Part 1: Before it all
Her fingers were numb. That was the first sensation that she felt as the handcuffs came off. That wretched, achy, pins and needles feeling that you get when you've been sitting too long in an awkward position. The officer's voice was a dull back beat to the raw enthusiasm she put into shaking her hands, wiggling her little digits alive, sucking and biting at the ends as if it would make it go faster.
"Too fast," he'd said taking pause to watch the woman make over her hands as if they were on fire, then continue on after he was satisfied that she wasn't demonstrating some enigmatic sign of heavy drug use or binge drinking "and you really should slow down on those curves, you haven't lived here long enough to know how many people have died doing stupid shit ball stunts like that..." he finished.
He was right; she'd been driving too fast home from too many drinks consumed in too short a period of time. It was all she could do to hide the fact that there were two of him scolding her at present. The nibbling of her fingers was a distraction; what came next would have to seal the deal.
"Officer I'm sorry, my husband and I just moved up here last month – he has some new job and works 10,000 hours a week, so all this moving stuff is on me. I just had to run into town, probably..." she beat those pretty eyelashes and looked down shamefully, "...in too much of a rush to get home," she stopped short as if there was one too many admissions of guilt..."I won't do it again."
"So you're up there all alone?" the officer said leering back at her. He stopped to tip the corner of his patrol hat up to reveal his arched brow, and receding hairline. This was it, this was her opportunity..."flirt, girl, like you've never flirted before," she mused to herself. The toolkit was all there, draw attention to the boobs, think of something sexy so the nipples wake up, then get your fingers near your mouth and bat those baby blues like there's no tomorrow. He didn't stand a chance, no lawman in the state had ever resisted her charms. The last moments of their interaction were of pure cadence; step one, ensure the young hot girl is thoroughly lectured about how lucky she is to not be dead, and she should be eternally graceful to the officer for letting her off with a warning.
"Oh Mr, Officer, won't you let me suck your cock if I promise to be a good girl on the road, and a bad girl with your dick in my mouth if I promise, promise not to tell anyone." She'd long fantasized about saying that while curtsying in front of whatever John. Q Law was lusting after her oral confession. She wondered what her husband would think if he knew, just how many times, the fantasy of roadside blow jobs had worked to save him what was assuredly millions of dollars in traffic ticket fines.
"Did you want me to follow you up to the house?" His words came out of no where; had she missed some crucial part of the conversation – was there ever any point where she told him that's what she wanted? Better to reinforce the fantasy than screw up that I just got out of a DUI because some hill billy cop got the better of me.
"Oh that's so sweet...Officer Dooley" she said, her eyes darting from his to the name tag, and back again, "I'm so tired, I think I'm just going to go home, get in a big hot bath and then crawl into bed..." she finished. Surely, the Academy would have to acknowledge her raw skill and prowess. Officer Dooley sat dumbfounded, mentally undressing her, wondering what it'd be like to move with her from the hot bath to the cool sheets, all with his mouth hanging open for the better part of a minute before he grumbled something (not in English) and then abruptly left. She sat twirling her long red hair by the roadside as he pulled off.
"Oh, be nice – he put up a good fight," she thought as he pulled off, it even convinced her to go the extra mile and do her best butt-stuck out cheerleader wave as he pulled past her. She giggled as she wondered what he'd have done if she had done a standing cheer – complete with pom pom's.
It was a much slower go of the way back up the long windy road. The superfluous giggly, drunk joy of using her sex to avoid incarceration or deprivation of property, namely financial, had all but worn off. She had now entered, the angry drunk phase, brought on by too few Miller Lights, and too many whiskey sours. The truth was, she hadn't lied to Dooley about all that much, other than about the whiskey sours and Miller Light's, she was pretty much on her own – the moving had been all on her. She had no job, because she was supposed to be a SAHM, an acronym that denoted motherhood. She did have a child, she supposed, but he was in his late-thirties and required her help mostly only with things like laundry, cooking-and unpacking boxes. The errand, as it were, was to go into town and forget about the box farm steadily growing in her living room, and the furniture that rested peacefully six feet under that. Her husband was working ten thousand hours a week, and she was lonely. How lonely?
"Honey, look how far you've stooped." She'd said that afternoon, opening a fresh box left by the front door (a tragic irony which didn't escape her as she threw the skeleton on the pile) as she delved deep in the bubble-wrap guts with the fever of a cheetah digging through an Antelope. "Clear glass, vibrating, temperature holding man replacement" - she said to herself as she tore open the box. One of the many annoyances that moving afforded her was the outright vanishing of "her little box of joy." Thousands, if not millions of memories, vibrating wonders, lubricants of ever type and flavor had been lost.
"Probably some burly fucking Puerto Rican moving guy is showing my vibrators up his boyfriends ass with my lube right now," she'd exclaimed to her husband after hours of laborious and ultimately unfruitful search.
"Aww baby," he'd start in his best Elvis, "why does it matter, you've still got me?" he had finished... stupidly. The shock and awe of his absurd mental vacancy confounded her.
"I have you like 20 minutes a day and even then, it's like every other day – I'm like the kid in that Will Smith movie, except instead of love the kid wants...I want sex...pretty soon, we're going to have to have sex in a subway bathroom with your foot propped up against the door so the homeless guys don't come in and take a shit on the floor." She'd scoffed in retort
Did he not understand, did he not get it? Coming was a ritual, more about event than audience. Sure it was nice to have him there, she appreciated his efforts to help even – but it certainly wasn't about him, or her for that matter, it was about that one tiny moment when the world gave way, and then her panties got a little messy. "And it's not like you even would have sex with me the number of times a day I masturbate – not because I don't want to – but it's just a lot of production for something that doesn't require it," She finished.
"Suddenly, I find this conversation very hot." He'd leered while lurching for her – "plebeian," she thought. Sure she fucked his brains out that afternoon – but clearly, there would have to be more effort to make him understand, that would take time – and time she didn't have. Fingers did a fine job, but God blessed us with the ingenuity to harness electricity, invent the wheel, raise skyscrapers and land on the moon...and most importantly, invent a mulch-speed, vibrating, temperature retaining sexual pleasure device which could be delivered in a brown labeless receptacle by UPS in less than 48-hours. It was a shame that she had to resort to just one toy, and she certainly understood the financial drain the house, the move and new job had taken – but this wasn't a Tolkien book, there wasn't one to rule them all. She fawned over her new toy when she'd finally wrestled it from its wrapping. She'd just been thinking about some dreamy steamy romance scenario and found herself quite wet, so it was a surprise when the doorbell rang.
The UPS man was nice looking indeed, and on any other day, she'd have spent five minutes sticking her chest out, making sure that she laughed at his jokes, even touched his arm just to build material for the next fevered masturbation session – but not this day. This day had already started, and she had plenty of source material in her twisted little orgasm starved mind. The wrappers and trappings discarded she marveled at the new toy. It was glass and mostly smooth, resembling a large diamond penis – only as you worked your way down from the head did it gain texture, an ornamental – but very useful, set of jutting ribs. The bottom of the device was flat, and she fancied that it could be sat upright and used for evil if a small nightstand or unassuming ottoman didn't mind a good afternoon pounding.
"Oh, this is what the doctor ordered," she whispered as she turned the device over in her hands, at once enjoying the smoothness, the coolness of the glass, and then a little rough point at the base? "Oh, that's right – it's a vibrator after all" she screamed comically – giggling at her overzealous exclamation. But to little avail she was afforded victory, as alas, she'd received a model with just enough battery life to power on and demonstrate it's prowess as both a sex toy and auto-jack hammer...and within a microsecond...it was gone. "Well this won't do at all," she thought as she tucked the toy into her nightstand, grabbed her purse and headed out the door. The errand, it first seemed, was simple: grab batteries, preferably in mass quantity, return home, replace batteries, commence to self gratification that only such wonders of modern technology could afford. It was only in the check-out line at the grocery store, that a too friendly soccer mom (one with actual children as well as a bit of a social drinking problem), neighbor would brow beat her into "just one drink," and her plan would be derailed. "And I'm on the road again..." was the anthem she sang to herself, plopping back in her car seat, after way too many beers and whiskey drinks...when the blue lights had come on in the rear view.
