Heather Brown - Raped policewoman

When we made love in her office it was always on top of her desk, an oversized mahogany antique shined to a mirror gloss. You could see yourself in the reflection, and as we threw ourselves on it, our skirts bunching up at our waists and our faces buried between each other's thighs, I glanced over and felt my heart thump and my cunt clench even tighter at the image of my mouth kissing her turgid pussy lips and my tongue hungrily lapping away at her stiff, oversized clit.

I was on top with my cunt looming over her face, my legs straddling her mouth so her experienced tongue could expertly lash and tickle the folds of my aroused pussy. Slowly I lowered myself onto her until my cunt completely buried her face and I could feel her eating me, her teeth, tongue and lips producing the most maddening combination of suction and friction against my pussy imaginable.

My tongue was like a corkscrew in her fantastic, shaved cunt, exploring every inch of skin, darting from her bloated, erect clit, down the slick cleft formed by her pulsating pussy lips, and then into the sticky inner depths of her fucking canal, shooting my tongue inside the frothing slit like a hard cock, my nostrils filled with her sweet, musky scent.

At last, we started coming simultaneously. I thought her rock-hard thighs were going to choke me as she crushed them against my face, now totally buried in the yawning, creaming gash of her throbbing cunt. Meanwhile, I was doing the same thing to her from the top, my thighs seizing her face and forcing her mouth so far between my legs that her lips were enveloped by my hungry cunt, drawing her into my ravenous pussy toward a shuddering climax. We felt an orgasmic burst of energy that seemed to come from our bodies as if they were one. The waves of pounding fury inundated our bodies until we were reduced to quivering panting wrecks on top of her desk. The pussy juice and saliva that we had whipped into a creamy froth drooled from our spent cunts as we collapsed, totally exhausted from our shuddering orgasm.

I was working the night shift out of the 69th precinct. It was located in a rough neighborhood, a slum noted for its lawlessness. After I had worked there a couple of weeks, I realized the police contributed to the lawlessness as much as anybody. Most of them were on the take, and a lot of them took advantage of the multitude of prostitutes.

At first I had been shocked by some of the things I saw, but in a very short time I grew accustomed to things that only shortly before I would have been appalled at. But I adopted an attitude of live and let live, primarily because I was having enough trouble gaining acceptance as a woman on the force without being a bluenose too. So, I started growing into a habit of looking the other way, hoping, I suppose, that the others would be more likely to accept my presence. Some of the things I saw continued to inwardly shock the hell out of me, but I just trained myself not to show it. Of course, the longer I did, the less they shocked me.

I walked into the station and the first person I saw was Desk Sergeant Moon, a big, red-faced man, whose head resembled his name. His face was so red that it looked like it was on fire and the busted veins fingered him as a heavy boozer. In fact, I quickly learned that that was why Sergeant Moon was assigned to the desk instead of being on patrol – he was frequently half-juiced while on duty and they didn't want him screwing up things on the street. Even though everyone knew what a misfit he was, he still got more respect than I did, because I was a woman, and everybody laughed when he referred to me as Dickless Tracy behind my back.

Of course, hypocrite that he was, he gave me a big hello when I walked into the station. His greeting was a thick, practically slobbering one, indicating to me that he was in the cups. I walked past him, making little attempt to conceal my disdain for him, giving him only the most perfunctory hello. I almost jumped out of my skin in outrage when I heard him smirk behind my back with reference to my unfriendliness, making no attempt to conceal his voice, "Ol' Dickless must be on the rag this week. Usually she can't keep her hands offa me."

Incredible, just incredible, I thought. But what was even more incredible was that his voice was loud enough for everyone else in the immediate vicinity to hear and they all laughed at his tasteless remark, including a prisoner handcuffed to a waterpipe.

"What're you laughing at, you scum?" I said to the prisoner.

When he started stammering, all of my frustration welled up inside me and I impulsively kicked him in the groin. He doubled over, instinctively trying to grab his nuts, but his hands were shackled and the cuffs gouged into his wrists and he shrieked in pain.

Well, I was safe there. You could do anything short of killing a prisoner at the station and you wouldn't get in any trouble since the only witnesses were cops. But I still felt uncomfortable about what I had done because I realized that it was the same thing one of the other cops would have done.

The big news in the station that night, as it had increasingly been lately, was that there was a rapist at work in the area. Not that any of the cops gave a shit about any of the women in the neighborhood being raped – they usually laughed and made dirty jokes whenever the report of the latest rape was read. There was concern now because the papers had gotten hold of the story and built it up, and the public had become scared, thinking, because of the papers' scare tactics, that there was a mad rapist terrorizing the whole city.

I felt I could make a real contribution toward capturing the rapist, and was willing to act as a decoy victim, and as we fell into ranks for our assignments I waited expectantly. As it turned out, as usual, I was passed over for anything of importance and assigned to a patrol car with a crew-cut cop named Reinhart who looked like a Nazi soldier. We were to go driving around looking for prostitutes to harass. Reinhart was being assigned to this chicken-shit duty because he had just come off a suspension for beating up suspects who later turned out to have done nothing.

When we got to the patrol car, I opened the door and slid in behind the wheel, thinking I'd take the first turn driving.

"Hey, girlie, whaddaya think you're doing?" Reinhart growled.

"What's it look like I'm doing?"

"What it looks like you're doing, I don't like," he said, approaching the door and leaning his fat florid face against the opened window.

"You want to drive first?" I asked, not bothering to conceal my disgust with his childishness. "Go ahead. I'll take the second shift."

"No way," he said. "I'm takin' all the shifts."

"Well, that's very chivalrous of you," I said sarcastically, "but I'm willing to do my share."

"Forget it," he said, opening the door and shoving me to the other side of the car. "I ain't ridin' in the car with no fuckin' woman driver. Everybody knows about Goddamn woman drivers, and, besides, if anybody seen me I'd get laughed offa the force."

What do you say to an idiot like that, I thought, and let it pass. So we drove around the red light district with Reinhart driving and me sitting on the seat as far away as possible from him, stewing in my juices, my resentment building by the moment.

It was a typical night along hooker row. Cold as hell, but that didn't stop dozens of girls from peddling their wares out in the open in the slightest of clothing. Reinhart cruised by them slowly, an obvious gleam in his eye. He could have arrested any of them if he wanted, since they were breaking the law right and left, paying little attention to the police. The patrol car seemed, in fact, to incite their open pandering and soliciting. So, after dozens of trips around the same block, I was surprised when Reinhart suddenly stopped the car and said, "There's the one I'm gonna get, that nervy bitch. I'm gonna nail her ass."