She'd done too many things in the intervening eight hours that could never be undone, even if she wanted to. She suspected that there'd be times in the weeks and years to come that'd she'd wish, with all her heart, that it was possible to undo them. But, at the moment, she had no regrets.

She flopped limply onto the sofa, still wearing the broad, bitter scarlet smile she'd worn throughout the night. She unbuckled her tall sandals, kicked them carelessly under the coffee table. She'd fucked three total strangers. She'd been whimsically selective about it, but not choosing her suitors from those wearing the most expensive clothes, or offering the most money. Rather, she'd been moved by needs she hadn't bothered to name, and discovered her motives only after the fact.

She snicked open her purse, brought out cigarettes and a wad of cash. Three hundred and fifty bucks. About a week's normal take-home pay. Normal. Strange word. What was it going to mean from now on?

She lit a smoke, stared at the money with sharp, cold eyes. It was well earned. She let the memories replay themselves, savoring each detail. The harshness vanished from her face, was replaced by a wistful dreaminess.

The first guy had really gotten off on her lips. That's why she'd gone with him. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off her slick red mouth, had damned near creamed his slacks when she'd deliberately, slowly, repainted it for him before leaving the bar. She refused to let him kiss her, ruin her perfection, but she mercilessly teased him with it, made her words languorous, kept her face mere inches from his, and drove him mad.

She knew he wanted to fuck it, and she wanted him to. His cock hadn't been as big as Wilson's, had slid down her throat like a candy cane made of hot flesh, with an ease that had both astonished and gratified her. She was naturally good at this.

It'd been strangely curved, too. At least she'd assumed it was strange. She really only had two to compare it to, since she couldn't remember anything about Tommy's. When he shot off, she'd been ready, had captured every mote as she worked her lips and licked his balls with her painfully distended tongue. She had her own orgasm, without ever even touching her gushing cunt.

The second was a big, ugly bruiser who could have passed for somebody's hired muscle, had it not been for his thousand dollar suit and refined speech. He instantly saw through her bluff and read her inexperience. An eager, innocent slut. That's what got him off. When he called her on it, she admitted the truth - this was her first night on the street, and she loved what she was doing. He had her mount him, ride a cock so massive that she'd seriously wondered if she could spread herself wide enough to take it.

She could, of course. She watched, enthralled, as her hairless snatch parted, swallowed it inch by inch, stroke by stroke penetrating her further than anything ever had. She'd come twice before he finally filled the rubber with sperm, ballooning its reservoir to the bursting point.

The last one was some rich kid from the burbs, slumming in his Dad's BMW, acting like he knew the score. The poor bastard was terrified, and, it turned out, a virgin bent on getting deflowered. She'd been more than happy to oblige. The first time was shitty, way too quickly finished for her to get off with him. But she let him watch her finger-fuck herself for another fifty bucks. Watching his cock slowly refill with blood as she rolled her clit and dipped sharp crimson nails into her wetness had provided them both with an incredible rush of lust. The second fuck had been a freebie, and, in some ways, the best of the night.

Lisa groaned and stretched, watched the hem of the dress rise to nearly bare her tired, sore pussy, admired the dark slash of the garter strap on her white flesh. She swung her legs apart, made her exposure complete. Her lower lips were reddened, still slightly puffy. Ever so gently, she explored herself, felt the warm fuzziness seep back into her. She sighed heavily and stopped, wondering, with something approaching sadness, if she would ever get enough cock, if this need would ever abate.

She rose, moved into the bedroom, watched herself peel away her new uniform, and searched her soul for shame. There was none. She saw her dark red lips downturn in the mirror. But there was something different. Something much deeper than the makeup and straight, jet black hair.

She stepped nearer the glass, peered into the blue eyes surrounded by heavy black borders. Something was missing from her, something she'd lived with for so long it'd become a part of her. There was an emotional hole, but it remained unidentifiable as she stripped off her makeup, clicked off the lights, and padded her way to the bed.

Sleep came almost instantly, and claimed her until five that afternoon. She awoke groggy, sluggish, as she always did when she slept during the day. It wasn't until she was halfway to the kitchen that she recalled the why of her inverted schedule.

Her shuffling steps faltered. It was too dreamlike. Despite the tenderness between her legs, the stretched web beneath her tongue, and her hooked red fingernails, it took the reality of the pile of cash on the coffee table to convince her she hadn't dreamed it. How could she feel so fucking normal?

She shrugged it off as the water dripped through the ground coffee beans, and set about her usual wake-up routine. After her first cup of brew, she ran through her exercises. Fresh coffee in hand, she showered away the sweat - as well as the residue of last night's hair color and sex, she realized with a trace of regret. She grinned into the spray of hot water. There was plenty more where that came from.

She spent hours redoing her hair and makeup, refining her image a little, and lounged, nude and nervous, until it was time to prepare for the night's work. It would be vastly different tonight. She wasn't just a whore, she was a cop, too. She was going to go out there and bust her sisters and men who could have been her customers. Her excitement at actually, finally, acting like a police officer warred with her awakened sexuality.

She scowled. The painted slut in the mirror scowled back. What a fucking hypocrite. She always had been, though. This was nothing new. She'd always been a judgmental, compassionless two-faced bitch. She savagely sucked a cigarette to life. The only difference was that now she was admitting it.

Her self-hatred wasn't complete, however. Something else nagged at her and built until it eventually got her attention. It was the same nameless feeling that had puzzled her the night before, but this time its identity became clear.

Justice. Vindication. These had always been important to her. Still, it was unnerving to realize that the emotional void she'd noted was just that. The scales were somehow being balanced. A part of her had been aware of her guilt ever since the "rape." She'd made it a part of herself. It had ruled her ever since, by way of celibacy and hatred of victimizers. She'd become a cop because she couldn't send a boy to jail. He'd been unreachable. Others wouldn't be.

Now, she was making reparations, in a twisted way. She couldn't undo what she'd done in the past, but she could punish herself for wanting to do it.

Her scarlet laugh was bitter, cruel. She blew smoke. "See?" she whispered throatily. "See, Tommy? See, Daddy? You were right. I was wrong. I hope this helps a little."

Then she stalked out, dampening all feeling, making herself as emotionally numb as whores - and policewomen - had to be. She was early, and caused quite a stir at the precinct. The guys reacted openly to what they assumed was a disguise. They whistled, called out obscene suggestions. She posed for them. She flirted shamelessly, mimicked the actions of the streetwalkers they saw brought in every night of the week. They knew she was mocking herself, but misunderstood the why of it. They laughed uproariously, amazed by her new relaxation, her willingness to play.

Lisa the tight-assed, humorless rookie, always serious, always staid, was dead and buried. Fuck it, she thought, sitting on a lap and wiggling her ass, then making a quick escape. Might as well have a good time.

Other female officers straggled in, displaying varying degrees of discomfort in their whore's weeds. She pulled back a notch, reined herself in. She'd been dangerously close to the edge, much closer than anyone knew. Her gut felt hollow, her cunt damp. A part of her wanted to let everyone know who she really was. A part of her wanted to lay down on the booking counter and spread her legs and take on all the boys in blue who wanted a piece. With effort, she made herself go to the corner where the other women were clumping.

She felt out of place. She lit a cigarette, leaned against a wall, quieted her hammering heart. Another woman, someone Lisa didn't recognize, wearing a scanty blue halter top and black leather skirt, joined her.

"Got an extra smoke?"

She shook one out, silently welcoming the distraction. "I'm Lisa Cole."

"I know. Sergeant Trotter. Vice."

"Ah. You've done this kind of thing before. I wondered why you looked so . . ."

"Comfortable? Yeah. I guess it's pretty much old hat for me by now. But you don't look too scared, either. Why's that?"

Lisa covered her stab of panic with the cigarette. "I am. I just hide it better than most, I guess."

"Come on, Cole," she jibed quietly. The nervous tittering surrounding them made it as intimate as a whisper. "Get real, okay? It's kind of a turn-on, isn't it? I've seen it before. Some girls get a real rush out of duty like this. Gives them a chance to loosen up and be women for a change." The wizened eyes speared her, read her too well.

"Is that the way it is for you?" Asking a question seemed her only defense. Besides, she was curious.

"It was, my first few times," the sergeant openly confided. "I'd always kind of wondered what it was like, you know? I was always curious about everything good girls weren't supposed to do." She shrugged. Her tits bounced. "Now, hell, it's just a part of the job. I get dressed and go to work. No big deal."

But she eyed Lisa through their cloud of mutual smoke. "It takes special people to do this right. Most of these girls won't fool anybody who knows the streets. You, though, you're different."

Captain Wilson appeared, with the Vice officer she'd seen him closeted with the day before. Lisa's cold sweat began to dry. Trotter smelled something wrong. She diverted her eyes to the senior officers, praying for the bitch to get lost in the crowd.

They led the way into the squad room and spelled out the night's drill. The women were paired, teamed with plainclothes backups, and assigned territories. It was a typical sweep operation, one everyone knew wouldn't really accomplish a damned thing. The women would pop a few johns. The guys would haul them in, along with a few working girls. Everybody would make bail by Monday morning. It wouldn't make any difference - but the papers would report it, and the public would be appeased for a while.

But that didn't make it any less of a high for Lisa. The night was a non-stop blur of excitement. The gun weighed heavily in her purse. Stalking the downtown streets, rubbing elbows with real whores - other real whores, that is - made her feel as cheap and sleazy as they were. She watched. She learned. She paraded herself, just like they did. She leaned into car windows, showing off her tits, licking her slick red lips, making them negotiate a price.

She rode away in their cars into the night, heart hammering. Only the fact that she was always followed by unmarked cars kept her from sneaking a blow job or a down-and-dirty quick fuck for a buck.

She was a little surprised that busting the poor fuckers was such a turn-on. Taking them right to the edge, being careful not to entrap them or compromise the arrest in any way, was like foreplay. Their horror or outrage or bleak fear, when they realized what was really happening, was almost, in some ways, as good as fucking them would have been.

It filled her with a sense of power, similar to what she'd experienced the night before. It was the opposite side of the same coin. She was in complete control. She was free to act as slutty as she knew how - in fact, the nastier, the better - yet she dominated them. They were there to indulge themselves, to wallow in their superiority as much as in her pussy. To totally turn the tables on them, to watch them crumble before her, left her breathless.

Until exactly two-forty-five a.m, fifteen minutes from the end. Until the kid in the restored beige Caddie grinned sheepishly at her hard nipples, looked straight into her passion-heavy eyes, instead of at their glittering gold eye shadow, and asked her her name. None of the others had done that. Eye contact seemed to be something to be avoided, and names were cumbersome, useless baggage. This kid was different. The hard knot of her excitement loosened. She heard her words tumble from her mouth without being aware of deciding to speak them.

"Look, kid. You're after something special, right? Not just a sloppy head job in an alley. If you can go a c-note, meet me in front of the drugstore at Twelfth and Ash in two hours. Sound good?"

"I don't know. That's a lot of money."

"Believe me, honey, I'll make it worth every penny."

He cruised off. She turned, shrugged at her partner and the black pro who'd been watching. "He just wanted to look. Probably go home and jack off, pretending his hand's my face." Her throat felt clogged with need. She prayed he'd be there.

She got there ten minutes late. She'd rushed through the paperwork that wouldn't wait and had been on her way out the door when Wilson had snagged her. Her eagerness to get out of there had made his shape in the shadows of the door invisible.

"Hey, baby," he'd sneered quietly. "Got time for a quickie?"

A rude, coarse rejection shaped itself on her lips, but she choked it back. "It's been a long night, Cap."

"Come on, Cole. You forgetting what I went through to get you in on this? The least you can do is show your gratitude."

The message couldn't have been more clear. Unless she wanted to go back to riding a desk, she'd have to fuck him, right now.

She lit another cigarette, smiled the smile she'd been using all night. "Come on," she drawled. "I guess a dose of come really would feel pretty good right now."

She led the way around the side of the building, listened to the harsh click of her heels on the pavement, heard the softer pad of his steps not far behind. She established herself in the shadow of a dumpster, amidst a jumble of empty crates and boxes.

"You did good tonight, Cole. You've got a knack for this sort of thing."

She faced the wall, leaned over a rough wooden box, held her cigarette in her mouth as she lifted her dress. He didn't know the half of it. "Come on, baby. Stick it in there. I need it at least as much as you do."

He was already hard. He gasped as he rammed her. "You shaved your cunt."

She bucked against him, drove him all the way home in one quick move. Her own voice shook perilously. "I did it for you. Like it?"

"Oh, yeah." He showed her just how much. He grabbed her hips, pounded her from behind until the force of his thrusts made her snap the cigarette in half as she scrabbled for a better grip.

He was uncharacteristically quick. When he blew his come into her, it felt like a jet of white hot lava. Without warning, she felt her vaginal walls begin their rhythmic milking contractions. She had to bite her arm to block her shout of raw joy. He jerked himself out before she was through, left her gasping weakly on the crate.

His laugh was cold. "Shit, Cole. I feel like I ought to leave you some money."

"No sweat, Cap," she managed. "You already paid me. Thanks."

He sauntered off, left her fighting for her breath, his come running down her legs, still laying face down on the splintery box.

She pulled herself together, hurried as much as she was able. At least he hadn't fucked up her makeup. She was able to fix her bitten lips and mop up most of his sperm at a stoplight.

The Cadillac was there. The kid's shadow was ramrod stiff behind the wheel in the glare of her headlights. She was fairly steady on her feet as she walked to his window.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," he said, almost apologetically. "I've got the money."

"Great, honey. I knew I could count on you. I've been looking forward to this ever since you left."

He relaxed a little. "Really?"

"Really. I knew right away you were someone special. Do you have somewhere we can go?"

The nerves returned. "Well, I don't live too far away."

She followed. Her anticipation had returned. this was going to be something extraordinary. Just how she knew that, she couldn't say. Until she saw his living room walls, covered with heavy metal posters. Women in leather and chains, scowling defiantly down at him. Until the deference he'd shown her resolved into abject submission, and she felt herself swelling on the inside. Until she'd commanded him to strip and lay down with his hands above his head and snapped her well-used handcuffs around his slim wrists, with the chain looped through the headboard. Her lust verged upon rage as she sank onto his short, fat cock, glaring cruelly down into his terrified eyes.

She felt herself slip over some precipitous cliff within her secret inner landscape. She felt crazed as she plummeted into its unsuspected depths. She slapped him, hard, across each side of his face, and his fear vanished, became pure gratitude. He babbled non-stop as she fucked him. He raved feverishly as she pinched his nipples with long, sharp nails. He came, even though she'd ordered him not to. She slapped him even more viciously, stinging her palms, then slid up and covered his face with her dripping pussy, smothered him until he began lapping his - and Wilson's - sperm from her hole.

She cursed him, mocked him savagely as he drank himself and another man from her fountain. She made sure he knew it wasn't just his jism he was eating. And he loved it. She added her own come to his meal, bending back to use her nails to finger his ass as she squirmed on his wet face.

He cried like a baby when she told him he'd gotten all he'd paid for. He pled with her to stay longer. He didn't have any more cash, but she could take anything he had if she'd use a dildo in a bedside drawer to ass-fuck him.

Instead, she demanded that he be home the same time the next night - with another hundred bucks. If she felt like it, she'd fuck his ass then. But he had to be a good little bitch, or she'd just make him suck her store of come and leave.

She was fishing through her purse for her handcuff key. Her hand was shaking wildly. Her cunt felt like it owned her. She encountered her lipstick and the key at the same moment. Before unlocking him, she spread a thick coat of brilliant red over his lips.

A slut like he was should always wear lipstick, she told him, again straddling his face. Grabbing his hair, she smeared his pretty little mouth against her oozing slit. He was still crying as she freed his wrists and marched out the door.

On the long drive home, her all-consuming madness began to fade, was replaced by something that felt like an emotional nausea. The vision of the young man, weeping helplessly, lipstick smeared all over his face, became repulsive. She'd done something unspeakable, something depraved. She'd emasculated him as thoroughly as if she'd taken a straight razor and sliced off his cock. And she'd adored doing, with a horrid joy that haunted her.

Her cigarette tasted like bile. She threw it out the window. The thing was, he'd wanted her to do exactly as she'd done. His sobs had held as much gratefulness as humiliation. She'd done something to him he didn't have the guts to do to himself, or even beg for aloud. Was that what being a whore was really about? Intuiting underlying, unspoken sexual needs, and meeting them for people?

She barked a harsh laugh. There should be some kind of handbook, some course she could take. Something to tell her what that little fucker expected her to do next. He'd put her in charge, made her entirely responsible. She gave a mental shrug as she turned into her parking garage. Maybe that was the whole point. Maybe what she did to him was less important than how she did it.

She sat in the car for a moment, wondering if the same applied to herself. She had to admit - unwillingly - that part of why she was selling herself was to act out, somehow reverse her rape. But examining that issue required more energy than she had. She drug herself into the elevator, marched tiredly down the hall to her apartment, again flopped on the couch and added another hundred dollars to yesterday's take, still littering the coffee table.

Again she slid her hem upward the few inches required to bare her pantiless pussy. As she stared down at it, still decorated with smeared lipstick, a twinge of the drunken sensation of power returned. Her glistening lips shaped a lewd smile. It was exactly the same sense of strength that'd filled her on the street, playing cop. It didn't matter which side of the game she played. She won both ways.

As the sun came up on Saturday, Lisa fell into bed, her mind numb with fatigue. But plans for the next day were already taking shape in her head, as if her subconscious had an agenda of its own.

To Be Continued...

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