Chapter II: Hard Duty
by Tristmegistis ©
Barney just sat there, silent as a cemetery.
"Jesus," Lisa begged, "say something, will you?" She fumbled a cigarette alight.
He stared emptily at her tobacco, shook his head as if to clear it. "Sorry. It's just hard to believe."
"What?" she bridled, spitting smoke. "That tight-assed little me has been getting her brains fucked out after ten years of complete celibacy?"
"No. I mean, that, too. But . . ." He watched her smoke some more. "Look, I don't want to hurt you, Lisa, but it's really hard for me to believe that you didn't see it coming. I mean, a guy picks you up in a bar, takes you to his room - obviously for sex - and you didn't know he thought you were a pro?"
He saw she was doing her best to control her anger, shaking with the effort as she fought for clarity. There were visible changes in her from the last time they'd shared an after shift beer. The cigarette, for one. She looked as if she'd been smoking for years, not less than a week. The white tube seemed an extension of her hand.
That, too, was slightly different. Her cuticles were pushed back and her filed nails wore a clear polish. She used them to brush an errant lock of hair from her face. She wore it down, not up and away from her pretty, angularly waifish features. It looked like she used spray or mousse to hold it, another recent development.
And the face it framed wore a touch of foundation, blush, powder, mascara, eyeliner and lip gloss. Obviously, she didn't just brush her teeth and throw on a clean uniform any more. And, the uniform itself was neatly tailored, not standard issue. It left no doubt in any observer's mind that beneath was, not just a cop, but a slim and shapely woman.
The fear in her bright blue eyes was new, too. Seeing any emotion in them other than anger was, in some ways, the biggest change of all. Her deeply bowed lips finally blew a smoky sigh, then shaped sad words.
"Yeah. I know. Maybe if I hadn't let him get me drunk, I'd have seen it coming. Shit. Maybe I didn't want to see it coming and got drunk so I could do it. After what happened with Wilson, maybe I felt so much like a whore that . . . Hell. Who knows?"
He nodded, tried a little humor. "I feel responsible. If I hadn't told you to loosen up, this wouldn't have happened."
She didn't hear the levity as she ground out her cigarette. "That's bullshit, Barnes. I was a disaster waiting to happen. It's like every bit of sexual energy I've stuffed since the rape is boiling out of me. If you hadn't put the idea in my head, somebody else would have."
She sighed again. "I guess I just need to be more careful."
"No shit. All you need to do is get busted for coming on to some vice cop in a hotel bar."
She grinned, her eyes finally regaining some sparkle. "That'd shake things up around the precinct, wouldn't it?" Her smile softened. She reached out, took both his hands in hers. "Barney, there's no way I can begin to tell you how good a friend you are. If I hadn't been able to talk to somebody about this, I'd have lost my shit big time. Thanks."
He squeezed her hands, then reclaimed his own. "No sweat. You'd do the same for me."
"You know it. But now it's time for food. No more eating out for a long time." She shook her head, made a wry face. "I can't believe I really bought those clothes."
"Hey. Cut yourself some slack, girl. It's okay to look as sexy as you feel." He stood. "Besides, if push comes to shove, you know now how to make your wardrobe pay for itself."
Her laughter tinkled gaily as they walked out together. Her smile endured all the way home. Too bad Barnes was gay. She could really get interested in him in a physical way.
She unlocked the door, surveyed her living room with fresh eyes. She hadn't felt this good in four days, since last Saturday, before she'd let that stranger fuck her. She felt like what her Catholic friends used to describe after exiting the confessional. Her crippling shame was gone. Well, almost anyway.
She probed it like a kid poking at a scab. The thing was, it'd been such fun. To dress up and paint her face and strut her stuff like that. To bask in the heat of men's longing gazes. To really feel, after her twisted adolescence, like a desirable woman who didn't have to fear becoming a victim again.
That was the bottom line, she realized as she dropped her uniform blouse and slacks onto the bedroom floor. She'd become a cop because she needed to feel strong - protect herself by protecting others. She'd become virtually asexual to minimize her sense of total vulnerability.
She stepped into the shower, relaxed even further under the stinging spray of scalding water. She'd tried to amputate her femininity. She weighed her firm tits with soap-slick hands, massaged them with suds until her nipples stood out, dark and proud.
It was too bad she'd felt she had to do that. All those years, wasted. All those formative relationships that could have happened and didn't. Her soapy hands ran down her body, rubbed her belly, slipped lower. Hot water drummed against her hard, high ass. Her lashes fluttered. Her hips rocked. Thank God it hadn't worked. Thank God she was still a woman. Warm and alive. Pliant, succulent and desirable. Responsive. Capable of deep pleasure, and giving the same.
Both hands were busy by then. Exploring the wonders of her body, eliciting shivers of joy from recesses still veiled in mystery. She was so naive, so inexperienced. Her hips had established a regular rhythm. So eager to learn.
Her breath was coming in quick pants. She heard the magical music of her soft whimpers and moans echo faintly in the shower stall. In a way, doing it with strangers was good. No messy involvements. No ugly scenes to extract herself from. Just wonderful kisses and caresses. Just cocks filling her mouth and stretching her cunt. Just come exploding in her womb, gushing into her mouth. Just the miracle of fantastic, awesome orgasms. No ugly entanglements beyond those between washable sheets.
She leaned against the shower wall as her knees threatened to buckle under her. Her brilliant red lipstick smearing the length of faceless dicks, her pussy oozing delicious pale stranger's come. Yes. She wanted that. She had to have it. She envisioned men lined up to fuck her. Watching one another kiss her hungry red lips, fuck her writhing, endlessly spasming body, dumping their seed into her bottomless pit, rolling off her, only to be replaced by the next one.
She began a howl, bit her lips harshly to silence herself. Her hands were a blur, one digging into her seeping hole, the other toying with the button of her ass. More than one. On her knees, like in a nasty picture she'd seen in a magazine she wasn't supposed to know was in her brother's bottom drawer. A massive cock lost in her sodden cunt. Another, greased, buried up her ass. A third pushed down her throat. A fourth and fifth sliding through her oiled little fists. Bathed in come. Soaked by it. Sticky and smelly to the bottom of her soul.
She bit her lips even harder, blocked most of her shrill scream, doubled up over her hands. It was the best yet, made the orgasms the captain gave her seem pale and paltry. Her hands slowed to tender strokes, then speeded, then slowed again. It went on and on. It eased only to return, diminished in gradual, glorious stages, leaving her on her back, knees up thrust and spread, under the spray of warm water.
It seemed ridiculously hard to move. The hot water was almost gone, though, and she had no desire to cool down. She worked the faucets with her red-tipped toes. She didn't have to take that polish off. She wished she didn't have to strip her fingernails, either. They were so pretty.
She crawled from the tub, amused by her weakness, but made uncomfortable by the overwhelming power of her fantasy. Dreaming about sex was an all new thing. Her rigidity had been so steely that even her imagination had fallen victim. It, too, it seemed, was making up for lost time.
She blotted herself dry, wriggled into her cotton panties. Plain. Not lacy and colorful. But her hips were loose. Hell, everything was loose. No tension was left inside her, anywhere. She smiled into the mirror as she ran her brush sensuously through her shoulder length, coffee brown hair. She admired her pretty little tits as they bounced invitingly. Her lips were passion and bite swollen, seemed irresistibly kissable. She was momentarily humbled by the intensity of her beauty.
She'd always treated her body as a machine, a tool she used to move herself through space. It lifted weights. It did pushups and situps. It maneuvered the academy's obstacle course. It trained her weapon at targets. It'd never before been truly a part of her.
Now, she saw it could be a vehicle of pleasure, a source of joy for herself and others. Its skin was soft and creamy and radiant, flushed with residual heat. It was lushly curved, if lean. It was softly muscled, strong. It was flawless.
Except for the curly, damp tufts of dark pubic hair poking through the leg openings of the bland panties. She remedied that with scissors and a razor, ran lazy fingers through what remained of her thatch, parted it to view the pretty pink slash within its cover.
She'd read that some women removed all their pussy hair. What would that be like? She grinned, brushed at the dew still lingering in her lower lips. No more hair between Captain Wilson's teeth. He'd bitched about that, last Friday. Nothing to prevent her from watching each delectable detail of what he - or her next stranger - did to her.
The way that thought came surprised her. It hadn't been part of another fantasy, but a flat statement. She left her panties on the bathroom floor, swayed distractedly to her bed. She would do that again, she understood as she lit a cigarette. Somewhere, sometime - many times - she'd see someone she wanted and take him. In a motel or apartment or on a park bench, she'd unzip him and stuff him into her cunt, without qualm or hesitation. Not for love. Not for money either, of course. That was too dangerous.
She chuckled, low in her throat. Jesus. She wouldn't whore herself again because of the Job. Not because of any moral stance, or even a legal one. Only because, if she got popped, she'd never work again. She mused idly; if it weren't for that inescapable fact, would she sell herself again?
What a slut, she laughed. All those years of moral and ethical posturing had been pure denial of the raw needs secretly growing beneath the stony surface of her awareness. Hiding them just added to their power. Look where all those self-lies had gotten her.
She flopped back on the bed, inhaled hugely, and tickled her Flat, well muscled stomach. Well, this wasn't such a bad place to be, was it? Perpetually horny, and with the maturity and looks to get what she wanted?
The next morning, under a standard memo, Wilson had scrawled a cryptic note: "2:00. Unit 1721." Two was when she took her afternoon break. Car 1721, the roster told her, was in the garage for repairs. Her stomach crawled with anticipation. It was too soon for anything about reassignment. He just wanted a quickie. A part of her anatomy a little lower began churning, too.
All day, her excitement built, reaching the limits of her endurance. Her nipples felt like bullets, poked through her blouse for everyone to see. There was no way to hide them. They were noticed. She averted her eyes, slumped her shoulders to minimize their prominence. The attention just heightened her rabid desire. She tried to keep her mind on her work, and failed miserably. She was going to get fucked, right here in the building, with hundreds of people all around her. She was terrified that her dampening cunt would stain her slacks with its juice, make it look like she'd pissed all over herself. When it didn't, she couldn't tell if she was relieved or disappointed.
Unable to wait another second, she skipped out a little early. Wilson was still in his office with somebody from Vice. She ducked into a stairwell, slid down toward the basement garage, quiet as a thief.
The parking area was almost silent. The only sounds were dull echoes from the street above. The light was dim. All the work was being done at night. Only at shift change was there much going on down here. She used a quick stab of light from her torch to locate unit 1721. It was up on blocks, hood yawning blackly. She lit a shaky cigarette, muttered her impatience, then shut up as the bare concrete gave her back her own words, amplified.
If I scream when I come, all hell will break loose. A dozen cops, weapons drawn, will be all over us in seconds. She fought back a giggle, then obeyed impulse that felt almost as lewd. He loved her red lipstick. She'd started carrying it with her, always, just as an illicit little reminder. She used the car's interior light to paint a vivid double bow.
She was working on her second cigarette - and her hot, swollen clit - by the time he emerged from the stairwell, tiptoeing, as she had.
"About fucking time you got here," she purred as he stepped to the open rear door. She could tell he could see, by the cigarette's glow, that she was naked below the waist. Her cunt made wet, sucking noises around her fingers.
"Couldn't wait, huh?"
She shuddered. The way he was watching her did things inside her. "Ever since I read the memo, I've been hot as a mink. Lucky for you you're the first one through that door. I'd have jumped anybody with a dick." She'd intended it as a joke, but it came out with more energy than she'd planned.
He leaned casually against the vehicle, lit his own smoke, held the lighter inside. "Ah. Lipstick. Not exactly regulation, Cole."
"Neither is being bare-assed with my fist in my pussy. Are you going to fuck me, or just stand there?"
He let the lighter go out. "Both." His hand worked his zipper, pulled out his semi-rigid member. "It's all yours, officer."
She threw away her cigarette, stroked him the way he'd shown her. She leaned over, licked the length of his shaft, circled the head with a darting tongue. She couldn't see his face. She didn't need to.
She liked sucking cock even more the second time she tried it. Its silky texture, as she ran it to the back of her mouth, was like nothing else in the world. She fucked him with her face, slowly, gently, teasing him as she hadn't had the presence of mind to do before. And, with each stroke, her own fire burned hotter.
Within minutes, she wasn't able to tease anymore. She slavered over the cock, moaned and whined as saliva dribbled unheeded from the corners of her mouth. She needed his come to quench the dire thirst that'd built all day long. Only then did she want to come, let her own orgasm satisfy her.
His hands tangled in her hair, guided her. He was saying something. Something about work. She fought to hear, refused to relinquish the prize in her mouth.
"That meeting I just got out of. Any idea what it was about?"
"Mmm" That meant no. He was against her soft palate, nearly gagging her. Her lips smacked noisily as she gasped a quick breath, rolled her tongue around the purpling head.
"There's a push coming down on hookers in the district. Vice is way shorthanded. They need help this weekend. Units and people. It's going to over-extend us pretty badly." His voice was showing strain, but it wasn't job related stress.
His words were dim. She had three fingers sloshing around in her cunt. Her thumb was rubbing her clit wildly. Vice. Whores. Like her. She squealed, increased the pace of her bobbing head, her sucking lips.
His hands were more urgent, more forceful. He was hurting her a little, but she didn't give a damn. "You've heard of deep throat? It can mean two things, Cole. It can be a code word for undercover work. And it can be this."
He forced her head toward him, twisted it a little upwards. She gagged. He was going down her throat. All the way down. She couldn't breathe. She tried to fight him, but it was too late. Her lips were crushed against his pubic bone. His balls were soft against her chin. He held her there for an instant. Dark motes began to swim before her eyes. He eased himself out.
She choked, made raw sounds as she leaned against his heavy leather belt, taking deep, painful lungsful of air, unable to make any sense of his words and cruelty.
"Again, Cole. All the way, baby. Do it."
She coughed and eagerly engulfed him. She knew it could be done now. He'd shown her how. She eased him to the hard point, fought the need to gag, and took him. It was good. Unspeakably grand. Her mouth was as deep as her cunt. Deeper. She milked him with her throat, nuzzled his belly with her lips, and felt herself begin to come.
She backed off, grabbed another breath, and did it again. She felt his hips tightening, knew this time what the little twitches of his cock meant, and was ready. Her own orgasm was in full, spectacular bloom by the time his began. Spurt after spurt of white hot come shot into her gullet. Even when she had to have air, she made sure that nothing escaped her, that not a single stray cell evaded her come slick lips. And, even after he was spent, began to soften in her mouth, her own climax rolled inevitably on, an unstoppable juggernaut.
His words barely penetrated that lurid, heavenly haze. But they registered upon her. They triggered a fresh, gut-wrenching inner twist.
"So. What do you say, Cole? Want to do a little undercover work Friday and Saturday night? Play streetwalker for Sergeant Gillian in Vice? Personally, I think you'd make the best whore in town."
She managed a raw laugh. Her throat felt like ground beef. "Yeah," she croaked. "Sounds great, Cap."
He zipped his slacks, tucked his shirt in, buttons over fly, by the book. "Show up tomorrow night at nine-thirty. Take the day off to rest up and get ready. You'll have to supply your own clothes. Now get yourself straightened out. You're late."
"No problem. Can do."
He turned to leave. "Captain Wilson? Thanks. You've got no idea what this means to me."
He waved it off. "It's no favor. You deserve it."
The door closed behind him. She lit a fresh cigarette, pulled her pants back on and struggled up the stairs, into the empty john. Her lipstick was almost all gone. So was her makeup. Her cheeks and chin were red, scraped by his pubic hair. Her hair was wildly knotted.
She splashed herself with cold, stinging water, gingerly blotted herself dry, then covered the rawness with a little more powder than usual. Yeah. She deserved this assignment, all right. Too fucking perfect. Fuck your boss until he promises you he'll help you, she thought, savagely tugging a brush through her hair. Suck his cock, drink his come again, and he comes through, just like he said he would. Dumb bastard doesn't have any idea what he's doing.
Pretend I'm a cunt for rent? No need to fake it. Dress like a common whore? Act cheap and easy? No need to act. This's the perfect assignment. Exactly what I deserve. Deep throat, huh? Cap, you just made my day. Twice.
The last hours of work slipped past effortlessly, mainly because she made no effort. Already, she was obsessively planning for tomorrow. She was interrupted, time and again, by people come to congratulate her. And stare. Word had gotten around that she was going to pull her first real duty assignment. They remembered what she'd looked like at the party. She watched them slyly visualize Lisa the Whore. She intended to meet and surpass their every expectation.
She set about it the instant she got off work, totally forgetting that she was supposed to get together with Barnes again. She dashed to a huge drugstore, knowing they'd have everything she needed. Then, she hurried home, even more eager to begin than she'd been for Wilson to meet her in the garage.
She was working on her tenth fingernail, going through the tedious process of making the artificial tip into a perfectly real-looking extension of her natural nail, when Barney called.
"Shit, guy," she said, scowling at her still flawed work, "I totally spaced it out. I'm really sorry."
"Understandable, all things considered. Excited, huh?"
She controlled the impulse to blurt out the whole wonderful story. "That's the understatement of the decade. I'm really going to make it, Barney. I'm going to be the best fucking plain-clothes officer out there."
He laughed. "Plain clothes, Lisa?" The emphasis on the first word was unmistakable.
She chortled, too. "Well, not exactly. I wonder if I can claim that nasty gold dress as a uniform expense now?"
"Could be." His levity was replaced by concern. "Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, considering everything that's happened?"
She admired her completed left hand's long, curved nails, in need only of paint. "I'm absolutely positive, hon. I can't think of a better way to exorcise this ugly demon I raised. Can you?"
It wasn't exactly a lie. She was careful not to do that to him. She cared too much. But deception was going to have to be part of her life from now on. It was part of the price she'd have to pay.
It took another hour just to complete her nails, and that was only the start. She learned how to use them, to adapt her movements to compensate for their initial clumsiness, as she plucked her eyebrows into thin, graceful arcs and worked with the bikini wax.
She didn't stop with her legs. The pain of uprooting every last trace of cunt hair brought beads of cold sweat to her brow. But it didn't register in her mind as pain. The process was hypnotic. She almost regretted its completion, curled forward as far as she could to microscopically examine what she'd done to herself.
"I wish I could lick you," she whispered to her dewy lower lips. "You're so beautiful. Look how you pout and beg. Wilson said you taste wonderful."
She very carefully ran a hooked red nail over, around, then between her fleshy folds, collecting her moisture.
"So smooth and soft and delicate. No hair left at all. Just like when you were twelve." She delicately touched the fingertip to her tongue, savored its flavor and rich scent, probed the new sharp edges of her nail.
"Oh, yeah. Nice. Very nice, Lisa. You taste as good as you look, girl."
She stared downward hollowly, then roused herself. It took effort. She felt like she was floating somewhere above it all, looking down from a great distance at the unknown woman emerging from her own body like a butterfly from a cocoon. Like she was beside herself, seeing the woman she'd been less than two weeks ago fading, vanishing forever as the rough, ugly, hard covering broke and fell away, little by little, freeing the beautiful creature trapped inside.
"Come on, honey," she urged herself tenderly. "Back to work."
Next came her hair. Her soul cried out for her to make a permanent change, to shatter the horrors of the past, crown her head with a color as glorious as what was happening inside. But she'd bought washable hair color. The Job again. Needing to watch, she lathered it in before the lavatory mirror, meticulously attending to the boxed instructions. Her gestures were slow and deliberate, almost ritualistic. Her eyes were dull, her round, full mouth relaxed, lips slightly parted.
Then she styled her new hair. Differently. With gel and spray, erasing her natural waves, compelling it to hang as straight as if it were ironed. It drank light, hung in shining ebony sheets on either side of her face. Black as midnight. Black as sin.
She discovered that she was staring blindly at her reflection. She had no idea how long she'd been doing so, without thought, without emotion. For an instant, she was filled with fear. What was happening to her? She was fading, vanishing. The nude young woman in the mirror, hairless below her brows, wasn't really her. Where was she going? She felt numb, mentally and physically, sluggish, uncoordinated. Terror rose, but didn't extend to her expressionless, relaxed face.
The bathroom faded from her sight. She was no longer in her apartment, a thousand miles from where she grew up. It was a fragrant spring night. A quarter moon hung in the sky, suspended from stars by invisible wires. A tall boy and a girl who barely reached his chest were strolling silently through the night. The rest of the kids had dispersed after the game.
She and Tommy walked toward her house, side by side. Her cheerleader's skirt swished around her legs. She was nervous. He was so tall, so strong, so handsome. He liked her! He really did! What did a junior in high school, a basketball star, see in a shy seventh grader like her? He could have anybody he wanted. Sarah Waters, the prettiest girl in school, wore his letter jacket. If she didn't have the flu, this wouldn't be happening. He reached for and found her hand.
The black haired woman before the mirror was helpless to intervene. It was like a movie. She couldn't stop it. She couldn't get up and leave the theater. She couldn't even close her eyes against what came next. She heard a vague, weak inner whimper.
Tommy slowed, stopped. She looked up at him, watched him lower his face toward hers, felt his lips meet hers, watched in horror as she returned the embrace with all her heart.
He broke the contact, led her through Mrs. Pauley's side yard, toward the dry creek and crescent of fine zoyza grass at its bank, and lay her upon the living green carpet. He'd been so sweet, at first. It was like a scene from a romance novel; the handsome older hero stroking the hair, gently kissing the poor young servant girl in the ghostly moonlight. He loved her, he whispered softly. But kissing and exchanging endearments hadn't been what he really wanted to do.
He chuckled when she said no to his groping under her sweater. He wouldn't stop. She fought. He turned mean, meaner than she'd ever known anybody could be. He didn't hit her, though. He just took her little throat in one big hand and squeezed any time she tried to make a sound or resist.
Whore. That's what he called her as he slammed his cock into her virginal cunt, ripping his way through the ineffectively resisting membrane, tearing his way into her soul, murdering love and innocence and trust.
Then he'd left her laying on that soft, grassy carpet, disgusted by her childish tears. He'd run into the night like a thief. She'd staggered home, bleeding just a little, not nearly enough to signify the depth of the wound.
Whore. That's what her father had called her, too. It was all her fault. His words and curses had stung even more than his slaps. They'd ripped her deeper than Tommy's cock had ever reached.
Because her dad was right. She'd gotten exactly what she deserved. Her faint plea for justice had fallen on deaf ears. Even as she'd vowed to herself that it'd never happen again, that no one had the right to use her that way, she suspected, in a cold, black part of her heart, that she was bad, that she wouldn't have cared so much if Tommy had just promised her his class ring or letter jacket. All she'd really wanted was to be paid for her sacrifice.
With a psychic jolt, the vision ended. She was back. In an adult body. In her own bathroom. Still gazing into the mirror. A single tear shone on each cheek, ran in graceful curves, leaving shining paths toward the corners of her trembling mouth. She watched until the expression in the mirror changed. From shocked horror, the face altered until it wore a harsh, pitiless smile.
"Well, cunt, they'll pay you now. This is who you've always been. It's about fucking time you acted it out."
She held her cold, blue-eyed gaze as she lit a cigarette. "You were a whore even then. You loved it, you mattress-backed little slut. You knew what he wanted all along. You tried to blackmail him with the rape bullshit, and he didn't cave in. So you told the lie. You tried to destroy his whole fucking life. You wanted to send him to prison because he wanted somebody else more than you."
Her laughter held no humor. Her eyes roved over her body. Her hands did the same. Neither held anything but self-contempt. Her words were mocking, dripped scorn.
"No more lies, cunt. Not to yourself, anyway. Now you know. You know who you are, what you are, and why."
She watched her lips fit themselves around the cigarette, take bitter smoke. Without thought or hesitation, she did her makeup. Heavier than before, until her entire face wore a mask that hid her old self entirely, buried it beneath blended color.
Slick, shimmering red lips smiled approval. Lashes brittle with layers of mascara waved over lids sagging under the weight of glittering gold and silver eye shadow.
"Yes," she hissed, watching her slow lips move, tasting their sweet color with a lazy tongue. "Now finish it."
In the bedroom, she stepped into the elastic garter belt, rolled silky hose up sleek legs and strapped on towering gilded heels. Then she stretched the dress to cover what little it would. Dumping makeup, condoms, cigarettes - and nothing else - into a clasp purse, she stepped out into the night to practice for her first weekend's duty.
To Be Continued...
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