The Pussy Patrol

Ahhh, hello. New recruits, eh? Sit down, make yourself comfortable. I won't lie, it's a tough job, but someone has to do it.

It's dangerous too; the Pussy Patrol has seen injuries and attacks on the brave officers who keep the streets safe for the men and women of this fair land. We get trained in self-defence; we get protection, but it's no match for the violence we face on a regular basis.

Be prepared for it. Sure, most days it's fine. The people respect and admire us, we get nods of appreciation as I request to see the papers of the women in the street; we're for everyone's safety.

Sometimes, well, it doesn't quite go to plan.

Like last weekend.

You may recall it was a warm summer night and there were dozens of young ladies milling about in short clubbing dresses outside the hottest nightclubs. It had been a busy shift, but I hadn't found any rule-breakers until I reached the Ozone nightclub. "Papers please," I asked politely at a couple of drunken women standing outside the electric blue neon sign. One showed me her pink card immediately, while the other girl squealed in horror.

"I've left it at home. Oh ... shit. Shit! Shit! Shit!"

A familiar excuse; you'll hear this feeble defence lots.

I glanced around me, gestured at her friend to move on, while taking the errant lady into the doorway of a closed supermarket. This was between the anxious brunette and myself. "How do I know that's not an unlicensed pussy?"

"It isn't, it isn't," she implored, scrabbling around in her handbag pointlessly.

"Unless you have a license for it, you are in possession of unlicensed genitalia. I have to take action." We had a few sniffles and cries; the woman stroking around her bag for another time while barely accepting the trouble she was in.

But I had to use my judgement. We don't want to arrest and detain forgetful ladies, just the dangerous ones and so used my experience to assess her. Do I call for back-up, drag her to the Pussy Patrol Station, strip her, interview her, check her details on the computer and then issue her with a fine, wasting everybody's evening. Or do I simply slap a chastity belt on her, take her details and she can collect the key within a week when she displays her license to the duty clerk at the station? Obviously, the second option is more preferable to everyone, but it does come with a cost: to me and the duty clerk.

She groans as she realises her futile bag searches are in vain. "Can I have a seven day wonder?" I ponder her expression briefly; a mixture of frustration and nervousness. I would imagine she's been in this position before so she knows the process well.

"Ummm ... maybe." I'm not showing all my cards at once; her chosen solution is possible, it depends on her.

"For some French kissing, lower down?" I'm not sure how I resisted laughing; such a quaint term! But it had been a busy night with no rule-breakers, so I wanted more than a blow-job. She gasped as I demanded access to her unlicensed pussy. After all, as a responsible member of the Pussy Patrol, I sometimes have to do internal inspections with the nature's optimal tool for the job. "This is so unfair," she snapped.

"I can call for back-up and we'll sort this out down the station," I reminded her; she became more compliant, tucking the hem of her dress into her cleavage, displaying her knickerless cunt to the world. "You came out to get screwed then," I mused; she didn't disagree. The flash of her pink as her fellow clubbers walked aimlessly past hardened my cock; I unwrapped our Pussy Patrol badged condom. The teat adorned with a shield, the latex ribbed and dotted for their pleasure and mine.

A squirt of Pussy Patrol lubricant, and a Pussy Patrol vibrating cock ring prepared me for the inspection. Her hands were placed on the wall of the alcove, her legs parted to allow me access. She grunted angrily as my cock slid along her crack: indignant at her punishment yet guiding my lubricated prick into her hole, whimpering as it filled her cunt.

The vibrations surged up my cock as I thrusted deep; the gentle squelching and quiet hum of our sex was audible above the distant purr of the traffic. The bulbous vibrator of the cock ring was positioned underneath my shaft and nestled against her clit, causing desperate cries from her mouth.

Her cunt squirmed and quivered, as I pounded. Her mews became louder and passionate.

She was fighting with her self-respect: she didn't want to come in front of me, in front of the audience watching me punish the forgetful clubber, or even climax in public. She didn't want her body to react to my satisfaction with her own. I was the enemy. I was the bastard who stopped her. I was the evil swine who was fucking her.

But I wasn't the real enemy: her lust and arousal were. The trembling cock ring was delivering unrelenting vibrations to her sensitive clit and her body was releasing the torrent of frustration with a vocal climax that echoed in the small thoroughfare.

Her quivering cunt on the second wave of orgasmic bliss, triggered my orgasm as I filled the navy teat of my Police-issued condom. I withdrew from her moist hole, leaving her panting as I opened my bag and snapped a chastity belt over her cunt. Her whimpers became louder as the locks slapped shut. "Please," she begged, sliding her barely-dressed body up to mine and pressing me against the wall. Her hands explored my body as her tongue explored my mouth. "Please, let me party tonight, it's not dangerous, is it? You can put it anywhere!" She panted. I resisted, pushing her from me and filled in the form, taking her name and address, as she ungratefully snatched the notice I had given her.

And that would have been the end of my day, if I hadn't have got a tap on my shoulder as I was about to return to the station. The brunette stood aside a uniformed officer, holding a warrant card aloft. "Papers please." "What?"

"Papers please. Prick Patrol." My heart pounded as I felt for my wallet in my trouser pocket; it was missing.

"It's here somewhere," I panicked. "I must have ... maybe dropped it ... or it's at the station. I ..."

"A likely excuse," the Prick Patrol officer snarled. "So that's an unlicensed cock," she mused, opening her rucksack to withdraw a pad of notices. "And I bet you've got unlicensed balls too!"

"Hey, I don't think we need to do all this. It's around somewhere and ..."

"I think we do," she snapped, glancing at the brunette giggling beside her. "You stopped my little sister for her violation, I'm stopping you for yours. Would you do the honours?" The brunette picked a chastity cage from the bag as the officer scribbled the notice on her pad, barely watching her sister advance on me with the steel device.

"Hey," I snapped aggressively, pushing the brunette aside and walking towards the sadistic patrolwoman to remonstrate. She had my arm pinned to my back in seconds, spitting threatening words into my ear. I had to be a good little violator and suck down my punishment or else.

I knew what the "or else" meant; the Prick Patrol girls don't play nice and they don't always play fair. I resentfully lowered my trousers, and the brunette's cold hands on my cock made me flinch. The pink steel ring hinged open and slipped behind my balls: the cage positioned over my dick as my ticket was written out.

"And because he resisted arrest, I feel some more punishment is in order," the officer decreed, opening her bag to remove a Prick Patrol pink strap-on. Her sister cooed as I panicked, needlessly checking my trouser pockets again. I was in denial. I jabbered, as the officer fastened the six inch dildo and harness onto her sister, covering it with lubricant.

I was told to turn around; I refused, The officer threatened me with a twelve-inch specimen in the Prick Patrol cells and I relented; my palms pressed against a low wall as the brunette pressed the lubricated dildo against my hole.

I tried to relax; even as the clubbers laughed at the Pussy Patrol officer being sodomised, I just tried to relax: be the pebble on the beach or the ripple in the stream. Just find inner peace.

Only the brunette screaming with excitement as my backside was speared by her strap-on didn't help. My yell of surprise and discomfort made everyone smile, my cries made many laugh. She panted loudly as her bucking hips drove the phallus deeper and deeper inside of me; the toy sliding over my prostate mercilessly.

My cock, painfully encased in the unwanted steel, hung lifeless from my body: unable to respond to the stimulation of my prostate. It was agony, sheer excruciating agony as the brunette powered the firm dildo into me with ever increasing force.

She pulled on my hips, just as I had done with her. She grunted and sighed as my bondaged cock fought against its metal prison: the bars digging into my skin.

She slapped my backside playfully; it hurt my pride more than my flesh. She patronised me, I was "taking it like a good boy" and "nearly there, poppet." The crowd giggled as she played to her audience, high-fiving them as her fingers pulled me onto her strap-on.

"That's enough," the sadistic officer muttered. The stern words preceded the slurp of my backside as the dildo was fully withdrawn and I frantically dressed myself, desperate to leave the area.

"There's your notice," she cried as my boxer shorts covered my caged cock. "Bring your license within seven days and we'll remove the cage," she said with a smirk. "I hope you've learned a lesson tonight."

I nodded, backing away from the two girls and the assembled mass of people.

"One more thing," the brunette shouted. "Have your wallet back!" With a toss of her hand and a wicked smile, a package left her fingers. I caught my brown leather pouch as it reached me and saw my blue Dick License in the front. "You should be careful which drunken girl you let fondle you!"

The scheming witch!

So that's the moral guys: be careful out there; it's up to us to protect men and women from unlicensed pussies but trust no-one. Absolutely no-one.