Women With Handcuffs

It’s quiet for a Friday night, rain seeming to keep even the lowest of the lowlifes off the streets. Hawkes and I are getting takeout coffee and donuts from the diner on Main Street when the call comes in. Some kind of disturbance at a party, from what I can make out over the static. It’s a familiar story: the neighbors had been willing to ignore the loud music and general rowdiness till they heard what sounded like female screams and punches being thrown; then they got alarmed and called us.

“It’ll be nothing,” Hawkes grumbles, sliding back behind the wheel of the patrol car. Seems to me like it’s a little more of a squeeze for him than it used to be, and maybe he should do something about that burgeoning gut of his. I could say something, but he never really takes advice from his Aunty Pamela, as he insists on calling me even though the guy’s only a couple of years younger than I am. “Damn waste of our time going over there, if you ask me.”

“Well, as long as they keep paying us to waste our time like this…” I’m not quite as cynical as Hawkes, even though I’ve spent more than enough time on the beat to have all the idealism of my rookie years burned clean away. I still see some good lurking in the average citizen, though I sometimes wish they’d make more of an effort to sort out their own petty domestic disputes before turning to us for help.

The address given to us by the dispatcher is in a nice suburb, on a street of small, wood-framed houses painted in cute pastel shades. It reminds me of the street I lived on as a kid. Though, growing up, I never saw a sight quite like the one that greets Hawkes and me as we step out of the patrol car into the downpour. A blonde, handcuffed to the porch railing. She’s dressed in a uniform which, I realize as we near her, is a costume-shop fantasy version of the one I’m wearing. As many shirt buttons have been fastened up as can offer her a veneer of respectability, but her big tits are straining to be free of their confinement, and her thigh-high stockings are ripped in a couple of places. Close up, she can’t be more than twenty-one, twenty-two at the most, the last traces of puppy fat still filling out her heart-shaped face. There’s a half-inch of black roots visible in her tangled, peroxided bob. She’s a spitting, cursing, furious mess, and just the sight of her sets a pulse beating hard and fast between my legs.

“Thank god you’re here, Officer,” a woman is saying to Hawkes. She has rollers studded in her mousy hair and a face pinched from lack of sleep, and I assume she’s the one who called in the complaint. She stares at the blonde with a look of fierce distaste as she shelters under her umbrella. “Should have known when we saw the little hussy arrive she’d be trouble.”

It’s easy to picture the woman peering through the slats in her blinds to check who’s ringing next door’s doorbell, nosiness masked with a thin veil of neighborly concern. Sometimes her type are a help; more often they’re just a hindrance.

“I think we can take it from here,” Hawkes replies. He turns his attention to the group of five or six young men who emerged from the house at his knock. A couple are shirtless, and most of them are clutching beer cans. That, combined with the disordered look of a house where a bunch of guys live without a regular female presence, tells me all I need to know about the party taking place here.

“Look, Officer—er—Farley.” One of the shirtless guys, with the look of a surfer dude who’s somehow found himself stranded a thousand miles from the nearest ocean, reads my name off my shirt. He’s slurring a little, but he’s still pretty lucid. I’ve had to make sense of much worse before now. “We were throwing a bachelor party for my brother, Joel, and we hired her—” he throws a contemptuous gesture in the direction of the handcuffed blonde, “to provide a little entertainment, you know?”

One of his buddies starts chipping in, talking over the top of him. Beer does that, makes you loud and self-important, though the way he’s attempting to force himself center stage makes me think he’s always seen himself as alpha frat boy. Through the jumble of conversation I pick out the gist of the story. Blondie arrived at ten, as arranged, and went through a strip routine to some old Def Leppard number that had all the guys drooling. When Surfer Dude describes how she’d rubbed her big, bare tits all over his brother’s face, I think he’s damn near going to come in his shorts. Thinking about the scene has my own juices trickling into my panties, even though I’m doing my best to stay professionally detached.

After that, she’d been persuaded to go upstairs with the bachelor boy, though from the way they tell the story, she didn’t need much in the way of persuading. She sucked his cock a little, fucked him every which way, waited till she thought he’d fallen asleep—then lifted his wallet. He’d seen her but hadn’t been quick enough to stop her leaving the room. Surfer Dude and Alpha Frat, alerted by Bachelor Boy’s yelling, grabbed her as she tried to leave the house. Cue a furious altercation that ended with Blondie being fastened to the porch rail with the cuffs she’d brought as part of her outfit and the phone call bringing us here.

Throughout all of this, Blondie continues to protest her innocence, though she’d be better off saving her breath. I’ve got her pegged. Strictly amateur hour, doing a saucy little strip show here and there to help pay her way through college. Too young to realize that robbing the guy you’ve just fucked, particularly when all his friends are partying downstairs, isn’t the most sensible way to make an extra few bucks on top. The way Surfer Dude is talking, at least a couple of them would have gladly paid for a helping of what Joel, the groom-to-be, had just had.

But maybe once was quite enough for her. They say all strippers have daddy issues, but I can tell that isn’t true in Blondie’s case. From the way I’ve caught her looking at me, desire and confusion blazing in her big brown eyes, she is clearly struggling to deal with the fact she’s more attracted to women than men, and she hasn’t yet figured out what to do about it.

I know all she needs is a little guidance, a little help from someone who’s already walked that same path, and I’m just the woman to give it to her. I look at Hawkes, scribbling something in his notebook, and a wicked thought occurs to me. It means crossing a line, taking a risk that could see me thrown out of the police department if I’m caught, but I can’t help myself. The sight of her, restrained and ready to burst ripely out of that slutty costume, taps into every dark, dirty fantasy I have when I lie in bed at night and run my pocket rocket vibrator over my clit.

He doesn’t look thrilled, knowing it’s going to take him a while to get even one version of the story straight, but he nods and starts to usher the revelers inside. When they’re all safely out of the way, I turn my attention to Blondie.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Standing close to her, she smells of sex and some cheap dime-store perfume. It’s an enticing combination, one I could breathe in for a while. “Why don’t you start by telling me your name?”

“Vixen.” When I stifle a laugh, she pouts at me. “I’m telling you, it’s Vixen Molloy. Check my ID. It’s in my breast pocket. I’d get it out for you, but…” She gestures to her bound wrists. She’s not being outright hostile, but there’s a challenge underlying her words.

Just as there’s a challenge in fishing her ID out of the cheaply tacked-on shirt pocket. Through the thin fabric I can feel the warmth, the softness of her breast, taunting me with its nearness. I retrieve the laminated card and squint at it. Sure enough, she’s called Vixen. I suppose it saved her the problem of deciding on a stripper name.

“Okay, so it looks like you’re not going anywhere for a while.” I glance at the neighboring windows, all shuttered and dark now that the excitement has died down. “Suits me. I can do what I have to do here.”

“And what do you have to do, exactly?” Again that little hint of defiance. Just enough of the brat about her to have me creaming as I think about spanking her ass till she learns how to show due respect to an officer of the law.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, sweetie.” Quickly, efficiently, I pat down her flanks from behind as I read Vixen her rights. It’s just a cursory search. That costume is so damn skimpy there’s nowhere to hide anything without it being immediately obvious. Still, this all has to be done, even if only to scare her off trying anything so idiotic in the future.

My hands brush over her boobs, even though I’ve already established there’s nothing in the pocket there but her ID and a couple of folded bills, her fee for tonight’s performance. As I feel her nipples, jutting out to meet my touch, any pretense I have that this is simply a routine search fades away. Before she can say a word, I pop open the buttons on her shirt and her bare tits fall out into my hand.

She doesn’t protest as I lovingly knead the firm, creamy flesh, even though she’d be perfectly at liberty to yell blue murder till Hawkes came dashing out to catch me fondling her. What I’m doing is so inappropriate, but it feels so right. A squall of rain catches me in the face as the wind changes direction, but it doesn’t cool me down or bring me to my senses. All I can think about is the way Vixen’s nipples are pushing against my palms, almost seeking to bore their way through my skin.

She wants this just as badly as I do, that much is evident. Her ass is pushing back against me, the metal cuffs rattling rhythmically against the wooden railing as she gyrates. My pussy is heating up, pressing against the seam of my uniform pants and setting up the most delicious friction as I move.

No, you are trouble, I want to reply, but my hand is already flipping up the hem of her skirt in my impatience to strip her further. The thong back of her panties is so thin it barely conceals her asshole, and her shaven lips bulge out around it, demanding to be stroked. I push the cheap scarlet lace to one side, skating a fingertip over her wet folds.

Somewhere close by, a car engine starts up. I freeze, wondering if we’re about to be spotlighted on the porch, caught in the act, but the driver passes by without bothering to switch on his headlamps. Any other time, any other place, my first instinct would be to follow him and dish out a ticket, but I’m too busy breathing a sigh of relief to bother about that now.

“Where were we?” I murmur. “Oh, yeah…” I return to my gentle exploration of Vixen’s pussy lips. “So, if I put my fingers in you, are they going to come away all sticky with Bachelor Boy’s come?”

“Really? You try to steal a guy’s wallet when he’s got a houseful of buddies to catch you as you leave. Sounds pretty stupid to me. And now you’ve let yourself get chained up and stripped half-naked…”

“But I’m being punished, aren’t I, Officer?” Again that submissive tone to her voice, sending another little gush of juice into the crotch of my sensible cotton underwear. She’s almost taunting me to spank her ass. If it weren’t for the fact that I can hear a hubbub of voices and laughter from inside the house, telling me the boys might have been a little more helpful than Hawkes or I expected, I’d punish her till those sweet little cheeks of hers bore the red marks of my palm. As it is, I settle for a swift, hard swat to each one, bringing a noise from her that’s somewhere between a yelp and a satisfied moan.

Then my fingers push up into her wetness, into the cunt that’s already welcomed the groom-to-be’s cock tonight. When he entered her, did she sigh the way she’s sighing now? Did she thrust her rump at him and beg for more, like she’s asking—pleading—for me to touch her clit? She looks back over her shoulder at me, mascara-streaked eyes full of desperation and horniness. For a moment, I make her think I’m going to do what she wants, but I can’t let her forget who’s in control here. My thumb settles on her asshole instead, rubbing in little back-and-forth motions that make her jerk like she’s wired up to the mains.

She tries to shape a reply, but when I switch my attention to her clit, circling it relentlessly, her words turn into incoherent gasps and gulps. The brattiness, the defiance is gone; she’s just a soft, pliant mess of girl-flesh, completely in my thrall.

I’ve got her pinned against the railing, my thigh over hers so that as she bucks against me, the pressure is stimulating me in just the right place. What I could really use is Vixen’s wet little tongue working away between my legs, but that’s not going to happen, so I settle for subtly rubbing against her leg.

She’s close, so very close now, and my fingers are slipping and sliding in the wetness that pours like rain from her. The open front of her slutty cop outfit flaps in the night air. Her little whimpers are driving me crazy. “Come for me,” I order her, fighting to keep the authority in my voice till the end. Her cunt convulses around my fingers, at the same time as a sweet, sharp orgasm ripples through my belly. I know I’ll replay this moment over in my head once I’m off shift, turning myself on all over again with the sight and sound of Vixen coming on my command.

A door slams in the house, bringing me back to full awareness of where I am. By the time Hawkes and the party boys spill out of the house, I’ve got Vixen all buttoned up and respectable once more. Surfer Dude fishes the handcuff keys out of his shorts pockets and, finally, she’s released.

“Yeah. Joel here’s decided not to press charges, seeing as how no real harm’s been done.” He’s making it clear this whole incident has been a waste of our time, just as he predicted when we answered the call. His time, maybe. Not mine.

“Great, saves us the paperwork.” I look out at the steadily falling rain, then back to Vixen in her insubstantial outfit. Her face glows with satisfaction and more, as though I’ve helped her come to a realization about who she is and what she needs to make her whole. “I was thinking, we should give Ms. Molloy a lift home. Make sure she can’t get into any more trouble tonight.”

“Sure, whatever,” Hawkes replies without enthusiasm. I can tell he’d prefer this not to be his problem, already starting to look forward to the end of our shift and whatever his wife’s preparing for his breakfast.

As we’re walking back to the patrol car, I say to Vixen, “Well, I hope you learned your lesson tonight. But don’t let me catch you prancing around pretending to be a policewoman again.” Bending close to her ear, speaking so low that Hawkes won’t be able to hear, I add, “On the other hand, if you ever feel the need to dress up as a slutty nurse, maybe we can work something out.”