I was cruising along, feeling so good. My boyfriend Mike had just used my cunt like his own personal fuck toy. I love being used like a piece of tail. He filled me up, I can still feel a good portion of his hot cum churning around my womb. It was late, and I needed to get home. My driver's license was only a temporary one that I had gotten on my 18th birthday. If I got stopped by a cop....then the lights of a cop car's flashbar show up in my rearview mirror, and he blips his siren. Shit, dammit! I glance at the speedometer, realizing I'd been speeding in an attempt to get home faster. With no other choice, I pull over and nervously wait for him.
I watch him walk over, he leans down towards the window. I roll it down and he says, "Good evening Miss, you were in kind of a hurry. License and registration please.''
"Yes, Sir," I mutter as I hand over the documents. My heart is thumping with nervousness.
"Looks like you've only been driving about two weeks," the cop says, aiming his flashlight at my license. It's still the paper one. My real one hasn't even shown up in the mail yet.
"I know," I say, "I'm sorry."
"You know you're not supposed to be driving after ten, right?" he says, shining his light in my face and then up and down my body.
"I know," I say, "That's why I was speeding because I'm late getting home."
"Where are you coming from?" he asks, his light lingering on my tits. I'm wearing a tank top without a bra. I left the black lace bra and my matching black lace panties at my boyfriend's place, hanging off his bedpost like a souvenir. I am wearing a replacement set of panties, just straight white cotton, that I had brought along with me.
I know how he likes to have my sexy undies decorating his bedposts, the sexy set I wear when I go to get a good fucking. It turns him into a sexual tiger, and they stay there until the next time when a new set of my sexually powerful undies replaces the black lace. Hey, if that's his fetish, I have no complaints. I can still feel his warm cum trickling around inside my pussy as the cop questions me.
"At a friend's," I tell him.
"A boyfriend's?" he asks, the light dipping into my lap.
"I don't have a boyfriend," I lie, though I'm not entirely sure why.
"Well, I'm going to have to write you a ticket," he says, and I can see my driving privileges vanishing before my eyes.
"Isn't there any way you could just let me off with a warning?" I plead, batting my eyes and twisting my dark hair around my finger. I've flirted my way out of trouble in school with male teachers who are suckers for pretty eyes and big tits, and I've heard lots of stories about cops who let pretty girls off when they start to cry. The problem is I've never been much of a crier and the tears aren't coming now.
"What did you have in mind?" he asks, his light back on my tits. It's not the reply I expected and for a moment I feel off balance.
"I don't know," I say, "I can't get a ticket though."
He doesn't reply right away. He looks up and down the street. I'm just a few blocks from home and it's not a busy street. He turns off his flashlight and hooks it on his belt.
"Why don't you show me your tits?" he finally says.