Cop Iller Iller Cop

It's amazing how sharp your senses get when death is in the vicinity.

Christine Reynolds could hear clearly the sounds of far-off coyotes and the whistle of a train from many miles away. She could smell the smoke from the pistol she still held in her hand, and the blood of the man lying on the ground in front of her. The echo of the gunshots still reverberated in her ears as she stared numbly at his dead body. A light desert breeze caressed her naked body as she stood in the moonlit darkness trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Suddenly, a burst of noise came out of a radio from the direction of the highway, some 100 yards away, and it jolted her back to reality. The enormity of what she had just done hit her then, her legs went rubbery and she sank to her knees on the hard-packed sand.

She had just killed a man. No, worse, she had just killed a cop, albeit a cop who had just finished raping her and who was going to kill her. Her chest heaved as she absorbed that information. Then her training kicked in, and she forced her mind to clear. She knew there was only one way she could get out of this without a capital murder charge, and that was to come absolutely clean, prove to them that he'd attacked her, raped her and that she'd shot him in self-defense.

Christine dropped the pistol, and looked for her clothes. They were in a neat pile, all except her bra, which he had ripped off in his impatience to get at her. She put her panties on, hoping that they would trap enough of his semen to prove rape, then slipped her dress over head. It was ripped down the front a good foot. She put her sandals on, then stumbled back to the patrol car, which was parked silently behind her own little sedan. As she walked, she felt the warm, slow trickle of blood from her nose, where he had punched her. She dabbed it with her hand as she reached the highway. She climbed into the front seat of the patrol car, on the passenger's side, and thought about how she needed to do this.

She gave a short scream and jumped as the radio crackled again.

"Unit 21, do you copy?" the dispatcher at the county sheriff's office said. "Come in, Unit 21, what is your situation?"

Christine looked at the dashboard and saw the number, 21, his unit. She picked up the microphone and pressed the send button.

"This is Unit 21," she began. "I'm on Highway 61, about 20 miles north from town. You need to send a detective, a coroner and an ambulance to this location. I just shot your cop."

"Come again?" the dispatcher said, in a voice that was equal parts hysteria and disbelief. "You say you shot him?"

"Yes ma'am," Christine said. "I shot him. He'd dead. When you send that ambulance, make sure there is a female EMT on board and that she has a rape kit."

"A rape kit?" the dispatcher said.

"That's correct," Christine said. "A rape kit. I'll explain it to the detective when he gets here. But your officer stopped me for no reason, raped me, he was going to kill me and I shot him."

At that moment, Christine's professional facade broke, she buried her face in her hands and she wept. She ignored the cacaphony of noise that broke out from the radio. How could this have happened to her? She lost herself in the bitter memories of the previous half-hour, and tried to piece together exactly what had happened.

Christine had heard stories about running into rogue cops at night on lonely stretches of Western highways, but she had just figured that they were urban legends, the paranoia of city dwellers.

She was on her way to spend two weeks with her family in Montana. Her little brother was getting married, and she wanted to be there. Christine was a 36-year-old divorcee who worked as an emergency room nurse at a large hospital in suburban Los Angeles. She had chosen to start her trip at night, because that was her normal work shift, and because it was cooler driving in the summer through the long stretches of desert she had to pass to get home.

She had stopped in a small town to gas up and grab some refereshments - water and chips. She had seen a sheriff's patrol car in the parking lot of the convenience store, but had paid him no mind. She was a law-abiding citizen, an Army veteran, and she believed she had nothing to fear from the police.

Christine had seen him in her rear view mirror coming up fast with his lights flashing. She was startled when he came up behind her, rather than passed her, so she slowed, pulled over to the side of the road, and he came to a stop behind her. She was puzzled, because she hadn't been speeding and she was stone sober, as always. He'd turned his lights off, which Christine thought was unusual, but shrugged it off as she fished in her purse for her driver's license.

The deputy was a big man, lean and powerful-looking. The moment she rolled her window down and got a good look at him, she started getting bad vibes. He was looking at her in a way that sent shivers of fear down her spine. He looked over her license with his flashlight shining on it, then turned the light on her face, blinding her with the light.

"L.A., huh?" he grunted.

"Officer, what is this all about?" Christine asked. "Why did you stop me?"

"Please get out of the car, ma'am," he said.

"What?" she asked.

"Out of the car," he said again, more forcefully. "We got a report that this vehicle might have been involved in a burglary. Now get out of the car. Now!"

"That's absurd," she said with fear in her voice, as she looked desperately for her cellphone. "I haven't anything wrong, and you have no right to..." She looked back and found herself looking into the barrel of an automatic pistol.

"I said, out of the car, bitch," he said.

"Y-y-yes sir," she said. Now Christine was truly afraid. Something was way wrong here.

Deputy John Milton had played this game before, three times since moving to California, and twice before that, in his native Idaho. He had it down to a science now. He'd stop single women late at night on lonely stretches of highway, intimidate them into getting out of their vehicles, force them to walk into the desert, where he'd have them strip, he'd rape them, then blow their brains out and leave them for the coyotes and the buzzards. He could feel his big cock swelling in his pants as he relished the thought of once again playing God with these whores.

He'd spotted this one back in town, getting gas. She was a fine one, all right. Christine was of medium height and slender, with curly blonde hair that didn't quite reach her shoulders, and very pretty. He'd have fun with her, then he'd make her un-pretty in a hurry.

When Christine was out of the car, John turned her around so that she was leaning forward against the car, in the classic spread position. Still keeping his gun at her back, he reached in and turned her engine off, then refocused his attention on the trembling blonde.

He holstered his pistol, took his night stick from its holder and ran it up the inside of her legs, up under her long, peasant-style dress, until he came to her crotch. He ran the thick, black stick between her legs several times, as Christine squeezed her eyes shut in fear and humiliation.

"You like that?" he whispered in her ear. "I'll bet you'd like me to fuck you with it, wouldn't you."

"No, please, don't hurt me," Christine pleaded. "I haven't done anything. Please."

"Oh, I'm not going to hurt you," John said. "I'm gonna make you feel real good. But first..."

He pulled Christine's arms back and handcuffed her, then pulled her skirt up to her waist. He pulled the crotch of her panties to the side, revealing her pink pussy, framed with dark blonde fur. He leaned her over the trunk of her car, then slid the night stick back between her legs. He pushed it past her lips as Christine gave a painful squeal, since she was dry as a bone.

Kneeling down, he pulled the night stick out, knelt down and pressed his mouth to Christine's pussy. He licked up and down her furrow, swirled his tongue around her clit and back up her slit. Christine squeezed her eyes shut as spasms of pleasure roared up her spine from the officer's oral assault. She felt the blush of shame cover her face as she felt herself responding in spite of her best effort.

John chuckled as he felt her pussy moisten. When she was reasonably wet, he stood back up, slid the night stick back up her cunt, and this time it went in much easier.

He fucked her with the long fat stick in steady rhythm, and Christine had to bite her lip to keep from moaning in pleasure. There was no way she wanted to enjoy this, no way she wanted to give this pervert cop the satisfaction of knowing he was arousing her with this vicious assault.

But she couldn't help but give a lustful gasp when John reached around with his other hand and strummed her clit in tandem with his work with the stick.

"You do like it, don't you," John said. "You're just like all the other whores. You're all scared and shit, then you get a taste of pleasure and you turn into sluts. Well, baby, If you liked that, you're gonna love it when you get a big dose of Big John's cock."

Christine was sobbing, tears of pain, humiliation and terror rolling down her cheeks. But there was another emotion building in her gut, as well. Rage. This sorry bastard was going to use her and try to make her like it, and it infuriated her.

She had spent nearly 10 years rebuilding her tattered self-esteem after her divorce, which had been precipitated by her catching her husband fucking her supposed best friend. And now this cop, this out-of-control cop, was going to wash away all of her hard work. No, she wasn't going to allow it. She wasn't going to play the victim. She was going to keep her wits about her, and stay alert for any chance of turning the tables and extricating herself from this situation.

Christine gritted her teeth and tried not to think about the sensate pleasure radiating from where John was slowly, but steadily fucking her with his night stick. But her body was giving her away, as she involuntarily humped her hips back in tandem with his lewd motion.

Laughing, he abruptly withdrew the night stick, let her skirt fall, turned her around and pressed the dripping stick to Christine's mouth. She shied away from it, but he was insistent.

"Lick it, bitch!" he snarled, and forced it past her lips and into her mouth. She sucked it like a hard cock, tasting her juices on the black wooden phallus. When John felt she had it reasonably clean, he slid it back into his belt. He was about to drag her off to the desert, when they heard a car approaching from off in the distance. John took Christine and placed her in the back seat, while he sat in the front, as if he was writing up an arrest report.

The car whizzed past and receded in the distance. When it had crested the nearby hill and disappeared, John pulled Christine roughly out of the car and pushed her away from the road, into the desert.

They walked back until they reached a relatively clear spot that was shielded from the highway by the mesquite and cacti. It wasn't easy walking with her hands cuffed behind her back, and one time Christine stumbed and fell hard. John picked her up roughly by the front of her dress, ripping it down the front, and pushed her onward.

Where they were situated was out of sight from the road, although the traveler they'd just seen pass would likely be the only one they'd see. John unlocked the cuffs, freeing Christine's hands, then pulled his pistol back out and told her to get undressed. Christine rubbed her wrists where the cuffs had cut into the skin - she'd worked them around so they would cause a wound that could be noticed by an examiner. Then she pulled her dress over her head, folded it neatly, removed her sandals, and was fumbling with the hooks of her bra when John reached out impatiently, grabbed one of the cups and jerked it off, tearing it in half. She quickly dropped her panties, then picked her dress, sandals and panties and placed them in a neat pile on the ground.

Christine looked over at the deputy, who was looking up and down her naked body with a leering look that chilled her. She had a fine body, with nice-sized breasts and a compact butt. Christine shuddered under the disconcerting gaze of the cop. She knew he probably got off on his victims begging, but she couldn't help it.

"Please, please don't hurt me," she begged. "I don't know you, and if you'll just let me go, I'll drive on and forget this ever happened."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" John asked with a sneer. "The first place you'll go is to the nearest police station. You think I'm going to let you do that? No, honey, this is where it all ends for you. We're gonna have some fun, and by the time anyone finds you, the coyotes and buzzards will have picked your pretty little body apart. But not before I sink my big hard dick in your hot little pussy. I'm gonna fuck you so hard, you'll be beggin' for more."

"You know you are a pretty sorry bastard, that you have to kidnap women and drag them out in the desert to have sex," Christine snarled. She was through begging. If he was going to kill her, so be it, but she wasn't going to go without putting up some kind of resistance. "You're pretty pathetic, you know that?"

That pissed John off. He slapped Christine across the face with his closed fist, cutting her nose and bringing a stinging welt to her face, then he punched her in the stomach. Christine dropped to the ground in pain as she tried to clear her head.

"OK, bitch, it's time to fuck," John said as he unzipped his pants and fished out his already semi-hard cock. "Get on your knees and suck Uncle John's dickie here."

Christine didn't want to provoke another attack, so she got up on her knees and looked up at John's cock. Even as she looked, it seemed to grow in his hand. He stepped forward and aimed the head of his cock at her mouth. Christine opened her mouth and let the fat head pass her lips. John pushed forward with his hips, driving his cock deeper into Christine's mouth, past the entrance to her throat. Painful gagging noises escaped her lips as he began to work his cock savagely back and forth, deep in her mouth.

As John's cock reached full hardness in her mouth, Christine's eyes widened, for this was the biggest cock she'd ever seen. When John pulled it out of her mouth and rubbed the leaking head all over her face, she got a quick look. It was easily 10 inches, maybe more, and a extra trill of fear passed through her at the thought that he intended to fuck her with it.

John was loving this. He pushed his cock back into Christine's mouth, shoved it into her throat and got a big jolt at the fearful look in her eyes and the gagging sound she made as he brutally fucked her throat. He had to admit, this one had more spunk than the others. She was a fighter. But he'd tame her just like he'd tamed the rest.

Christine thought she was going to choke several times as John forced his cock into her throat. She concentrated on breathing through her nose, but even that didn't work at one point, because John pushed his cock to the hilt in her throat, then pinched her nostrils together. Just when she was starting to get panicky from lack of air, he finally released her nose and let her breathe.

Wrenching his cock from her mouth, John slapped her across the face with it hard several times, then pushed it back in her mouth. He was having a ball at Christine's obvious distress. But he realized that time was wasting. He'd told dispatch that he was taking a break for something to eat, to give him time to do his dirty work. Still, he couldn't stay out here all night.

Pulling his cock from Christine's mouth a final time, he ordered her to lie on the ground, on her back. Christine looked up at him with fear and apprehension, then John did something that gave her a spark of hope. He leisurely unbuckled his gun belt and put it off to the side, away from where she was lying, but not too far. She noticed, too, that he had not put the restraining strap across the pistol to secure it in the holster.

Apparently, John was so certain of his physical superiority that it didn't occur to him to take that little extra bit of precaution. Christine's mind worked quickly. She would only get one chance, but she knew she had to take it. Physically, she knew she was no match for this tall, powerful cop. But she wasn't a shrinking violet either. She'd served four years in the Army, passed out of nursing school and had been an ER nurse for eight years, and you don't do any of that by being physically weak. She'd give this motherfucker a fight, and if she died anyway, at least she'd know she died fighting.

Then John's massive frame filled her sight, and she steeled herself for the assault that was coming. John was kneeling now, his pants pulled down just past his knees, his huge cock waving in front of him. He pulled Christine's legs open and ran his fingers through her labia to her clit. She wasn't exactly wet, but she wasn't dry, either. And as he worked his finger around in her pussy, her juices started to flow a little freer, and that made John grin.

"See, you do want it, just like the others," John said. "All you whores are just alike."

Then he pressed the head of his cock to her opening and rammed it all the way to the hilt in one screaming thrust.

"Arrrrrrraie!" Christine screamed in pain as the man pushed his way into the deepest part of her pussy and beyond. This was pain like she'd never experienced and he just kept pounding away, deep, deep, deep, every stroke seeming to split her in two. He pushed his way past her cervix and into her womb with no regard for her pain, But then the little whore would be dead soon anyway, so it didn't matter.

Tears of pain and outrage fell from Christine's eyes as she lay on the ground and let the cop violate her. She'd had plenty of sex before; it was something she enjoyed. Or had enjoyed until this very moment. But this wasn't sex, this was an act of violation so profound that she knew that if she survived, she'd face months, maybe years of work to rebuild her shattered psyche.

John was oblivious. He was happily drilling his cock back and forth in Christine's cunt, which did in fact slicken the more pre-cum he produced. He leaned forward, bending Christine's legs onto her chest as he fucked her hard, fucked her fast. He was getting close, and he picked up the pace, grooving on the clenched eyes and flowing tears of his victim.

Faster and harder, he pumped his throbbing hard cock in Christine's pussy. Deep pants, deep moans escaped his lips as he hit the nut strokes. He grunted hard as he felt the cum race through his cock like an electric current and spew out the end of his dick. He'd saved up his cum for a month, so he'd have plenty, and he shot a seemingly endless fountain of semen deep in Christine's pussy.

John's chest was heaving as he finally shot the final oozing spurts of cum deep in Christine's cunt. As he came, Christine snapped back to reality, and she looked over his shoulder at the holster, maybe 10 feet away. She calculated how quickly she could crawl that distance and reach the pistol before he did.

John dropped Christine's legs, pulled his cock from her pussy with a plopping sound, and he grinned as he saw a thick stream of cum pour from her red, fucked-open cunt. He straightened up onto his knees, his legs spread, and Christine didn't hesitate. She sent her right foot flying into his crotch, hitting him right in the nuts with as much force as her outrage could muster.

It had just the effect she needed. John jerked down instinctively at the sudden excruciating pain in his groin, and Christine scrabbled across the ground to the gunbelt. She ripped the pistol out of the holster with both hands, and as he frantically turned to grab her, she fired off six rounds, and every one of them found a target. John's body flew back from the impact of the bullets, and he was dead before he hit the ground, his pants still bunched around his calves and his eyes wide in disbelief.