of course, I’ve been drinking. It’s Saturday night. I always drink on Saturday nights.
And I always fuck on Saturday nights too. Though, it would be nice to experience a little spontaneity for once, and this guy might be just the ticket. No pun intended.
The same old, same old routine with Shades is wearing thin. Do a gig, shower, slip into the bunk on the tour bus. I get on top and fuck him for a while. Then we move to our sides, and he bangs me from behind. Exactly nine minutes and forty-five seconds later (yes, I timed it. Shades is like fucking clockwork), he comes inside me, I hose the bunk curtain (I have a female ejaculation problem), we spray that shit with Febreze, and both of us fall asleep.
Yawn.
Oh, and let’s not forget his recent offhanded comment about settling down one day and starting a family. Cringe. Shades and me, getting married? Or worse, having a kid? Fuck off! Those things are filthy, disgusting leeches. If harboring a leech for eighteen years isn’t the world’s best argument for birth control, I don’t know what is.
I dunno. Maybe he feels the same lack of excitement as I do lately. Where did our spark go? Our lives used to be insane and fun and totally out of control. Now, our routine is so predictable, I could set my watch by it.
But tonight could be different.
I face the buff officer, not so subtly admiring his bulge once more. This guy is a prime cut of beef I wouldn’t mind dousing with special sauce and sinking my teeth into.
Never fucked a cop before.
I do a shoulder shimmy as a chill dances from the depths of my freshly juicing cooter, lighting up the rungs of the colorful DEFCON markers igniting my spine. The tingle I’ve come to love cranks up. The wild and free passion of The Rock. The cosmic force that guides my music, my soul—my entire life.
Sgt. Franks interrupts my musings. “So, that’s a yes? You have been drinking?”
With chipped, short nails, I draw circles on the cop’s gloved hand resting on the open door window and stare up into those shades.
Shades.
I straighten. “My boyfriend will kill me if I get another ticket, officer. Is there any way we could … sneak around it?” I can’t stop staring at the massive cock about to make its getaway.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, ma’am, but bribing an officer could get you into even worse trouble.” He pauses as if debating what to do, then steps back. “Out of the car, please.” He waves me over.
I bounce his way, raring to go. His polyester-incarcerated cock is begging me to free it. To suck it. Spit floods my mouth. With a coy little pivot on the toes of one foot, I bring the tips of my fingers up, smear them over my lip gloss, and ask, “Are you gonna frisk me?” Please fucking frisk me.
He crosses his thick arms. Nice flush of sweat glistens on his skin. “Ms. Dillinger, do you have any sharp objects in your pockets I need to be aware of?”
Another glance at his dick, and I stroke the billy club. Carefully unhooking it from his belt and stepping into the heat of his shadow, I say, “Nothing sharp. But I’ve got long and hard covered.” I wind my arms around his waist without touching and slide the billy club down the back of his pants. I can’t see his eyes, but I’m guessing they’re probably bugging right about now. I rub the weapon across the crack of his ass like a bow across strings for a few measures. His jaw clenches. Unclenches. Clenches again.
I unzip his pants and free the Schlong That Will Not Be Tamed. Instead of sucking it like I’d planned, I spit on the billy club, stroke it to spread the natural lube, and shove his pants to his ankles.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he says. Some of the sureness has left his voice.
“Cavity search.” I give the club one more spit shine, look up at him with a leer, and drop to my knees. Hands free, I take his dick all the way down to his balls and invade his ass with the baton. He gasps, lurching forward, choking me with his manaconda. I shove the club in deeper and twist. Once he catches his breath, I pump him from behind, each thrust urging him farther down my throat till I’m drowning in cop cock.
Despite being ass-banged, he takes it like a man who knows exactly what he wants. No resistance now that my makeshift dildo is fully engaged. He actually seems to like it. I wish I were the one being buggered while someone went down on me. Been there, done that a time or twelve. Enjoyed the fuck out of it.
I moan around his veined flesh, milk it, swirl my tongue up and down. He fucks my mouth harder and harder until we’re both about to come. “Do it,” I beg as I flip up my skirt and pry my pussy open with two fingers. “I wanna taste your cum, big boy. Give me your doughnut-tinged splooge.”
He stops suddenly and yanks me by the neck to my feet. Between the billy club left unattended, poking out of his ass, and the straight arrow of his cock pointing front and center, it looks like some sort of half-living, half-rubber baseball bat has impaled him. His grip on my throat is tight. I’m gasping for breath. My heart races as my blood reserves divert south. My cooch is on the verge of the biggest eruption ever, and I’ve had some doozies.
“I thought you said you had a boyfriend,” he ekes out through gritted teeth.
Mirrors block my view of the eyes I wish I could see, but it’s safer not to know the man behind the glasses. “I do,” I gasp. “But I won’t tell him. I swear.”
He loosens his hold on my neck a tad, and I catch my breath. I was this close to coming.
He spins me around and shoves my face against the window. My cheek and tits squash the glass as he yanks my wrists behind my back and pins them just above my ass. Movement follows, then something icy cold hits my wrists in turn. Click. Click.
Handcuffs.
The skirt lifts slowly, and he rubs my ass cheeks, dropping bite-kisses over each one. I try to squeeze my legs together to keep from hosing him, but he nudges my knees shoulder-width apart, and drops his scratchy uniformed chest to my back. Gloved fingers shove the thong halfway down my thighs. The first bead of cooch juice submits to gravity’s whims. A full-body tremor follows.
Between the tequila earlier and the endorphin rush now, my head threatens to spin straight off my body.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he growls beside my ear.
I whimper. Shoulder the stream of drool that escapes the corner of my lips. “But, I have so much more to say …”
He grabs the length of my hair, winds it around my neck and shoves it between my teeth like a bit. Two more drops of lady jizz escape containment. Jesus in a jester hat, I’m gonna explode.
“I said, shut your mouth, Ms. Dillinger.” A pair of leather-covered fingers pries open my pussy from behind.
My entire body tenses as I bite down hard on my hair. A moan that doesn’t belong to me issues from deep within my throat. “Please,” I beg, but the word is muffled by red.
“Please, what?” He pumps once, and I can’t take anymore. I ride those fingers like they’re the last train home before a long weekend. The bastard pulls out and shakes his head. “Uh-uh. You don’t get off that easy.”
“God DAMN it!” I yell. This asshole has me worked into a frenzy. He knows exactly which buttons to push, how long to hold them down, and when to release. I’m insane with need to pressure wash the sidewalk, water the grass, and make it rain like a motherfucking hurricane, and he won’t let me. “Stick your fucking dick in me now, or I swear to God I’ll—”
He tips his head and shoots me a half grin. “You’ll what?”
Frustrated that I can’t touch myself, I rub my thighs together in hopes of creating enough friction to unleash my squirt beast. The minimal stimulation only frustrates me further. With my hands bound behind my back, tits exposed, and a suspicious trickle of fluid navigating my leg, I must look like a right mess.
I’ve fucked a lot of people in my life. Men. Women. Rock stars. Strippers. Homeless dudes (some of them are pretty fucking hot). Black. White. Asian. Hispanic. A possible alien. But none of those humanoids have ever brought me to the brink of such a screamingly torturous orgasm the way this motherfucking cop just did. Pretty sure if I concentrate really hard, I can squirt the smirk right off his smug face. I could definitely knock those damn glasses off. Maybe even shatter them with the stockpile of potential energy about to blow open my muff gate. The heat down there borders on atomic.
I sway my hips to a new tune that pops into my head. The notes swim before me. The tide of pleasure rises. The Rock takes hold. Words form:
Get it up
Jerk it hard
Spank that bank
You can’t go wrong
Get it up
Burn one out
Scream my name
I’ll sing along …
Yep, this bitch is gonna blow.
“You might want to step back, sir.” I lift a brow as I utter the last word.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’d hate to put your eye out.”
“With what? You’re handcuffed.”
“With my magic pussy, sir.”
His gaze drops to the hem of my skirt. Nostrils flare like he smells the sex storm brewing under it. And faster than light, he comes at me, manhandling me into his seemingly favorite subservient position: ass back, tits up, and nowhere for my hands to rest but the top of my butt crack.
“Let’s get something straight, Ms. Dillinger,” he seethes in my ear behind me. “You don’t come until I say you come.”
A pitiful whimper puffs out of me, along with a new rivulet down my leg. My breath hitches. The words alone could make me come. This asshole better stop talking. Or else.
“And the only way you do it is with my cock in your ass.”
Sold!
“Jesus Christ.” I moan. I can’t help it. My feet stamp the ground. Control evaporates. “Oh my God. Launch your spunk rocket into my ass. Now. Please, officer. I can’t hold off any longer.” Another round of kicks into the pavement barely stave off the explosion.
A thick stick of man sausage swipes the love-puddle between my legs but doesn’t penetrate. I cry out as a thin trail of pussy juice dribbles onto his swollen cock. Sweat mats my hair to my skin. I’m reduced to a gelatinous, raw mess of quivering muscles and bodily fluids.
And he’s gone.
The heat from behind melts into cold.
Bent over with my ass begging for a pig pounding, I sneak a look over my shoulder. It’s too dark to tell where he went.
“Sir?” I venture. My heart thumps so hard, it hurts my ears.
With no warning, something wet slams open my backdoor, and I fucking crumble. Like, I literally lose my balance and plot a collision course with the ground. My hero catches me before impact, scooping an arm through my cuffed wrists and dragging me in place.
And the pounding begins in earnest.
His cock is a magic wand, pinpointing my G-spot from the other side of the fleshy wall with alarming accuracy. A dull throb intensifies to a sharp burn. Slow down. Too fast. I grab blindly and graze his trimmed pubes. Gotta find his cock. Make him take it easy so I can enjoy it longer. But he’s pumping so hard, there’s no chance of regaining control now.
I hit the point of no return—that split second where you have to decide whether to give in to the unstoppable climax, or you fumble it and have to start over.
I let it go.
“Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh …” The grunts are soft at first, but they quickly rise in volume until my throat is hoarse. That’s when the orgasm digs its claws in. It rocks me against a drunken, swirling backdrop of a polyester uniform, a dark street, and fast-paced pants from hungry lips. The jabs in my butt continue to hammer my G-spot. That horny bitch sings like the opera lady hitting a soprano C, my head drops forward, and I push.
Old Faithful’s first spray hits pavement, and I lose all sense of decorum. (Okay, so maybe I didn’t have any to begin with. Shoot me.) The amused cop pauses long enough to unlock my wrist jewelry and tosses the handcuffs to the pavement. Then he grabs me around the waist and guides us to the hood of his car. Blue lights spin, blinding, meddling with my already precarious sobriety. With his cock-key still engaged in my rear door’s lock, he hoists me up one-handed—my back to his chest—both of us draped over the warm hood. His free hand darts front and center. He flicks me at 60 miles an hour, splashing through the raging river in my pudding trench like a kid tackling a Slip ’N Slide.
Fighting to maintain what little control I have left, I bite my bottom lip as pain and pleasure collide in an intimate yet very public meeting of the minds. Thin, clear fluid flies skyward. I push again. Another rush shoots out and falls like rain all over us, dotting the car. He sticks out his tongue and catches a few droplets.
“Fuck it!” I yell at him. “Fuck my ass!”
He does. With great vigor. “You like this big dick tearing up your ass, Letty? Huh? You want me to make you a cream pie?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “Fill me with your cream. Make me squirt again. And again and again.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. With a gravelly groan, he dumps his cum deep inside me as he fingers my sopping wet cunt into another frenzy. It’s like an alarm clock going off. I wake from my sex-drugged daze.
Another push. I cry out. I flail on his hard, twitching pole. I lose my mind as a gallon of lady spunk sprays straight into the air in a glorious fountain of love.
I drown in laughter and pussy juice.
When the rain finally stops, he slips out and lowers my feet to the ground. His chest heaves as he labors for breath. The spinning blue and white lights fade. The fantasy dissipates. I’m left standing half-naked beside a stranger’s car behind the Killer Buzz Float tour bus with a thoroughly drenched, disgustingly hot rocker wearing a cop costume. His deflating dick hovers over a pair of fake police uniform pants bunched around his ankles. I snatch the shades off the bridge of his nose and gaze into familiar green eyes.
The piercing through his brow glitters as Shades smiles. “Pussycat, that was—”
I tackle-kiss him, arms choking his neck as I subtly wipe my sticky wet hands on the blue polyester covering his broad shoulders. His fauxhawk is ruined. His exposed skin glistens. He looks like he got in a fight with a fire hose and lost. Awesome. We can clean this shit up later. Right now, I need snuggles. Or, at least, our kind of snuggles, which usually entail sloppy, post-coital smooching in public places.
I taste myself as his tongue plays tug of war with mine. Giggles bubble up again, and I break the kiss. “I love the destruction you wreak between my legs.” Goddamn, Shades is something. This role-playing thing was the best idea we’ve had in ages. Aside from the Birthday Club business, which hasn’t happened yet.
(More on that later.)
Laughing, he wipes the thin film of liquid Letty off his face and makes a show of licking his palm. This is the guy who does things to me. The one who makes me feel alive. Who makes my heart swell. God, I missed him.
“Todd?”
Shades and I freeze, and then tilt away from each other simultaneously.
“What are you doing?” the female voice asks.
Light footsteps announce an unknown woman’s arrival. I tug my tank top and thong into place and squint into the darkness. Shades bends over, grabs his pants, and pulls them up. They catch on the billy club still sticking out of his butt. I stifle a smart-ass comment. That’s my boy.
“Shit,” he mumbles, stuffing his junk into the front of the black fabric and leaving the back end open. I wiggle the makeshift dildo, and he swats my hand away behind us.
This chick must be another crazy Killer Buzz Float stalker. Honestly, I love our fans, but some of them need to learn the meaning of the word “boundaries.” Just last week after a show, a girl turned up on the bus, totally naked except for a leather collar and riding crop. She said she was there to “teach Rax a lesson.” If she were as hardcore a fan as she claimed to be, she’d know Rax doesn’t take lessons. He gives them. Toombs, on the other hand …
The shadows part and reveal the most beautiful Black woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. We’re talking supermodel stunning. Long, softly curled hair, not a strand out of place. Flawless skin the color of an old-timey walnut piano. Tall, thin, curvy. Put her in a sexy, floor-length, strappy red dress, and she could totally be one of those ingénue lounge singers from a nightclub in the 70s.
Clutching a multihued silk scarf, the woman swaggers closer and steps into a pool of anemic, yellow street light. The colorful wrap covers what looks like a knapsack strapped across her chest. She might be beautiful, but clearly, she has no fashion sense. You’re supposed to wear those things on your back.
She lays a hand on her hip and looks to Shades expectantly.
I glance his way. All color has drained from his face, and his jaw hangs open. A bad feeling stabs its barbs deep in the pit of my suddenly sour stomach. I turn to the chick. “Who the hell are you?” I demand, a little afraid of the answer.
“I’m his wife.”
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