In the great scheme of my stories, this one loosely follows Sarah's Joy. But, of course, you needn't have read that one in order to enjoy this one.
* * *
I opened wide for him, giving him my world. Because I loved him.
Scott had always been just that little bit too big for me, and he knew it, so he was gentle: long, giggling foreplay, his strong tongue deep inside me. I loved that, loved his kindness, the attention he paid to my body. I looked down between my tits, still firm atop my chest, my ribcage heaving with every long, fast breath, at his head clamped between my thighs. I loved it all: the way his nose prodded my clit, the way his forehead gleamed against my belly, the way the bald spot at the back of his head caught the dim light from the bedside lamp.
I loved him.
His mouth left me tingly, a pleasant deep warmth that washed across my brain, wiping out the stresses: work was a drag, but not right then. Student loans? Car payments? No problem. Can't get pregnant?
Well.
We were working on that, his tongue preparing my slit, and I knew his dick would be steel-hard for me down near the floor over the edge of our bed. I sighed, long and deep, his name floating out into our bedroom. "Scott. I love you, honey."
"I love you too." He said it, muffled, into my trimmed auburn bush, and that made me giggle. Which made him giggle, and so he rose up my body, trailing kisses, and I tasted myself on him, tart and mysterious when he kissed me. His body stretched strong and solid above mine, every line and curve familiar; I knew everything about my husband, and I wanted to know him more. I wanted to know him as a father. I wanted it with every fiber of my being. So I moaned with a deep, abiding satisfaction when I felt his erection stab me, my arms reaching down for his hips.
I needed him.
He entered slowly, cautiously, pushing until I flinched and then pulling back out. We'd done this dance hundreds of times, my pussy juicing slowly, so slowly, but my Scott was patient. He loved me and wanted me to feel good, so I kissed him again in a warm pink glow and tried, my feet on his thighs, straining to take him deeper.
He deserved to be able to plow me deep. I swiveled my hips upward, just that much, taking him another half-inch deep before the pain came like a tiny shove against my insides, and I laid my head impatiently back down on the pillow, my hair fanned out. "I'm sorry, honey."
"I love you, Julie," he said simply, and when we kissed again I relaxed with his tongue along the back of my teeth, that mouth I knew so well, and then he was one more inch inside and I was calming, soothed, knowing he'd get there. He held himself high above me, his arms straight beside my head, staring hard into my eyes with the intensity he'd always shown me, even when we were dating. I'd known from the start that I wanted to bear this man's children.
And I would, dammit, I promised myself, willing my pussy to cooperate, and then suddenly the worst was over; he was most of the way in, sliding more easily now, and I smiled against his lips and felt his stubble on my chin and congratulated myself yet again on marrying Scott Lindberg.
His butt fell, and at last he was all the way inside me, reaching all those places only he could touch. I know I caught my breath, feeling him, smelling him, loving him, and I craned my neck up off the pillow to capture his lips.
All the while he drove into me, his thighs surging between mine. I reached both hands down to grapple the cheeks of his ass, feeling his muscles move, amazed that he desired me, and all the while I willed him to shoot his cum far, far up into my eager pussy, to breed me.
The sooner the better, too. I was already drying out, my inconsiderate vagina impatient for this to be over and for the next step to start. I bit my lip, masking my occasional winces as Scott grew more exuberant, his skinny ass rising higher and thrusting harder under my palms, until his rhythm finally began to fall apart.
I smelled his breath as he exhaled a harsh grunt into my face, then a gasp; his tongue found my neck and I grabbed on tighter as he shoved back into me one time... two times... three times, and then I felt his entire body shimmy on top of mine, his chest now crushing my breasts, and I knew as his butt went lean and tight that he had to be firing into me, his dick twitching wildly far, far up inside my pussy.
I felt amazing, the same healthy glow I always felt, especially with him. I'm not sure if it was an orgasm, as to tell the truth I don't know that I'd ever had one, but my husband was cumming inside me and that was the best feeling I'd ever had, being his, knowing I was the one that got to take his sperm. That I'd caused his orgasm. That he wanted me to be a mother.
So, when he pushed himself up off me and slid across to the other side of the bed, I reached my arms way up over my head, gripping the prairie-style headboard, and stretched long and luxuriously. "Mmmm." I grinned at him, feeling the warm tickle as his cum seeped out of me, enjoying the ache of my muscles. "Fuck." Scott raised his eyebrows, his dick still mostly hard, jutting out over his hairy belly. I have a potty mouth at work, but I don't usually swear at home. "Thanks, honey."
"I love you," he said simply, and then he was curving his body sideways on the bed, opening his arms, and I let myself scrunch back into him. His fingernails found my hair, scratching at my scalp. I loved to feel his cock soften in my asscrack.
* * *
We're not the same people at work as we are at home.
This is true of everyone, probably. But sometimes the differences are slight; other times? Might as well be a completely different person. I am. You kinda have to be, when you're a female cop. You need to be ready for anything. As I've learned, you just have to play things by ear sometimes.
That's why, two nights after Scott gave himself so completely to me, I was straddling a strange man's hips, grinding up on what felt like a highly excited penis while I endured his breath in my face. "You're so sexy," he was raving.
I already had him, just about; all I really needed to do was to get his voice explicitly asking for sex. He'd already put up his cash, rolled tightly and pushed into the scarlet bra I'd left peeking above tonight's patent leather corset. Him asking me would make our case airtight, and then it would just be a matter of calling Sgt LaFratta to make the collar, filing a deposition with Mortimer the DA, and then waiting around while this particular john worried about bail.
But he was proving to be... well, not terribly vocal. "So..." He kissed my neck, his scruff grazing my skin, and I suppressed a shudder. "...fucking... sexy."
"Thanks, honey." I made sure to put a little extra tremolo in my voice, a slight breathy whisper at the end. "What do you want to do to me?"
He answered with a quick, sharp thrust of his hips, his butt almost an inch off the chair, so that his erection could make itself felt against my hotpants. Well, I certainly couldn't say he wasn't making his wishes very, very clear, but a hard-on is not easily admissible in court. So?
I put his earlobe in my mouth and gave it some tongue. Relief; I was expecting it to taste worse. "Talk dirty to me, baby," I urged. "Tell me what to do."
He made a low growly roar, deep deep down in his throat, and his hands clamped hard around my waist. Any second now he'd try to grab my breasts, and I'd have to blow my cover. Meanwhile I kept gyrating, my hips advertising sexual skils that, ironically, he'd already paid for. The request and the payment: those were the two most important legal elements. My voice was a humid breeze in his ear. "Tell me."
And then? Success! I felt my mouth purse into a tight grin as the man, forcing the words out through a thickness in his throat, grunted, "I want to fuck you so hard."
Well? Too bad, sir. I backed off him immediately, the role over, my toes already searching for the carpeted floor. I couldn't wait to dismount. My voice came out steady, harsh, even contemptuous. "Please keep your hands in full view, sir." I knew the cameras and mics had picked up everything, that Sgt LaFratta would probably be on his way through the door any second now.
Mike LaFratta had been chosen to head up Vice, probably, because he knew more whores than anyone else in East Adams. But that didn't mean he was a bad cop, necessarily, and he dearly loved kicking down a door. "You're under arrest, sir, for solicitation of prostitution."
The door shook. Ah. There he was. Sgt LaFratta came bulling through, and I glanced quickly at his hands; he often drew down. I'd never known a cop who so loved to hold a gun. This time, though, all he had were handcuffs, and I stood off to the side and adjusted my bra while the bust went down. No doubt the john's penis went soft in record time, unless he was into bondage.
"Goddamn, Lindberg," LaFratta growled at me once Sully had hauled the poor guy away. "I keep telling you to tone it down. You don't have to go that far."
"How far, sarge?" I had a bathrobe on by now; the job calls for dressing like a tramp, but I never enjoyed being around my colleagues that way. I kept my voice even. "I was never at risk."
"I don't like it when you let them get their hands on you." He shook his head. "I've told you that, Lindberg, but you keep pushing it." He blew out a long breath. "You should try to be more like Yandle."
"Just trying to make the case, sarge," I shrugged. He knew it, too; Vice's closure rate had soared since I'd joined. "So yes. I think I do need to go that far."
He smiled at that, a little grimly, and jerked his head toward the door. "Free to go, Lindberg. Get your write-ups in by lunch tomorrow." He scratched his head, then seemed to remember something. "Oh. And you need to be in my office at nine, right after roll call. I've got a statie coming in to talk to you."
"A statie?" The State Police didn't usually want anything to do with us locals. "Why?"
I was still wondering that the next morning as I took my seat in the third floor conference room across from a dark-haired muscular guy with hair unexpectedly longer than usual and a bruised face over vaguely sinister-looking facial hair. He wasn't bad looking, but he wasn't really good-looking either. He wore a tight blue t-shirt with a State Police badge silk-screened on the left chest and a pair of those "tactical" pants with about eleven thousand pockets. Like a lot of staties, he was carrying a SIG.
"Julie Lindberg," Sgt LaFratta began, making the intros, "this is Alex Krasnov. State Police." I was pleased when his handshake was firm. I get irritated when male cops give a limp-wristed shake to females.
"Call me Alex." He gave a quick smile, efficient, the kind that you could just tell he didn't really mean. This was a man who had no time for smiles. His glance shifted to Sgt LaFratta. "Is she the one with the tat?"
I frowned. Like I wasn't even in the fucking room. "No," I said coldly. "I'm not." My skin is completely inkless. I think tattoos lack class.
LaFratta glanced at me. "Remember about five months ago? Roll call? I asked if any female officers had a man's name tattooed somewhere unobtrusive?" I nodded, even though I didn't remember.
