"Arresting" Officer Pt. 02

When I wrote the first part of this story, 'Arresting' Officer, I was just starting to post my work, having rediscovered my creative side. I'd like to hope I have grown and improved since then, nearly three years ago, but I suppose that's for you, the reader, to decide. Recently, a few readers asked if I had plans to continue this one, something I really hadn't thought about.

Now, after three years, it's almost like a brand-new story... So, here goes nothing. I hope you enjoy it.

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I was sitting in my study, staring at the uncooperative screen of my computer. Despite my best efforts today, very little of the thoughts that swirled through my head had found their way through my fingers. As a result, I was feeling a little stalled.

When I felt this way, time lost its meaning.

I don't even know how long I had been sitting there, but a familiar sound brought me back out of my stupor.

It was a whine. Not from a dog, although there was one in the house, downstairs somewhere. No, this whine was mechanical, and accompanied by a low rumble.

Emily was home. I stood up, and saw her Mustang, a Roush stage 3, pull into our driveway. I felt the same way I felt every day when she came home safely.

Relieved. Lucky. Thankful.

I was already on my way to greet her when I heard her voice.

"Davis? Honey? I'm home," she called. Her tone was happy. It wasn't always the case.

Her face lit up when she saw me at the top of the stairs, and she opened her arms to welcome my hug. I embraced her, squeezing her tight.

Most of the time, that hug would have her soft, voluptuous chest pressed tight against me, but today, all I felt was body armour. While it wasn't normal for her to wear it home, it wasn't that unusual either, a result of simple geography. Sometimes, she was closer to home than her precinct at the end of her shift.

Despite the Kevlar, I held her close. My hands caressed her back, feeling the extra mags for her service weapon in the back pouches of her vest. My arm detected that weapon in the holster under her left arm.

"Glad you're home, baby," I whispered in her ear, reluctant to let her go.

"Mmmmm, me too, honey," she said, softly. "Long day."

I had learned long ago, that asking her about that 'long day' was a double-edged sword. While I was interested in her job, there was plenty she couldn't tell me, there was plenty she was trying to shield me from, and plenty I really didn't want to know. It gave me a whole new appreciation for the police. They do an absolutely impossible job, day after day, for a public who don't give a shit about them, largely because they, the public, don't know how bad it really is out there.

Well, I, for one, now know how bad it is, and it scares the crap out of me. For almost three years, since Emily and I had met and fallen for each other, I had wondered, every time she left, if I would see her again.

She had warned me. She told me, very early in our relationship, that the prospect of loss was exactly why she had steered away from getting involved in the past. We had mutually decided to risk it, but still hadn't actually tied the knot.

Things had improved, somewhat, since she had left the uniform division. Early on, as Constable or Officer Brewster, she had been on the front lines, driving a cruiser around by herself. In our area, cops didn't have partners, like they do on TV. Apparently, we were better off than some parts of the country.

***

In reality? Not so much. I was reminded of it every day.

Like today, for example. Emily headed upstairs to change, and I followed, planning to help her. She let me help her off with her jacket, then turned to face me, smiling as she watched my eyes wander across the bulletproof vest that obscured her form.

There had been occasions when that same vest had been a sexual costume. Picture a beautiful, naked, buxom woman, riding your cock, while wearing such an anachronistic outfit as that armour. Modern necessity meets the most ancient of urges. Now I realized how foolish that attitude had been.

Peeling back the velcro that held it in place, I slid the vest off, then began to unbutton her blouse. She turned her back, letting me roll the fabric over her shoulders. There it was.

A reminder... of the day I came home in the early afternoon, to find her sitting on the couch. It was too early for her to be home, so I figured something was wrong, and I was right. The sling on her right arm confirmed it.

Six hours earlier, she had been called to the scene of a break-in. Backup was on the way, but hadn't arrived before she was confronted by an armed suspect. Fortunately, she was faster than he was, and her aim was better. Her bullet hit a more vital area than his did. He would live, but was in no shape to keep her from cuffing him.

With one hand.

The other hand, her left, was incapacitated by his bullet. It went through her hand, on the way from the gun barrel to the front lawn of the house, via her left shoulder.

At the hospital, x-rays had shown that somehow, almost miraculously, the projectile had missed every bone in her hand, and nearly every one in her shoulder, merely nicking her clavicle. Her wounds were considered non life-threatening, and after several dozen stitches, and plenty of bandages, she was sent home.

My opinion of her injuries was slightly different. To say I was shocked, and scared shitless, would be an understatement. The bullet had gone through the velcro strap, above the kevlar. A few inches lower would have tested the vest. A similar distance to the right would have made it a moot point, probably killing her.

Emily took it all in stride. It was her first wound, but not news to her. She had plenty of colleagues that had similar stories, and spouses with similar reactions.

Now, as I bared her shoulder and was faced with the scar of the exit wound, I was wondering if I would ever get used to that feeling of dread. I kissed the blemish, which was much more distinct than the three other wounds. The front of her shoulder was much less upsetting, and her hand was hardly noticeable, but I still had to open bottles for her, until the strength returned.

I sat on the bed, and watched her put her weapon in the gun-safe we had installed in our closet. She was now nude, and it was an oddly sexy picture of her handling the gun to render it safely unloaded. With the safe door closed and locked, she walked into the bathroom. I heard the water of the shower start.

"Care to join me?" she asked, peeking around the door frame.

This was our life. We had made a deal, almost three years ago, that she would be as careful as possible, and that I would confine my worrying to while she was away. I wasn't to let those fears contaminate our time together. To do so would be a waste of what might be a finite resource.

I stripped quickly, and walked in, finding her already under the warm spray. She smiled, still with eyes closed, and turned to snuggle against my chest, sighing as I wrapped my arms around her. We leaned against the shower wall, enjoying the warmth and closeness for a few minutes, before she tipped her head back, silently asking for a kiss. I was happy to comply.

Emily's body was what first attracted my attention. Along with her sparkling eyes, her spectacular curves were hard to miss. Now, I considered it a very fortunate bonus, as I couldn't picture my life without her in it.

"You know I love you, right?" I said softly, caressing her wet skin gently.

"Mmmmm hmmm," she nodded, rubbing her cheek against my chest. "I love you, too." When she kissed me again, I felt the stresses of the day melting away in her. I also felt her hand, which had found my semi-hard cock and was stroking it to a full erection.

She slipped slowly down my body, dragging her wet chest across my stomach, then lower, until her boobs were pressed against my thighs. I felt her tongue flutter over the head of my dick, and moaned.

"Oh, Emily, darling, yes," I sighed, as her mouth engulfed my cock slowly. If the shower was her way of unwinding after a difficult day, then this was her way of helping me do the same. She knew that I had been worrying about her, all day long, and this was a reminder that she was home safe,

Besides, she really liked giving me blowjobs, and she was very, very good at it. Along with every other aspect of sex, Emily was all I could hope for. I was lucky.

I watched her head bob slowly, feeling the exquisite combination of heat, wetness, and suction that marked her oral stimulation. She was moaning softly as she went, enjoying it nearly as much as I was, if that's possible.

"Go ahead, baby," she smiled, using her hand for the moment. "Cum for me. You know I love the taste of your salty juice. Give me what I want." Having said that, her mouth went back to work on my cock, sucking expertly. Emily was virtually made to suck cock, with her plump lips and wide smile, that made it easier to accommodate my fat dick. She certainly knew what to do to me, and within minutes, I could feel my cauldron beginning to bubble.

I put one hand on her head, grabbing her wet hair for leverage. Her eyes opened, peering up at me through the spray bouncing off both of us, and she put her hands on my hips, signaling her surrender. She was letting me finish at my leisure, if leisure was what I wanted.

Some days, yes, but not today. Today, I was more interested in feeling the release, as quickly as possible. My hips began to thrust reflexively, gliding my cock in and out between her succulent lips. It was a treat for my eyes, as well as my hard meat.

Now with both hands on her head, I fucked her mouth deep, causing her to gag occasionally, but her hands, which had moved around to my ass, made no move to stop me. With a final lunge, I held her head close, and spewed into her throat.

"Oh, FUCK!" I grunted, blasting semen over her tonsils. She coughed, spitting up saliva and gooey sperm, then took over, clamping her lips around the shaft and sucking hard. My cock flexed over and over, and she moaned with each salvo that surged into her mouth. I leaned back against the tile, and let her slurp up the dregs, cleaning up the overspray. She released my softening penis, and stood up.

"Mmmmm, thank you, baby," she smiled, rinsing under the warm water.

"Oh, um, sure," I panted, bracing my unsteady stance by sliding into the corner. "You're welcome. Anytime."

***

After our shower, we went downstairs and made dinner together. It was another of our little rituals, letting us be close to each other while we did something that needed to be done anyway. We took our time, cuddling and caressing each other frequently, and taking any excuse to rub together. It was lots of fun, and acted like extended foreplay.

So did the flirty behaviour during dinner. From our first date together, she had always found a way to rest her breasts on the table during our meals. She knew I was a sucker for those beautiful boobs, and took advantage of that knowledge. She would stretch her arms over her head, and arch her back, thrusting that magnificent chest out against the thin cotton of her t-shirt. Her pointy nipples punctuated the move, as did her mischievous grin.

Later, snuggled together on the couch, we relaxed and watched a movie. I had the good fortune of being involved with a woman whose taste in movies ran more in the action category, rather than chick-flicks. Occupational interest, I suppose, but it was another thing we had in common.

So was our scathing critique of many movies. As a writer, I could recognize places where the screenplay could have been improved, largely artistic tweaks. Emily had much more technical issues. Procedures were her pet peeve, along with gun related effects.

"I understand why they do it," she would smile. "It needs to be visually impressive for the audience, but I've been shot. It doesn't look like that."

Yes. I know you've been shot. Thanks so much for reminding me, as if that didn't already race through my head every time a character takes a bullet. Especially a female character. An attractive female character, with long brown hair.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I've had enough," I yawned. "I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

She arched her eyebrow, and gave me a crooked grin.

"Am I... cumming?" she giggled. "Not just yet, but I'd love to."

A few flicks of my thumb turned off the TV and DVD player, and I followed her through the lower floor, killing lights as we went. I was within reach of her sexy rump as we walked up the stairs to our bedroom, and didn't waste the opportunity to get in a few gentle caresses. She enjoyed my touch, slowing her pace and swinging her hips in an exaggerated fashion. Her lounge wear was thin cotton, and did nothing to deflect my hands.

It also came off quickly, and when Emily reached up and peeled her top over her head, it set her breasts bouncing nicely. The shorts lasted another two seconds, leaving her nude and beckoning me toward her, as she took a position on her back in our bed.

During our earliest encounters, I discovered that my delicious Emily had a few kinks. She had taken a vibrator in her ass while I fucked her pussy, a form of double-penetration that did as much for me as it appeared to do for her. We had done the opposite, on occasion, with her taking a huge dildo in her pussy, and my thick shaft in her ass. She was very uninhibited.

Then there was the brass swivel in the centre of our headboard. Hanging from the loop... a gleaming, silver pair of handcuffs. Not just your garden variety, sex-shop handcuffs either. These were the real deal, exactly like the ones she carried on her belt while on duty.

When she surrendered control, it was with absolute trust, but tonight the cuffs would be left unused. Tonight, she wanted to be worshipped, and I was fine with that.

About an hour of blissful intercourse followed, as we rolled around on our king-sized bed in various positions, gently stroking and thrusting, while moaning our enjoyment of the act. This was pure love-making, and I felt her have at least three, deep, trembling orgasms before her tight, clutching pussy finally drew a huge load out of me. Afterward, we lay in the dark, holding each other close. My hand was absent-mindedly stroking her shoulder, over her bullet wound.

"Are you obsessing, my love?" she whispered, and rolled on top of me. Her eyes glistened in the ambient light as she looked down at me.

"Hmmmm? No," I smiled. "Okay, maybe a little. I can't help it. I love you. I don't want to lose you."

"I appreciate that," she said softly, and kissed me. "I love you too."

***

When I met Emily, I obviously knew she was a cop. I recall the day clearly, watching her slink around my backyard, looking for an escaped prisoner, pistol drawn. She was in uniform then, driving a patrol car.

I'm sure you've heard about those people who moved in next to any airport, then complained about the noise. Well, I'm not one of those. I knew what I was getting into, and who I was getting into bed with.

Then I fell in love with her, and she with me. It made that conscious decision to risk the danger a little more difficult to live with. It also made her impossible to live without.

So, with my emotional life firmly wedged between the proverbial rock and a hard place, I bit my tongue as much as possible, and tried not to be too obvious when I worried about her.

Three years together also meant that I now knew lots of cops. Dozens, in fact, and most of their families, as well. I wasn't alone in my position as the spouse of an officer. Since the force was predominantly male, that made me a minority in the sisterhood. We formed a support group, official and otherwise, for each other.

I was very happy when Emily made detective. I know it's a minor consolation, but it seemed less dangerous, somehow. Patrol officers are much more likely to happen upon a crime in progress, and as Emily can attest, sometimes that leads to gunfire. Detectives are normally assigned to a crime that has already occurred. They solve cases, using information. When they go to make an arrest, it is normally in force, rather than alone.

So, the promotion got her off the streets, in a way, but she was still a cop... and being a cop was always dangerous. We were reminded of that fact in a very undesirable fashion.

I was at home one morning, when the phone rang. Now, any time the phone rings while Emily wasn't home, my mind immediately assumed, if only for a split second, that the worst had happened. My logical self dismissed that feeling as pessimistic, and that would be correct nearly every time. However, one of those calls had been bad news already. How many times does it have to happen before pessimism becomes a natural conclusion? I took a deep breath, and answered it.

"Hello?" I said. The voice on the other end was hysterical, sobbing, gasping, and distraught. It took me a few seconds to figure out who it actually was.

Celeste Robinson was the young wife of an equally young officer in Emily's precinct. We had known each other for a little over two years now. She was part of the sisterhood, and an attendee at most of our official meetings.

Like most similar group-support organizations, the whole idea was to provide a safe environment, where one could openly share fears, concerns and feelings that needed to be let out. Emotions that can be overwhelming when faced alone tend to shrink to manageable levels when you have others standing beside you; even completely rational and legitimate fears, such as those common among the spouses of police officers. It was a place to bare one's soul, without judgement.

Celeste had certainly done that, often. I knew things about her and her husband that I probably shouldn't have. Since I was the only guy in attendance most times, I had been anointed an honorary female, and the girls didn't hold back. I mean, not every conversation we had revolved around worrying about police issues. About the only time I was expected to be a man was when someone needed a hug, and it seemed I had held all of these women nearly as much as I held Emily, if for somewhat different reasons. It was a service I enjoyed providing.

So, when Celeste called, despite her hysteria, I knew what had happened. The details weren't important right now. She was in need, and had called on me.

I sent Emily a text, telling her what I knew so far, and that I was going to spend some time with Celeste. She replied with a succinct 'I understand'.

Now, I'm not an undisputed expert on women, but I don't think a lot of wives would choose to have their husband holding a grieving widow so soon after the fact. Emotions were sure to be in flux, but Emily knew she didn't need to worry.

There were three reasons she could be secure. Primary among them, was the fact that I loved her. I knew it, and she knew it. I wasn't looking for anyone else, on the side or otherwise. Second, Celeste really wasn't my type. My tastes tended to run taller, and more top-heavy; in other words, just like Emily. Celeste was quite petite, and while she was pretty curvy for a tiny woman, I thought of her more as a sister.

The third reason was voiced more as a joke, but still applied, despite its origins. Most people don't take betrayal well, and in my experience, women hold that grudge longer than men do. While a man may be more likely to act on the anger, a woman's wrath is frightfully personal. Having heard a woman once threaten to "cut his dick off with a butter knife if he cheats on me", I tend to believe it. With that in mind, why would I provoke a woman who regularly obliterates the 'ten-ring' from ten yards out, using her Glock 17? Do not poke the bear with a stick.