Chapter 3 - Mug Shots
My thoughts were still on my husband when the cock in my mouth finally discharged. At first, I wasn't even fully conscious of the fact he was ejaculating because there wasn't a lot of fluid -- just a sudden increase in the saltiness of my saliva. I sucked slightly harder and prepared myself for a blast of gushing jism, but it didn't happen. Officer Al was now jerking his hips a bit, and I could tell by his low, throaty growls that he was in the throes of pleasure, but that was it. There was maybe fifteen seconds of this and then he pushed my forehead back and withdrew his cock.
"Whatd'ya think, Al? Did she make you cum?" Phil asked.
"Yeah. A bit."
"Only a bit?"
"Well," Al paused while he pulled up his trousers. "I had already cum three times tonight. She was lucky to get anything at all from my balls!"
All the men laughed loudly. I just felt numb.
"What about you, Sarge? You want to empty your balls too?" Phil asked, turning to the desk sergeant.
"Yeah, but not now. I've gotta get Miss Tijuana over there processed before I finish my shift."
He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall -- 11:45pm. The girl in the leather hood made no sound or anything to suggest she even heard him.
"OK then. Well, I'm outta here," Phil said.
He turned to leave but suddenly stopped, as if he'd suddenly forgotten something. "Brad!"
The officer in charge of the hooker laughed. "Yes, Phil?"
"Do -- you -- want to fuck this slut's face before we lock her up for the night?"
"Thanks man, but I've got to process this bitch first, and she's been such a fucken cunt to bring in that I'm saving myself to fuck her ass good and proper!"
The officers all laughed at this, like there was some secret joke going on between them. I didn't care and was too tired to try and guess what was going on. All I wanted to do was get off my knees and have the booking process finished. Officer Brad and Al then jerked the hooker's leash and dragged her toward the corridor that led to the interview room. I watched silently as she tripped and stumbled blindly behind them -- her screaming protests reactivated but mumbled behind the mask.
"On ya feet, slave 802120," the desk sergeant said.
I struggled to obey his command, but the short chain between my ankles made it exceedingly difficult. With much effort, I eventually got to my feet and shuffled behind the desk sergeant as he led me into a small room behind his desk.
"Stand against the wall," he said, indicating a brightly painted wall with height markers on it. "Mug-shot time."
I remained expressionless as he snapped Polaroid photos of me standing against the wall -- full frontal; in profile; and finally from behind. When I thought he was done I started to turn back to face him, but he ordered me not to move. I stood there facing the wall for what felt like an eternity, no longer sure whether or not he was even still in the room. I was about to sneak a look over my shoulder when he suddenly reappeared behind me.
He tied a black satin scarf as a blindfold around my head and knotted it tightly. I felt momentarily unsteady on my feet in the darkness but eventually a sense of balance returned. Not being able to see what he was doing made me feel uneasy, although the sound of the Polaroid clicking and whirring again at least provided a clue. I'd hear a few shots and then he'd reposition me, turning me this way and that until I could no longer remember which way I was facing. He didn't say anything, but if I concentrated really hard, I could hear him breathing. The sound of keys rattling caught my attention. I sensed him close behind me and then felt his hands at my ankles. The manacles around them were unlocked and removed, followed by the ones securing my wrists behind my back. I heard them drop with a clunk on the floor.
"Put your arms out," he said from a position uncomfortably close behind me. "Place your hands on the wall and assume the position."
I knew what he meant, and my pulse quickened a beat. I reached out cautiously until I could feel the wall in front of me and placed the palms of my hands against it. Pushing myself slowly away, I stepped back until I was a full arm's length away from it and then took a couple of small, tentative steps that forced me to lean forward.
"Spread your legs," he whispered.
I inched my feet apart on the floor.
"I need to check you for contraband," he said.