Iller Cop

Chapter VI: All in the Family

But when it came down to it, Lisa wasn't able to make herself go to work. She called in sick, went back to bed. She couldn't sleep. She'd fucked her father. It might not have been his physical body, but it was him nonetheless. In her imagination, it hadn't been the nameless john, but Paul Cole who'd dumped come into her hungry cunt. It'd been his tongue she'd sucked and nibbled, his mouth she'd ground her lipstick into.

She'd whored herself for him all over again. This time, for real. Maybe she'd have to that time and again. He'd emptied his wallet to buy her. Two hundred an fifty bucks he'd left on the bedside table.

She shook herself, tried to banish the nightmare that was again warming her sluttish heart. If it'd been such a turn-on, why had she cried all night? Why did she feel so . . .

She couldn't name it. Maybe the emotion had no name. She felt around inside, like she was probing a toothache with her tongue. There was exhaustion. There was an unwillingness to believe it'd really happened. There was sorrow.

That was it. Grief. It was like the mother-fucker, or, in this case, daughter-fucker, was dead. Like she'd gotten a phone call at three a.m. A weepy voice and a bad connection. Sobs and static. Honey . . . rattle-pop . . . bad news. Your father . . . crackle-hiss . . . no pain . . . whine-screech . . . passed away . . .spit . . . in bed.

She was crying again, but laughing, too. It was so intense that she had to curl up into a tight little ball. Was she howling because of the laughter or the tears? Who the fuck knew. Whothe fuck cared. The bastard was stone cold at last. He'd never be able to hurt her again. That he still breathed was mere technicality .

She'd passed her exam. With an A.

Sleep came back, snuck up on her while her knees were near her chin, and her thumb close to her slack red lips. A tangle of black hair covered one cheek and eye. The other was streaked, washed nearly clean, except for the black threads of her waterproof mascara. She snored, so softly it could have been a cat's purr.

Trotter's phone call woke her at eleven.

"You got the bottom of the bottle flu, or are you really sick?"

Sick? Oh, yeah. "I had a rough night, Sarge. Sort of puked my guts out." In a way.

There was a pause. The harsh voice softened a half notch.

"You okay?"

"I'll live. I fell back asleep. I feel better now. Kind of weak and woozy, but okay."

"Yeah. Kind of weird how when it starts to go away it's so good that you're damn near grateful you barfed your face off all night."

Lisa laughed, a soft, tinkling sound that startled her slightly. It sounded so innocent. "Exactly."

"Well. Have a ball. Figuratively speaking, anyway. And remember us grunts down here in the trenches."

"Will do. Thanks for calling. Be back tomorrow. Promise."

Her cigarette tasted like candy. The bed felt like a cloud. Her belly hurt from the laughter or whatever. She never remembered feeling so relaxed, so at peace.

When her brain started working, she tried to shut it off. It spoiled everything. It wanted to remember and examine, to weigh and judge, to come to conclusions. The rest of her just wanted to lay in that warm internal glow and bask.

Most of the rest of her, anyway. Her stomach gave a rolling growl. The animal spoke. She'd burned a lot of fuel, and it wanted raw material. It wouldn't let her sleep. It wouldn't let her judge.

She gave in and fed it cereal and milk. It let her know that was fine, but it'd want more soon. She passed the time washing and decorating herself.

She didn't want to look fifteen anymore. She wanted to look her age. Her chronological age, anyway. She was a young adult who made her own decisions and was responsible for them. She'd be fucked if she'd let Them rule her anymore. Hell, she grinned around her lipstick brush, she'd be fucked anyway.

And, it was strange, but she didn't want to be a whore, either. That realization made her pause. There'd never been any real middle ground before. She either made damned sure everybody who saw her knew she was available, or she was in the blue uniform, wishing everybody could see the unpantied cunt and garters beneath.

Now . . . Now, what?

Now she was off duty, that's what. Not on the prowl. Not on either job.

She wiped away her heavy eye shadow, used about half as much of more muted shades. The same for her blusher and foundation. But not her lips. They were just fine the way she always did them. They were as much her as was her name.

She rooted through the closet, came up with an almost forgotten pastel print dress. She wished she had a bra that wasn't a piece of either erotica or armor. She made do with the erotica. When in doubt, that was the way to swing.

After a pleasant lunch in a nice restaurant she'd never have been able to afford without her added income, she went shopping again. She wanted clothes to match this wondrous mood, dresses and accessories that'd remind her, every time she put them on. She wanted to trap herself in amber, preserve this state for eternity.

And knew she couldn't. Even knew that, if she got her wish, she'd regret it. She'd be bored shitless in a day. Fuck. She'd be bored shitless by nightfall.

That's when she knew the mood had run its course. When she started thinking, planning for the night shift, making rules for herself. No more fucking till four a.m. Home, or at least alone, by two at the very latest. More sober than not, too.

She laughed aloud, drew puzzled looks and reactive grins from her fellow strollers down the street. It was that bell-like sound again. The shopping bags felt good in her hands. She was setting a curfew for herself. Laying down the law for weeknights.

"Now don't you fuck too many strangers," she sub-vocalized. "And never, ever, get into a car unless they pay you first."

She took time to let the looks she'd been getting all afternoon register. They were different. Lighter. Less purposeful and intense. The eyes that touched her swept like soft caresses, not plunging dicks. There's a beautiful woman, they said. There's someone I'd like to get to know.

She stopped for a smoke on a curbside bench. Did she really want that kind of attention? Did she want to pursue the kind of connection that would ensue? It demanded a degree of openness of her, of honesty. It was contact between two humans, stripped of artifice, ceasing to be strangers. What would she tell them about herself?

Hi. I'm Lisa Cole. I'm a Vice cop and hooker. I was raped when I was twelve.

Those were the only things of significance about her. That was all she had to say that meant anything. Oh, there were further details. I fucked my father dead. When I deep throat, I have an orgasm in my soul.

No. It was better not to. Not until she had something else to talk about. If they wanted something from her, let it be her pussy, her lips, even her virgin ass. Let it be something she could give.

But the thought left her restless, less than comfortable. She found herself hurrying home, knew that her excuse was feeble. She'd already tried on her new clothes. The dress she wanted to wear tonight would go perfectly with her red heels. She knew she was running from dangerous ground, seeking safety and familiarity.

So she was ready for the night earlier than usual, looked different from ever before. A classy call girl, not a sleazy streetwalker or common bar girl, walked from her apartment, drove to the ritzy hotel bar she'd targeted. The red dress clung and displayed, but wasn't obscenely stretched over her body. Her makeup was erotic, but tasteful. It was as close to a compromise as she could handle, for the time being. As close as she cared to come to expressing what others thought of as normalcy.

She discovered just how shallow civility was. She was as subtle as her victims. As polite. As insinuating and tactful. But, when the room doors closed, it was the same as anywhere else. Cock was cock, and cunt was cunt. Money was just as green and sweat still ruined her makeup. It didn't matter whether they wore three-piece suits from London or blue jeans from Korea.

But the night was different in one way. Her second and last john wanted to fuck her ass. She'd known it would happen. She'd wanted it to happen. But she was still afraid.

She was as prepared as she could be. As she spread lubricant over his cock, using both hands to slowly stroke hislong, slim shaft, smeared her lipstick into the grease until the beloved red color vanished, she shook with anticipation. This was a turning point. Another one.

A painful one, despite the man's relative gentleness. She tried to relax, as he quietly urged her to, but it felt like he was sticking a log up her ass, ripping her guts, violating her as even Tommy hadn't. She tried to watch, couldn't see anything. He described it for her, acted like he was the prostitute as he guided her into this new realm. He'd done this many times. She let herself be taught.

She liked it. Loved it. The tearing, burning pain eased, stoked a new sort of pleasure within her. Her ass, like her throat, had no bottom. It wasn't like her cunt. It could take a foot, two feet of joy. It could grip a cock like a passionate vise while she let the hot organ rearrange her guts. She could take whatever was put in her. Come belonged in there. This, her third hole, needed fucking too. She was no longer a virgin, anywhere at all.

She thrust wildly back at him, felt his balls slap her cheeks, gripped tightly in his hands.

"Yes," she told him in a low, hoarse voice. "Yes, fuck my white little ass. You're the first, baby. Do it good. Fuck it good. Slap my ass, honey. Yes. Nice and hard. God you feel huge. I can feel you in my throat, lover. I need you. I need your come, baby. Pump it in as deep as you can. Fuck me harder. Hurt me, honey. Hit my ass. Spank me. Good. That's good. Now come for me. Come in me. Ah, yeah. That's it."

And, like so many of them, he was gone almost before her own orgasm was over. She fell onto her fingers, gasping, smiling, felt her tingling cunt give a final twitch and lay still. Her ass burned, inside and out. She felt like she had to shit, but that part faded before she finished her ritual cigarette.

Nice. Very nice. She groaned as she rolled onto her back, hissed as she deliberately rubbed her burning backside against the now-stained sheets. Very nice, indeed. She'd remember with every step, every shift of her ass for days. And, when it was finally gone, she could find somebody else who wanted to use it and do it all over again.

She washed quickly, then stepped into her clothes. It was almost two. She didn't want to violate her rules. She satisfied herself with a quick swipe of lipstick, a blown kiss into the mirror, and made it home on time.

After her week was up, she renewed her option on room 127. For a month, this time. She bagged game almost every night. Her closet bulged with clothes of all descriptions. She was saving money to buy bigger tits. Her bills were paid.

After she was broken into the scene in Vice, she was assigned to a team investigating the crack epidemic on the east side. They busted a handful of street dealers who were instantly replaced. The war on drugs went on without truce, without hope on either side.

Captain Wilson balled her once a week or so. It never got old for her. He was as close as she'd ever had to a real lover. But he made sure he kept everything straight. He always paid, in information or favors. He didn't ask how she was learning all the sexual acrobatics she was showering him with, and she didn't volunteer anything. Their fucking just kept getting better and better.

When he insisted she was the best, nastiest fuck he'd ever had, she believed him. She had a natural genius. She seemed to instantly be able to sense what men wanted her to do, and was almost always able to give it to them. Little tongue techniques and partial swallows while she sucked cock. The right words to say in bars, on streets, in cars or beds. How to angle her cunt just right, roll her hips just so, and make their cocks scrape against her pussy lining, driving them both wild. How to catch the tip of their dicks with her sphincter muscles, keep them from being squeezed totally out of her ass when she pushed them down with deeper musculature.

She still came, almost every time. She knew it was true. She'd never have enough orgasms, never fuck enough men. She was a compulsive sexual addict. She adored her neurosis, welcomed it, embraced it as her only true lover.

She bought a selection of sex toys. Some she carried with her in a gym bag in the trunk of her car. Some were hers alone and not to be shared. Between her flesh and false cocks, she averaged four or five fucks a day. More, of course, on her days off.

She picked up a couple of regulars. The black guy from the streets, and the ass-fucker from the swank hotel. It was nice to be depended upon regularly, know what to expect from a john.

She continued to vary her routine to suit her mood. Sleazy streetwalker when the weather was just right or she just wanted a lot of quick fucks. Bar girl when she felt in the mood for a drink or two and something a little more thorough than a basic in and out job. A gorgeous lady for rent when she wanted to have doors opened for her and polite conversation over dinner before bed.

But her private taste definitely ran toward things that caused a little pain. Nothing drastic. She'd let one guy pay her extra to feel what a riding crop was like. After the second lash, she was through. Unfortunately, he'd paid for a dozen. By the time he finished, she was too hurt to enjoy anything at all.

But, being tied to the bed, blindfolded, never knowing for sure what was going to happen next, was a tremendous rush. Maybe he'd slide his cock along her sweet, slick lips, make her lick it. Or suddenly feel the head of it barely touching her begging clit, then press her pussy open with torturous slowness. Or tie her legs wide apart over her head and fuck her ass so hard he almost snapped her spine.

She collected lipsticks. She displayed them at eye-level in her bedroom in racks meant for knickknacks. By the time that first month was up, she owned forty-nine shades, and was actively looking for more. All were variants upon red, of course, ranging from a deep, deep burgundy at the right to an almost-hot-pink at the left end. They weren't the dime store variety. She kept the cheap stuff elsewhere. There was a small mirror in the gap between the center racks, and a holder for an array of brushes. Glosses had their own shelf, below. There were also lip powders and creams. She knew it was a fixation, and indulged it fully.

It was exactly thirty-one days after her transfer that Lisa's tidy little routine was upset and her world began to unravel. It was started by an innocent question, asked by a cruiser. She was standing on her downtown corner, in her best teeny-bopper finery, in a spot inherited when another girl simply stopped showing up. A dark rental car stopped.

"Hey, lady. I'm looking for somebody called Lisa."

"You can call me anything you want, honey." But her words covered an instant suspicion. Was this a setup?

"It's got to be Lisa. Heard of her?"

"What's she look like?"

"A little taller than you, but black hair cut like yours. And young. That's why I stopped. Wears red lipstick all the time, too. I thought -"

She tickled his arm, then raked it with crimson claws. She gave him a good look at her tits, her knowing mouth. "Baby, I'm the lipstick queen. I can smear it all over your cock. Better than your Lisa bitch ever has."

He blushed, withdrew a little. "No. Sorry. Lisa's real special. You know what I mean?" His eyes held shame. He was trying to explain.

"Oh. I see. She's built different, got something I don't."

He looked relieved by her tact. "Yeah. So?"

"Most 'girls' like Lisa usually hang out up on Seventeenth. Turn right when you get there. There's a little park on your left."

He thrust a five at her and hurried away.

She was both intrigued and slightly pissed as she put the puny tip away. Some fucking TV queen was using her name, copying her look. Was imitation the finest flattery, or something she should be offended by?

She didn't have time to make up her mind. Another car stopped. The grinning driver wanted to know if she liked to party. Really party. As in bachelor party. As in five hundred bucks. Lucky for them both it was a weekend. Her cunt gave a wet lurch as she climbed into the car, instantly forgetting the other Lisa, the one with a cock. Doing her first real group, eight horny young men with rebounding hard-ons, claimed her full attention. She passed out twice, overwhelmed by the awesome reality of having five cocks at once, of being fucked everywhere, of having hands touch her, grope her even where she didn't have holes.

She couldn't get out of her bed in 127. Her entire body was one solid, glorious ache. She'd been showered with praise and open-handed blows as well as by come. Since it was Sunday, she didn't have to call in sick again. She was doing that a lot recently.

But she remembered the other Lisa on her way back to the motel that evening. She still hurt all over, but her need for cock was unappeased. On a lark, she cruised the park, the gay and bi- bars nearby. A whim drove her to ask the prettiest of the transvestites she saw, a slinky redhead, if she'd ever heard the name.

"Sure thing." The tall whore had bulky shoulders, but seemingly real tits. Bright green eyes, just as feminine as her own, met hers. "So you're the real Lisa, huh? I've heard a lot about you. She talks about you all the time."

"The real Lisa?"

"Sure. The one who turned her on. The one she's trying to be when she grows up."

Her confusion cleared. The boy she'd shaved and made up and dressed and fucked and dumped on the street. "He's . . . She's working now?"

"And doing well. You're not mad, are you?"

"No," she admitted. "Not at all. It's kind of sweet in a way."

The near-woman was puzzled. "You're nothing like she said you were. She said you were a teenage leather bitch with more balls than she has."

Lisa shrugged. "You know how it is. You just give them what they want."

The laughter was less trained than her careful soprano, sounded more masculine. "Don't I ever."

"So where does Lisa hang out. I'd like to see her."

"Right here. She's in the park right now. Should be back any minute. Cigarette?"

They chatted idly on, like old friends. Lisa was used to the casual banter of other whores. In moments, this was just another sister, not a man in drag. The tits were real, it turned out, but she still had her cock. Still their differences were less significant than the similarities they shared. Lisa felt a growing intrigue with this bizarre lifestyle.

They both saw Lisa's namesake emerge from the shadows across the street at the same time. The minidress-clad figure with raven hair was convincing. Her walk in the perilous heels was graceful. Her legs were still bony, but her dark hose minimized that. She looked up and saw her watchers from the middle of the street. She broke into a fearful, happy smile as she neared. Lisa studied her approach.

It was the same basic thick-lipped, glittering-eyed look Lisa had gifted her with when she was still a man. But she'd made a passable attempt to narrow her chin and raise her cheekbones with cosmetics, and bow her lips more. To look like Lisa. The hair style was exactly the way she'd worn it a month before.

She'd not only emasculated the fag and brought him out of the closet, but she'd cloned herself as well.

She looked up slightly into eyes that were almost her own. "I don't know about you, but I need a drink."

The twins adjourned, arm in arm, toward a bar. Lisa smelled the come on her companion's breath, and instantly knew she wanted to fuck her creation. No. Not wanted to. Had to. Her desire was instant and complete and demanding. As they passed an alley mouth, Lisa thrust her into the darkness, kept her teetering and off balance until she'd forced her against a wall.