Another boring morning in traffic court. One of the tickets I'd written--45 in a school zone--was being disputed. Plenty of cops don't show up for disputed tickets, but if I wrote a ticket it was for a reason, and I certainly wasn't going to let some metrosexual on a cell phone go 20 miles over the limit and then get away with it because I didn't feel like going to court. I was talking with my buddy Kevin, another cop, when she walked in.
"Jeeeez," I leaned over to Kevin. "Who's the idiot who wrote her a ticket? He must have been either blind or gay."
Kevin was panting like a dog in heat. "I know, man. If I pulled her over and got a look at that body, I'd forget how to write a ticket. Hell, I'd be lucky if I remembered where I left my squad car."
She was 5'8", with legs that went on forever. Thick black hair that hung in waves halfway down her back. Gorgeous dark brown eyes and perfect olive skin. Luscious breasts that really stood up and said hello. And her ass, oh, her ass . . . Let's just say that if she stood next to Jennifer Lopez, you'd say, "J.Lo? J.Lo who?"
My case was called early, but I hung around, watching her work as she waited for her case to be called. She had some papers out and was marking them with a red pen. I couldn't see exactly what or why.
"Miranda Diaz," the bailiff called. The goddess stood up; the officer who ticketed her didn't. Case dismissed. The judge was about 80 years old and he was probably popping a hard-on under his robe.
I'd stepped out the minute her case was called, so I met her in the lobby. "Ms. Diaz, I hope you won't see this as forward, but I'd like to take you out to coffee. No pressure," I said, handing her my card. "I'm officer Jake Sirroco," I said, showing her my badge. "I promise won't follow you around giving you tickets if you say no." She smiled. We went for coffee. Six months later we were living together. Bada-bing, bada-boom.
On top of being drop-dead gorgeous, Miranda is smart and funny. I'm not the best looking guy on the force, but at 6'2" and 200 pounds, I keep in shape from the job and the gym. Miranda told me she liked that I didn't come on with the typical Latino machismo, that I could actually talk about my feelings, although that wouldn't be something I'd want spread around the precinct.
The sex was hot, right from the beginning, but one night it got a whole lot hotter.
I'd gotten home from a shift a little late and Miranda had dinner warming in the oven. I normally didn't like to eat in my uniform--I didn't like to bring work home--but she told me the meal would be ruined by the time I showered and changed. As we ate the delicious Cuban meal she'd made, I caught her staring at me. The first few times, I looked down, thinking I had spilled food on myself or my fly was hanging open. Finally, I just came out and asked her what was up.
"Remember how I told you about the time I almost got arrested," she said, not looking me in the eye, but focusing on my belt. I had come straight to the table without even putting away my handcuffs or any of my other gear. The only thing I had stashed was my gun.
"Yeah." Her car had matched the description of a getaway car driven in a robbery earlier the same day, with a dark-haired woman at the wheel. She'd been cuffed and stuffed in the back of a cruiser before the officer was able to verify she'd been at work at her job as a Spanish-language magazine editor for hours before and after the crime.
"Well, there's something I didn't tell you, Jake," she said, staring intently now at her food, but never glancing up at me. "When the officer cuffed me and patted me down, it really turned me on. I mean, he wasn't even good-looking, but I got all, what's the phrase, hot and bothered. Even in the back of the car, the feel of the cuffs against my wrists, the idea that I was helpless whatever he might do, it was so exciting."
I'd bet most cops have had the experience of getting turned on patting down a suspect. I know I have. A few creeps even go over the line and do things they shouldn't. Luckily, they usually get caught and wind up fired or in jail, depending on how far over the line they went. But here was the woman I loved, giving me the green light to live out a fantasy we both apparently shared.
"Look at me, Miranda. I'm totally into this," I told her. "You have no idea how into this I am, but you have to promise me, if you get uncomfortable, or if something hurts, you'll tell me. You have to give me a word or a sign. Yell out libertad, okay?"
"Okay," she said, finally looking at me.
I was on her in a second, using the voice I used at work but had never used on her before.
"Put your hands up, up where I can see them!" Her hands shot up. "Now stand up, slowly, and put your hands on the wall." She walked to the dining room wall, her hands still above her head. I got right up behind her. "Spread your legs! Wider! I want them farther apart than your shoulders." I kicked her ankles with my foot, pushing her legs apart. "Do you have any guns or knives?"
She nodded her head no.
