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Ch 22
A few months later I was at the ballet with my daughter. I was standing in the lobby during intermission when I noticed a gentleman who looked vaguely familiar. He glanced my way and I saw a faint recognition in his eyes. He tilted his head and trying to place me. Then with a shock I realized that it was the detective from my exciting traffic stop. For a moment I was frightened and wanted to run away, I was afraid that he might embarrass me, but I remembered how nice he had been and how sexy I'd felt teasing him. I took a deep breath and smiled broadly at him. I turned slightly and struck a pose, tipping my foot up displaying my rhinestone heels. He broke in to a huge grin and made his way to me.
“Hello,” he said warmly taking my hand. “Mrs. Legs isn't it?”
“Mrs. Loose Legs,” I corrected. “It's hyphenated.”
He laughed delightedly.
“How very nice it is to see you,” he said. I think he meant it. “I see that you are wearing my favorite shoes.”
“They have a name you know.”
“Do they?” he asked archly.
“Chase me, catch me, and . . .” I trailed off.
“And what?”
“You know the rest,” I said.
“I do indeed,” he chuckled. “Are you a fast runner?”
“Not in these shoes.”
“Terrific shoes.”
“The same shoes but not the same clothes,” I said.
“No, but you are even more lovely,” he answered gallantly, admiring my evening dress, and giving my cleavage a blatant five second stare.
“Are you surprised to see a woman like me at the opera?”
“Not in the least,” he replied.
“Oh? Do many prostitutes patronize the opera?”
“I doubt it.”
A stuffy, sour faced woman nearby turned and looked at us in astonishment. I smiled brightly at her and she turned away hesitantly.
“And anyway, I know what kind of woman you truly are,” he said when she had moved out of earshot. We lowered our voices.
“Really? What kind am I?”
“Well, for starters, you are not a dance instructor.”
“True.”
“Nor are you a prostitute.”
“Are you certain? You thought I was the first time we met.”
“That changed very quickly.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Your personality and your intelligence, I decided a few minutes into our conversation that you probably weren't a hooker.”
“Oh?”
“So I took the time to check into your background and reputation and I know quite a bit about you.”
“Do you always do that with hookers?”
“Almost never, but as I said, you aren't a hooker.”
“Then why did you check up on me?” I asked.
“Because I liked you,” he said smiling. “You were great when you were messing with us.”
“I, messing with you?” I said indignantly, “I believe that you were the ones messing with me.”
“Nope, you were enjoying yourself, and not just with the banter,” he chuckled.
My face got red at the memory of exposing myself to him. And my pussy became damp.
“Now that is charming,” he said gently at my blush.
“Well, since you believe that I am not a prostitute you must think that I am a total slut,” I said.
“No,” he said simply.
“Then what am I?”
He looked at me appraisingly, “You are a nice lady who indulges in some daring sexy role playing, with a prostitution fantasy and a touch of exhibitionism.”
“Only a touch?”
He grinned.
“Well, I have to confess that you've made a very astute analysis,” I conceded. “Right on the button in fact. Are you a psychiatrist?”
“Like all good cops I'm a pretty savvy street psychologist. You pick it up quickly in this line of work.”
“What else do you know about me?”
“You are brave, quick witted, intelligent and educated. You aren't intimidated by police officers and you can hold your own in a verbal joust when outnumbered three to one.”
I was flattered. “What else?”
“You went out of your way to tease us.”
“Well . . . perhaps. What else?”
“Name, date of birth, address. You are divorced and in long time relationship with a boyfriend, with regular romantic rendezvous at an East Colfax Avenue motel. You stroll the sidewalks wearing revealing clothing but have never been known to accept offers from passing men. You tease the motel desk clerk and you like to pose provocatively for his camera in public.”
“My God!” I gasped. “Did he tell you all that?”
“Who, the clerk? No, he wouldn't tell me anything. I got this from my contacts on the street and around the neighborhood.”
“Uh oh, I seem to be rather well known on the street.”
He nodded. “Oh, you are. The employees at the dry cleaners across the street from the motel are your greatest admirers.”
“They've been watching me?”
“For years, and to hear them talk they even know your schedule at the motel.”
“Really? Perhaps I ought to take my laundry to them.”
“They'll probably give you a discount,” he said.
“And I could do the same for them,” I said, “In the back room of the laundry.”
He grinned.
“And I suppose that you are going to blackmail me with all this information.” I meant it as a joke but he didn't take it as such. His smile disappeared.
“No, I will not.” He started to turn away. I caught his arm.
“No, no. I am sorry, please stay.”
He glared at me for a moment, then softened.
“Why did you go to all that trouble then?” I asked.
“Because it was obvious that you weren't a prostitute,” he said. “But there are cases where decent women have been forced into it by someone. I wanted to make sure that you weren't being extorted.”
“Oh, then I truly beg your pardon,” I said contritely. “And thank you for looking out for me.”
“Well, shucks ma am, that's what we do.” he said in a silly cowboy drawl. I was relieved that he had forgiven me.
“What else do you know about me?” I asked.
“Just discovered a few things tonight,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Tonight I've learned that you a refined and cultured woman who dresses elegantly for the right occasion (I'd worn a dark blue evening dress) and you have excellent taste in jewelry.”
“But I'm not wearing any jewelry. When have you seen . . . oh.”
He grinned at me.
I remembered that I'd given him a good look at my pussy chain.
“I've only seen one piece of your jewelry,” he said. “But I'll never forget it.”
I've never blushed so much in my life.
“In fact, I was wondering where you got that particular item, and what it might be called,” he teased.
I leaned close to him. “It was a gift from my lover. It's called a pussy chain, you terrible man, and it doesn't use batteries.”
“It's lovely,” he said. “Do you wear it often?”
“You mean, am I wearing it tonight?”
He glanced at my tummy and nodded.
“Would you like to see?”
I got him that time. His mouth dropped open. “Uh, well . . . yes, I would.”
“Come with me.” I walked toward a bank of mirrors. He followed and his eyebrows rose when I took the chain out of my purse and held it for him to see.
“Hold this please.” I handed him my purse. “I'll put it on for you.”
I grasped the top of my skirt and pretended that I was going to pull it up. A look of alarm came over his face. Then I raised my arms and put the chain around my neck. He grinned from ear to ear.
“That's great!” he whispered delightedly. “You are terrific!”
I turned and posed for him. “Depending on my mood it can be worn in different places.”
Since my daughter had mistaken it for a necklace many years ago I have worn it that way a few times. That night I'd taken it off at dinner because it was too heavy.
He leaned close and examined it. Disturbingly close. His lips were dangerously close to mine.
“Magnificent,” he said unabashedly eying my cleavage. “No matter where it happens to be.”
“I'm surprised that you remembered it. I thought that you were too busy looking at something else.”
“I was looking at everything,” he said. “And I do mean everything. But being a trained observer, I noticed it all, clear down to the most minute details.”
I blushed again and wondered if he'd been able to see my brand, or the clerk's signature across my tummy.
“Which brings me to ask about the markings on your body,” he said. “The ones that were beneath your chain, what are they?”
“Are the markings the only things beneath my pussy chain that interest you?”
“Oh, believe me, everything under your pussy chain interested me,” he said with exaggerated sincerity.
I laughed. “The markings are very private,” I said. “And I don't think that I'll tell you about them. Not tonight anyway.”
His eyes lit up at the hint of a promise.
“You know all about me, including my name, but what shall I call you?” I asked.
“Jefferson Parnell.”
“That's a nice name, are you here with your wife?”
“No, no wife. I'm divorced. I brought my daughter. She loves opera.”
“I'm here with my daughter too,” I said. “In fact, there she is.” My daughter had emerged from the ladies room and was looking around for me.
“And I had better go,” he said. He took my hand in his and looked deeply into my eyes, “I am really glad to see you.”
My pussy tingled.
Then he kissed my hand and started to walk away.
“Mr. Parnell.”
He turned back.
“During your investigation, did you happen to acquire my telephone number?”
“I certainly did.”
“Good.”
CH 23
Detective Parnell called me a few days later and invited me to dinner. I declined, because I thought that was too close to cheating on JR, but I did suggest the we could meet for coffee and recommended a quaint coffee shop which provided delicious coffee as well as a quiet place to talk. He was waiting at the order counter when I arrived and his face showed comic relief when he saw me. I was dressed sedately in a skirt and sweater, and rhinestone heels.
“I know, you were expecting me to show up dressed like a tramp,” I said.
“Not expecting, not in this place anyway,” he smiled. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you, and you are correct, I would have been terribly out of place in here in one of my hooker outfits.”
“How many do you have?”
“Quite a few, and they all make me look like a tramp.”
“I can't wait to see you in them,” he said. “In the appropriate setting of course.”
“Do you plan to stop me on the street?” I asked. “Would you arrest me?”
“Yes, and you'll get the full treatment too. Handcuffs, strip search, and a long interrogation in a quiet back room at the station.”
“Interrogation? Are you going to beat a confession out of me?”
“Not beat, but I might spank one out of you.”
“What if I have nothing to confess?”
“It will just take longer to ascertain that,” he answered.
“Which would prolong my spanking, tight?”
“Yep.”
I looked at him for a moment, then threw discretion out the window.
“Well, I better confess right now, you just said the magic word.”
“I did? What was it?”
“Actually you said two magic words.”
“They are . . ?”
“Handcuffs.”
“Handcuffs?”
“Handcuffs,” I repeated. “Put them on me and I'm yours.”
“Whoa,” he whispered in awe. “What's the second word?”
“Spanking.”
“Hooo boy!”
“I love to be spanked wearing handcuffs.”
We were served our drinks and walked to a table. I swayed my hips and he heard the tiny tinkle of a bell. He stopped and looked at me.
“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.
“What do you think it is?”
“A bell on your pussy chain?”
“Yes it is.”
“It comes with bells? Fantastic!”
“Bells are optional,” I said.
“Yes, yes, yes!” he whispered. “I was really hoping that you would wear it, but bells are the icing on the cake.”
We sat down. I wondered if he was going to proposition me today, or wait. And a small deep hidden part of me felt guilty at hoping he would.
“Now tell me about your interest in handcuffs,” he said.
“Apparently your investigation didn't quite reveal everything about me.”
“I haven't done an in depth investigation,” he said. “I intend to delve into that later.”
“Oh Lord,” I groaned. “Is that cop humor?”
“Sure is,” he grinned.
“Anyway, besides being an exhibitionist and having a prostitution fantasy, I am a bondage lover and a masochist,” I said.
“I'll be damned,” he said.
“A serious masochist,” I emphasized. “I get fantastically aroused by pain. I crave physical abuse.”
“That can be dangerous,” he warned.
“I know,” I agreed. “But I trust the man who tortures me.”
He looked unconvinced.
“I am a sex slave to my lover,” I continued, “And an unfaithful wife. You might as well know that I became his slave while I was still married to my husband.”
“Really?”
“It's no excuse for infidelity but my husband lost interest in me years ago. Even after I became another man's slave he didn't notice anything. When I went home after an afternoon being tortured he never noticed the whip marks on my body.”
“How could he possibly miss them?” Jefferson asked amazed.
“He stopped looking a long time ago,” I shrugged. “He didn't see whip marks on my breasts or the rope marks on my wrists or the hand prints on my bottom from being spanked, and worst of all, he never noticed my brand.”
“Your brand?” he gasped.
“You asked about the marks on my tummy, well one is a brand from my master.”
“My God!” he frowned “A brand? Your boyfriend branded you?”
I nodded. “I wore the brand on my body for years before we divorced and my husband had no idea that it existed. He still doesn't know.”
“That's outrageous. Branding a person is an assault.”
“I imagine that spanking and whipping and hanging me by my wrists is too. I don't know the law,” I answered, “But I like being spanked and whipped and hung by my wrists, so does it constitute assault when I want it?”
He shook his head in disbelief.
“The brand was my idea,” I went on. “I used all of my feminine wiles to talk him into it, and it took weeks.”
“You wanted to be branded?”
“Yes.”
“It was your idea?”
“Yes.”
“He didn't want to do it?”
“No, he was very reluctant,” I said. “He is a kind and decent man.”
“Who tortures you, right?”
“Yes, but he takes care never to injure me, not seriously anyway.”
“Why did you want to be branded?”
“He makes me feel attractive and wanted so I wanted to prove my devotion to him.”
“That's a pretty extreme way to show gratitude.”
“I also wanted to experience the pain.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I enjoyed it beyond belief. I had several orgasms.”
His mouth opened but no sound came out.
“He teased me before applying the brand,” I said.
“How could he tease you?”
“I was tied to a chair and blindfolded. He touched me several times with a frozen piece of metal which made me think it was the hot branding iron. Then when I wasn't expecting it he pressed the real branding iron against my skin and held it there.”
“Oh my God.”
“I had the most earth shaking orgasm of my life,” I said. “Then I fainted.”
He could only stare at me.
“Haven't you ever run across kinky people in your job?” I asked. “I would expect that you must some time.”
“Yes, sure we do.”
“Well, I'm one of them. I'm quite perverse,” I said evenly, “I truly am a masochist and what your informants didn't tell you is that when I meet with my master at the motel he ties me up and spanks me and whips me and tortures me in other ways. And by the way, we only go to the motel once or twice a month, but we are together much more often and he tortures me every time we meet. He even built a dungeon in his basement for me.”
“A dungeon?”
“Yes, my own personal dungeon with a prison cell and whips and chains . . . and a branding iron.”
“You don't live together,” he observed.
“No, we keep our own homes.”
He nodded. “What does the brand look like? The chain was in the way and I couldn't get a good look.”
I turned my purse and tapped my finger on JR's initials, then I took my wallet and checkbook out and showed them. I looked around to make sure that no one was watching then removed a skimpy pair of red lace panties from my purse. They had JR's initials embroidered on them. I slid them across the table.
“The same initials are burned into my skin just an inch above my pussy,” I told him. “These are copied from the original branding iron. All of my leather accessories and my panties and bras have his initials on them.”
“Does he make you do that?”
“Heavens no. It's my idea.”
“Amazing,” he whispered in awe. “Are these your panties for today?”
“No, I usually keep an extra pair with me. I'm wearing another pair under my skirt.”
“Under or over the pussy chain?”
“Under, otherwise they would muffle the bell.”
“Ah, of course. When do I get to see them?” he asked.
I just smiled and sipped my coffee.
“Who is JR?” he asked.
“He is my lover and my master, but please don't try to find out anything more.”
“All right, I won't.”
“Thank you.”
“What about the other marking on your pussy? It looked like handwriting.”
“That was another man's signature. I had been indulging in my prostitution fantasy and he signed his name on my skin a few moments before I met you.”
He frowned. “How far did you go with your fantasy?”
“Oh, I didn't let him screw me,” I said. “But I exposed myself for his camera.”
“Ah.”
“But you already know that I like to do that don't you?” (I decided not to mention that I'd sucked the clerk's cock).
He continued to look concerned.
“But I didn't take any money for what I did.”
“Good.” He seemed relieved. “Does your boyfriend know about that?”
“No, he knows that I like to dress naughtily when we meet at the motel but he doesn't know about my other behavior.”
“Such as . . ?”
“Going to the motel on my own, posing for pictures, walking around looking like a whore,” I smiled, “And allowing police officers to see me without panties.”
He saluted with his coffee cup.
“By the way,” I asked, “Why was I stopped that day?”
“The patrolman in that sector saw you earlier and described you to us. We wanted to get a look at you.”
“Well you certainly got that, didn't you?”
He grinned from ear to ear.
“Now who is the guy who signed his name on your body?”
“Oh, just some guy I was teasing, and don't worry, I didn't let him do anything else, but as we were parting he decided to autograph my tummy. He accidentally used a pen with indelible ink. It took weeks to disappear.”
“Didn't your boyfriend notice?”
“He was away on a business trip.”
“I see.”
I sighed. “Even with my love and devotion to him I still can't resist going out and behaving like a slut. And I'm getting worse.”
“Oh?”
“The way I behaved when you first saw me.” I looked at him. “When you stopped me I secretly hoped that you would arrest me and all three of you would screw me. Now do you still think that I'm not a tramp?”
“You are not a tramp,” he said firmly.
“How about this: earlier on the very day that we met I teased a cab driver who thought that I was a prostitute. In fact I as much as told him so, and he offered me two hundred dollars to have sex with him. I declined the offer but I did allow him to touch my body. He fondled my breasts and put his hand on my pussy. I let him feel me up for a few minutes before I pulled away.”
“There was nothing illegal in that,” he said.
“Hold on,” I continued. “He gave me money. After making free with my body he tucked a twenty dollar bill into my bra and another under my pussy chain, then he left. I didn't ask for the money and I didn't expect it, but I did keep it.”
“Why not give it back?”
“He had already driven away, and to be honest I didn't think about it. It just played into my fantasies. I felt a deep thrill that he wanted me so much that he would pay money.”
I looked at Jefferson for a moment.
“Do you know about women who have a prostitution fantasy?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever run across one in your work?”
“No, all the prostitutes I've dealt with were the real thing. You are the only woman I've met who is daring enough to act out the fantasy.”
“Well doesn't that make you realize that I truly am a slut.”
He shook his head. “I believe that you were probably a sexually repressed and frustrated woman,” he said. “Most likely for the entire time of your marriage. But somewhere along the way you found the courage to indulge in some wild fantasies, despite the danger. Acting the slut is an outlet, but it's only an act.”
“I'm impressed,” I confessed. “You hit the nail on the head. More of your street cop psychology?”
“Yes.”
“Now with your knowledge of the law, did letting that cabbie feel me up make me a prostitute?”
“Any form of sex for pay is considered prostitution,” he said. “It doesn't have to be intercourse.”
“Are hand jobs and oral sex illegal?”
“They are if you do them for money.”
“And letting his hands roam over my body? Does that get me into the hooker's union?”
“Only if you agreed on money before hand.”
“No, nothing like that. He surprised me when he touched me,” I said. “But I was thrilled by it. I wasn't expecting him to tuck money into my clothes either, but I enjoyed that too.”
“Then you still have your amateur status. However there is something that you must be careful about.”
“What is it?”
“There is a law called 'Prostitute Making Display'. It means that any person who by word, gesture, or act promotes or facilitates an immoral act for pay can be arrested.”
“Could I be arrested for the way I was dressed?”
“No, not for merely dressing provocatively, but along with that, doing or saying anything that would make a reasonable person believe that you are a prostitute could get you arrested.”
“Oh.”
“Dressing like a prostitute would certainly attract the attention of an undercover officer,” he went on, “And even though you are pretending, if you say or do the wrong thing you could end up in jail.”
“What about the things I said and did when you stopped me?”
“No, it was obvious that you were being sarcastic, but there are cops who would have arrested you.”
Uh oh, I'd never thought about undercover police officers. I realized that I really should be careful.
“Actually I didn't keep the cab driver's money very long,” I said. “I had breakfast at a diner the next morning and everyone thought I was a hooker, especially the waitress.”
“What happened?”
“She let me know what she thought of me, so I left the forty dollars as a tip.”
“Ah, that ought to teach her not to be so judgmental.”
“Now if I were a real prostitute instead of an amateur, and you weren't a police detective, what would you be willing to pay me?” I teased.
“Not a penny,” he said. He reached under his jacket, drew out a set of handcuffs and placed them on the table. “But I would give you the honor of wearing these.”
That did it! My pussy went hot and wet.
“I accept the honor.” I extended my arms across the table and put my wrists together. He looked mildly surprised but snapped them on me. I was thrilled. I was in handcuffs in public!
I caressed his hands as he double locked the cuffs. His eyed met mine.
I actually thought about crawling under the table and sucking his cock.
He gathered up my things and put them in my purse, all except the panties which he folded neatly and tucked into his jacket breast pocket.
“Are you keeping my undies?”
“Yep, evidence.”
I reached over and pulled them up until they peeked out like a handkerchief. I patted them in place. “Nice,” I said, “The red goes with your necktie.”
“Let's go,” he stood and picked up my purse.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
He leaned close. “Someplace private so I can strip you naked and screw your brains out.”
My legs almost gave way.
My pussy was throbbing as I walked through the coffee shop. I wanted everybody to see me but most customers didn't bother to look up. However one young woman at a table did. Her mouth dropped open when she saw me in handcuffs. I don't know if she saw how hard my nipples were under my blouse.
Jefferson bent down to her.
“She's turning herself in,” he said quietly.
“What did she do?”
“She murdered her husband,” he replied.
“Three husbands,” I corrected him.
“Ok, let's go,” he took me by the arm. “You have the right to remain silent. . . so please do.”
I managed not to laugh until we were outside. He stopped on the sidewalk and switched my handcuffs from front to behind my back, in view of dozens of passers by. Some stopped to stare. My nipples got harder.
“Do I get my strip search right here?” I asked.
“No.”
He opened the car door and motioned for me to sit. I managed to open my legs very wide as I did. I raised my knee high to make my skirt slide up as he buckled my seat belt. I leaned forward to press my breast against his arm. He brushed his hand across my left boobie when he straightened up.
“Where are you taking me?” I repeated.
“I know just the place to indulge your fantasy.”
He drove to a warehouse district. He turned into an alley, which meandered between buildings until we reached a dead end. The alley was enclosed by big buildings with nearly blank walls. There were only one or two windows. He took me out of the car and bent me over the hood. He lifted my skirt, and fumbled with the hook on my pussy chain, Finally he released the chain and put it on the hood beside me. Then I heard his zipper.
“Are you going to screw me right here?”
“Yes.”
“In the open, in broad daylight?”
“Yes.” He proved it by sliding his penis into me.
Ummm, nice.
“What if someone sees us?” I gasped.
“So what?”
“You're right, so what.”
I craned my neck and looked around. The buildings around us were tall and had few windows. We were in total privacy unless someone came in from the alley. I was fantastically excited and hoped that the next car to arrive would be a patrol car with officer Johnson in it. The one who likes big boobs.
“I thought that you were going to strip me naked.”
“I'm in too big a hurry.”
Jefferson fucked me very nicely. He was considerate and made sure that I enjoyed it. After half an hour with my breasts crushed on the hood, he turned me onto my back and spread my legs and screwed me from the front.
He was strong and energetic and magnificent, and I was moments from an orgasm when he stopped.
“What's wrong?” I asked.
“I've got you lying on those handcuffs,” he said. “That must be painful.”
“It is,” I crooned. “Deliciously painful. Don't worry about it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure, now get back inside me please.”
He did, and I lifted my legs to rest my ankles on his shoulders. We looked into each others' eyes when we came.
After wards I lay in a happy daze on the hood of his car. My legs were splayed open, my pussy was soaking wet and the bright sunlight warmed the insides of my thighs.
Jefferson was leaning against the car, relaxed and waiting patiently for me to enjoy the after glow. I smiled at him.
“Thank you, that was wonderful.”
“Yes it was.”
“Can we do it again?”
“Yes, but not today, I have to get back to the office soon.”
Darn.
He brought a package of wet wipes out of the car and carefully cleaned my crotch.
“That was a nice thing to do,” I said. “Do you always clean your prisoners after you fuck them?”
“Only the beautiful ones.”
How sweet he is.
“And now, I want a good look at this,” he bent close and examined my brand. “Didn't this hurt when he did it?”
“Did it ever! I loved it.”
He shook his head.
He gazed at JR's initials for several moments. “And the guy who wrote his name on you, had he been torturing you too?”
“No, he just took pictures.”
“Did you fuck him?”
“No, I've never had intercourse with any man except my husband and JR”
“And now me.”
“That's right. Even as slutty as I am, you are only the third man who has fucked me.”
“And that confirms that you aren't a hooker.”
Oh darn, I shouldn't have told him that.
“And your boyfriend doesn't know about the autograph?”
“No.”
“When are you seeing him?”
“Saturday, at the motel.”
“Ok,” he took a pen from his pocket. “Lay back and don't move.”
I giggled as he wrote across my rummy. It tickled and he took a long time.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
“A letter to your boyfriend.”
“What?” I sat up and tried to see what he had done.
“Lay back for a second,” he said. “I just need to sign this.”
“Oh God!” Well it was too late to complain, so I lay back.
“There, all done,” he said, and put the pen away. “Let me help you up.”
“Put my pussy chain back on first.”
“Ok.”
He took his time and played with my body while he reconnected the chain. I was breathing hard when he finished. Then I sat up and looked at my belly. There were several lines but I couldn't read what he'd written. He helped me off the hood and started to release my handcuffs.
“Wait, leave them on until we get to my car please.”
“Why?”
“Because I love the feel of them on my wrists, especially in public.”
“Ok.”
He held the door open for me and I slid my skirt up as high as I could as I got in. I turned toward him on the seat. He admired my legs as he drove and luckily we weren't in an accident. He stopped on the street near my car and I leaned forward so he could unlock the cuffs. He played with my breasts with his free hand, and when the cuffs were off he did something very sweet. He handed them to me, along with the key.
“Keep them as a gift,” he said.
I gave him a long deep kiss.
I got out and started toward my car, but he called me back.
“Um, I have something to confess to you,” he said.
“Oh, you are married after all.”
“No, nothing like that.” He looked apologetic. “It's just that the pen I wrote on you with is an evidence pen. It is the longest lasting ink in the world.”
“What?”
He winked at me and drove away.
I shocked, horrified, stunned. Why had such a nice man done that to me. I got into my car and drove home almost in tears. I felt betrayed. As I drove I wondered what would have made him do something like that. Then it occurred to me that perhaps Jefferson wanted to break JR and I up so he could have me to himself. That was flattering and I calmed down a bit. It was nice to be wanted by another man. Including JR, the motel clerk and Jefferson I was collecting a group of sexy men.
I thought about JR and our relationship.
I was pretty sure that JR might have other ladies here and there. I didn't think that he remained celibate while away on lengthy business trips and had wondered who else he might be tying up, especially his secretary. And oddly I didn't get angry or jealous ( except for the secretary). I loved JR and I liked him, but I never thought that we would get married. He had made a comment one time, that the best lovers don't always make the best spouses. I agreed with that.
Which is why I'd allowed Detective Parnell to handcuff me in public, and then fuck me on the hood of his car. I ought to have felt guilty but I didn't. None the less, I didn't want JR to know about Jefferson.
I decided that if the ink was truly indelible then I would have to conceal my belly from JR somehow while I figured out a way to get rid of it. At least, I might have to tell him that I was sick on Saturday.
I laughed wryly at myself, calling in sick to get out of a tryst with my lover.
At home I stripped and tried to read what Jefferson had written but the writing was too small to read backwards in a mirror. So I took a picture. I dug out an old Polaroid camera and hoped that the film hadn't spoiled. I held the camera at my stomach and took a shot. The picture came out ok, except that I had missed part of the writing. I took another. It took five shots before I could read the entire message.
Jefferson had written in neatly printed block letters:
Case number 012345. Date 05/13/2009. Subject Linda Loose-Legs.
Female taken into custody for (1) excessive pulchritude, (2) display of sexuality beyond that permitted by law, and (3) being too hot in a public place. Released on personal recognizance after submitting to non judicial discipline administered by the arresting officer.
Jefferson H Parnell, Badge 8444
I laughed when I read that and wanted to get a better photograph. I called the motel.
I was in luck, my clerk answered.
“Do you have your camera with you?” I asked.
“Yes, why?”
“I want you to take some pictures,” I told him. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
I changed into a very slutty outfit; ankle strap heels, ultra short skirt and a loose weave tank top that was meant to be worn under another garment. Worn alone it was like a net and my nipples actually protruded through when they were hard. (And they were). But I needed support so I slipped into a black see through brassiere and put the tank top over it. I didn't bother with panties. I clipped Jefferson's handcuffs to my left wrist and let the other half dangle.
I kept an eye peeled for police cars as I drove to the motel. I hoped I might bump into officer Johnson, but no luck. I felt very daring so I parked three blocks away and walked along the busiest street in Denver to the motel. I attracted a lot of attention and did get two offers for my services, but remembering Jefferson's warnings, I carefully ignored them.
The clerk was sitting in his usual spot outside the office and he was surprised to see me on foot. He started snapping pictures as I crossed the street and when I got close I stopped and lifted my skirt. Right there at two o'clock on a weekday in the bright sunlight I held my skirt up.
He took another picture, then frowned when he saw the writing on my tummy.
“What is this?” he asked.
“You aren't the only man in town with a pen,” I said. “Someone else has autographed my body, and I want a picture of it.”
“Really?” he was indignant. “What do I get in return?”
“You'll get your cock sucked under the counter, just like the last time.”
“How about letting me tie you to a bed again?”
“No,” I said softly, “Its tempting but I just don't have the time today.”
“Ok.”
I stood in the middle of the office with my skirt up while he knelt and took pictures. He finished off the roll he's already started, then put in another.
I stripped naked and got under the counter. He opened his fly and I sucked him between my lips. He took closeups and I gazed up at the camera until he filled my mouth with cum. This time we weren't interrupted. No cops came in, and no customers either, why the phone didn't even ring.
When he started to shudder and gasp I pulled his cock out of my mouth and let his spurt in my face (and he spurted a lot too). He managed to snap a couple of pictures of his semen splattering my face before he staggered back and collapsed in a chair. Then I crawled slowly, catlike to him and cleaned his penis with my tongue. He got pictures of that too.
When the film was used up he went into the tiny office bathroom and tidied up. I waited on the couch until he came back.
“Don't you want to wash up?” he asked at the sight of my cum coated face and blouse.
“No, I'm going to you wear you home.”
“Wow.” He was flattered.
After I'd paid my photographer's bill, I walked back to my car. His semen slowly dried as I strolled and I wondered how many people noticed that my face was wet. I enjoyed every step of the way.
CH 24
When I got home I took a shower and the writing came off instantly. Oh, he had lied to me! I was relieved and angry at the same time. I jumped out of the tub and walked naked and trailing water to the phone. I called the police department and demanded to speak to detective Parnell. They connected me to the vice bureau secretary.
“Detective Parnell, please,” I said.
“Who is calling?” she asked.
“Tell him that it is Mrs. Legs, Mrs. Linda Loose Legs.”
“Just a moment.”
“Why Mrs. Legs, what a pleasure to hear your voice,” he said when he picked up.
“Oh, you are a smart alec aren't you?” I said.
He burst out laughing. “I take it that the evidence marker isn't indelible after all.”
I started to say something more, but he stopped me.
“Just a moment please,” he spoke to someone in the room, but he held the phone close to his mouth. “I'm talking to someone on the recorded line,” he said, “Can it wait?”
I got the message.
“What can I do for you ma am,” he said, returning to me.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know that I appreciated your assistance today.”
“Always happy to help, good bye.”
He called me back ten minutes later.
“Ok, we can speak freely now. I'm on my cell phone.”
“Then I can tell you freely what an s o b you are,” I said. “You scared me to death.”
He chuckled like a mischievous little boy.
“But you can still meet your boyfriend on Saturday, can't you.”
“And when I do, I am going to give him the best sex of his life,” I said. “And I want you to be thinking about me.”
“I will be, no matter what you are doing.”
“Well, I'll get spanked and whipped then tied to the bed and fucked out of my mind,” I said. “And I'll be thinking of you.”
“That will teach me a lesson, won't it?”
Ooh!
“And I'll be wearing your handcuffs when he chains me to the bed.”
“Oh, I wouldn't advise that.” He sounded serious.
“Why not?”
“Trust me. It wouldn't be a good idea.”
The handcuffs were lying on my bed. I examined them closely. They were engraved with his name and badge number and a date, and they were well worn.
“Oh, my,” I said softly. “I see. Where are they from?”
“A graduation present at the academy,” he said. “From my father.”
“But they must mean a great deal to you,” I protested.
“They do.”
“And you gave them to me?”
“Yes.”
“Golly, you really know how to get to a girl's heart, don't you?”
He chuckled.
I clicked the cuffs on my wrists.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
“No, what was it?”
“I've put them on myself. I just got out of the bath and I'm naked, and I'm going stay naked and wear them around the house for the rest of the day. For you.”
“I'm flattered,” he whispered.
“And when I'm with my boyfriend on Saturday, I'll be thinking of you,” I said. “I'll be thinking nice things.”
“What nice things will you think?”
“I might just be imagining that it is you who is whipping me.”
“Whipping you?” he sounded shocked.
“Have you ever whipped a woman?” I said softly.
“I've spanked a couple of girls,” he said hesitantly, “But I've never whipped one.”
“Then I can be your first.”
“Thank you, I guess.”
“And thank you very much for your gift,” I said. “I will always treasure it.”
As I promised I wore his handcuffs around the house, and I stayed naked. But when it came time to take them off I had trouble getting them unlocked. It took a lot of fumbling and I dropped the key a dozen times. Once it bounced out of sight and I crawled around desperately trying to find it. I almost panicked because it just seemed to have disappeared. I wondered how I'd get out of that predicament.
I thought about driving to the adult store and asking someone to unlock them but I wouldn't be able to put clothes on with my wrists cuffed together. Perhaps I could call the police to send an officer to the house and ask him to release me. Hmm, that could be exciting, but I decided against it. They might want to know how I came to be wearing Detective Parnell's personal handcuffs.
After all, I could just call him and ask him to come over, but that was a very dangerous idea. Exciting too, so I played with my pussy until I gave myself a sweet orgasm.
Then I went back to searching until I located the key. When I got the cuffs off I lay back on the carpet and played with my pussy again and thought about Jefferson until I came.
I told Jefferson about hunting for the key, and that I'd considered calling for an officer. He told me that they get many calls like that from kinky people who lose their handcuff keys, and sometimes people pretend to lose them, just to have a cop come.
“Have you been called out like that?” I asked.
“Several times when I was a patrolman.”
“Did you get to screw the lady, when you got there?”
“No way, that could be a quick end to your career,” he said. “And anyway its not always a woman, it might be a man.”
“A man? Eyew.”
“Well, there are kinky gay men out there too,” he said wryly. “And sometimes its the man who gets handcuffed to a bed by a woman.”
“A married couple?”
“Or lovers, or gay men or lesbian women. We get every possible combination.”
“What do you do?”
“Usually one of them meets us at the door and wants to borrow a key, then bring it back. We don't permit that.”
“Why not?”
“Because the person in handcuffs might not be willing. We have to verify that they are.”
“What do you do?”
“First of all we always send two cops, and one stays with the person who called us while the other investigates just who is in handcuffs and why. Usually it's a woman who is handcuffed to the bed, but not always.”
“How lovely,” I sighed.
“Some of them are, and some are not.”
I laughed. “And if the woman is handcuffed because she wants to be?”
“When we are satisfied that everything is consensual we unlock the cuffs and leave.”
“You don't get to stay and play?”
“Nope, that kind of call is closely monitored. The officers get it done and leave quickly.”
“Have you ever found someone that's been handcuffed against their will?”
“No, but we have found some people who are drunk, or sound asleep. I was releasing one woman who was spread open on her boyfriend's bed when she woke up and asked if I was next.”
“Next?”
“Yes, that was my reaction. I demanded to know what she meant and it turned out that she was the center attraction of a bondage party.”
“Oooh, lucky lady.”
He snorted.
“What did you do?”
“We checked through the house and found three other men hiding in the basement.”
“Three men beside the boyfriend?”
“Yep.”
“Wow.”
“It turned out to be consensual, she was all for it and wasn't being raped. But they were all pretty drunk and she had passed out on the bed. It didn't stop them from screwing her while she was asleep.”
“Was she pretty?” I asked. I was tingling with the thought of being in that woman's place. (Imagine, waking up tied wide open and finding a man inside you? Wow).
He shook his head slowly.
“After the men had satisfied themselves they couldn't find the handcuff key,” he continued. “When she woke up she was tired and wanted to go home.”
“How many times did they screw her?”
“I didn't want to know,” he answered wryly, “But her entire body was sticky. I put on rubber gloves before I touched her.”
“Rubber gloves?”
“We carry boxes of them in the patrol cars.”
“Oh, then what did you do?”
“After I got all the handcuffs off of her we determined that she wasn't being victimized.”
“All the handcuffs? How many did they have on her?”
“Four sets. One on each wrist and ankle.”
“Oh I love that!”
He waited until I shut up.
“It's not against the law to have an orgy in the privacy of your own home,” he went on, “So we left.”
“Oh, that's a relief,” I said deeply. “But do tell me more.”
He thought for a moment, then chuckled. “I wasn't on the call, but two officers on my squad were sent to an apartment in a very ritzy area. It seems that a guy was visiting a professional dominatrix and she had handcuffed him to a torture bench.”
“What was she doing to him?” I asked.
“Use your imagination,” he said wryly.
“Oh, believe me, I am,” I gushed.
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Please do go on.”
“When it came time to release him she couldn't find a handcuff key so she got dressed and went out to buy one. She was gone a long time and he got impatient so he got off the bench and dragged it to the telephone and called the police. The officers arrived just as she got home. She explained what was going on and showed them up to the apartment. She was quite matter of fact about it, but then it wasn't illegal.”
“Oh, I've met one of those ladies,” I said.
“As her client?” he asked.
“No, she works in a store that I frequent. She's a lesbian and offered to have a free session with me but I'm not interested in other women.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Tell me more about the call,” I asked.
“The cops released the guy and he got dressed. He was very annoyed but she offered to give him an extra two hours to make up for the inconvenience.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Yes, but the guy couldn't stay, so she gave him a card for a free session at a later date. A rain check for a spanking, you might say.”
“Did she offer your friends a police discount?”
He didn't answer.
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