Chapter III: The Streets Dawn
Friday. The Lisa emerging from the elevator and opening her apartment door wore the same gold minidress and matching shoes, the same lurid makeup as the one who'd left the building at ten the evening before. But she wasn't the same, at least in her own mind.
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.
