This story should ideally be read after "Rachel and Picabo Street: A Fantasy," as some of the same characters are involved.
O N E
Rachel turned off Sunset onto a darkened side street. She was quite shaken, having just nearly fallen asleep at the wheel. She drove only a few hundred feet, then pulled over to the curb. She turned off the lights and cut the ignition. She thought, Why did I have that third glass of champagne?
She had just come from a party. Jim was supposed to join her there, but had called at five to say that a client needed to meet with him right away and that it would be late before he could get away. "Go without me," he had said. So she had. These late meetings were becoming more and more frequent, and she was getting annoyed. She had put on one of her black cocktail dresses, gotten behind the wheel of the black Lexus and driven to John's. She and John led classes at a local gym, and he was hosting a party to celebrate the release of his new exercise video, in which she appeared.
She had two glasses of champagne, the most she ever drank, while she mingled at the party. As she put her glass down and prepared to say thanks and good night, a man appeared right in front of her. He introduced himself: Juan, a friend of John's. He was a compact man, only her height, five foot seven, probably in his mid thirties. Everything about him was tight, including his clothes, and his teeth were absurdly white. He must be a trainer, she thought. He had spoken to her, but she had had trouble following what he said. She was getting tipsy. Then, somehow, she was holding a third glass of champagne, nearly empty, and Juan was once again right in front of her, quite close and blinding her with his smile. All at once she knew she had to get out of there, get some fresh air. She had left without saying good night.
Now she sat in her lightless car on a dark, deserted street. Let me just close my eyes for a minute, she thought. She leaned her head against the window.
She was jolted awake by a terrible cracking sound. She attempted to shift her position but was held fast by her seat belt. A thousand questions collided in her brain. What was that? Where am I? What time is it? Where's Jim? The cracking sound repeated itself. She jerked her head to the left. Someone was knocking on her window.
Oh no, it's a cop, she realized. She looked into her rearview mirror and saw the cop car's swirling lights. Using a nightstick the cop knocked again. She was petrified. She had never been in any trouble, and here she was driving drunk. The cop spoke sharply. "Roll down your window."
It was a woman's voice. She was shocked, then slightly relieved. "I have to start the car to do that." The cop took a step back and nodded. She started the engine and lowered the window.
The cop stepped forward. "Turn your engine off." She did so. Her eyes having adjusted to the light, she could now see that the cop was indeed female, though she was the height and weight of an average-sized man. Her breasts were large, and they stretched the fabric of her tight-fitting shirt. Wisps of hair escaped from under her cap. She seemed to be Hispanic.
"Let me see your license and registration." The cop replaced her nightstick, reached for her flashlight and shined it at her face and the glove compartment. Though still very nervous, she was able to present the documents without her hands shaking too much.
The cop shifted her light to look at the papers in her hand. "You know, I followed you because you were driving erratically on Sunset. Have you been drinking?"
"Oh no, I'm just very ..." Suddenly, she was gripping the steering wheel, head bent forward, weeping. A minute later she sat back, sighed and sniffed. "Please. I never do this. I'm not a bad person. I've never been in any trouble." She stared straight ahead, her hands still gripping the wheel. The cop was silent. When she finally looked at her, the cop was looking up the street, seemingly lost in thought.
The cop broke the silence and looked at her intently. "All right. I could bust you. You know that. But I want something from you. And what I want could get me into a whole lotta trouble. So if I help you out, you gotta help me out. So, if you'll let me, I'm gonna sit next to you and tell you what I want. Okay?"
She knew where this was headed, yet her mood actually brightened. What the cop couldn't possibly know was that, though married, she was very attracted to dominant women, that she had a long-distance, nonexclusive mistress/slave relationship with Picabo Street, the ex-Olympic skier. She looked demurely at the cop and said simply, "Okay," and watched as this powerful woman strode back to her car to shut off the lights and around to the passenger's side of the Lexus. She began to get wet.
The cop didn't hesitate once she was settled in the car. "Look, we're both adults. My thing is women. I love beautiful women, and you're really beautiful. I can make your troubles disappear. You feelin' me?"
She made herself wait, though she wanted this woman. Finally she said, "Yes."
"Okay, that's cool. Unbuckle your seat belt." She did as she was told, feeling the cop's eyes looking her up and down. She felt like a piece of meat, which added to her excitement. The cop said, "Gimme a kiss," and she yielded to the hungry lips, the hand at her throat, the probing tongue. The kiss went on and on and on. The cop finally broke it off and said, "Wow. I think I just hit the jackpot. I think you like girls too. In fact I think you like dominant girls." She paused. "You don't have to answer me, but if I'm right, I want you to do something for me." She reached to her belt and brought the nightstick to her lips. "If what I said is true, I want you to kiss it."
She kissed it. "Yeah." The cop shifted the nightstick to between her legs, up the cocktail dress, and pressed it against her pussy lips. "Yeah." But then she withdrew it to her belt. "Look, baby, I can't hang tonight, but I want us both to masturbate before I go. But don't you come before I do." With that she unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned her pants and thrust her hand between her legs.
She pulled her dress up and did the same. She closed her eyes. She heard the cop climax, then felt three fingers invading her mouth. "Yeah, taste my juices." The cop kept her fingers in her mouth, then used the thumb and forefinger of her other hand to pinch her nostrils closed. Being unable to breathe caused her quickly to climax.
* * *
The cop stood by her door. She was writing on her pad. She tore off the paper, folded it and handed it to her. She laughed. "No, it's not a ticket." But then she got serious. She leaned throught the window and kissed her. "Promise me you're okay and you'll get home safely." She nodded, and the cop went back to her car, and in a moment she was gone.
Rachel started her car, tumed on the overhead light and read the note. There was a name, Ramona Perez, an address in Inglewood, but no phone, and the words ''I'm off Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Come see me."
She put the note in her purse, straightened herself up and put her car in gear, feeling remarkably light and clear-headed.
T W O
She gripped the steering wheel and stared through the windshield. She was parked across from a modest bungalow whose address corresponded to the one Ramona Perez had written down for her almost two weeks ago. All the houses on this block in Inglewood were modest. It would be awful to live here, she thought, then scolded herself for thinking such a thing.
It was Wednesday, 11:00am, and looking down at her arms she laughed aloud lightly. Exactly twenty-four hours earlier she had been in precisely this same position. Yesterday, however, she had not gotten out of the car, paralyzed by fear of the unknown. She wondered what she would do today.
She longed for this woman to make love to her and had thought of little else since Ramona had sat beside her in her car. She thrilled every time she remembered how Ramona had kissed her and effortlessly taken control. She melted whenever she fantasized about what this woman might do to her when they met. She hoped she would be cruelly punished and used.
After much thought earlier in the morning she had chosen to dress casually, as if for work, in workout shorts, a tanktop and running shoes. She had added only a moisturizer and light lip gloss to her face, and done her long blonde hair in a simple ponytail. If anyone asked, she or Ramona could say she was Ramona's personal trainer, working with her at home. Plus, in this neighborhood, she was calling enough attention to herself by being white and driving a new Lexus.
"Go ahead, you ninny, go to the door." She realized she had spoken out loud. God, I'm really losing it, she thought. And then, in a flash, she was out of the car, walking rapidly to the front door.
She rang the doorbell, and the moment she did all the anxieties flooded over her. What if this is the wrong house? What if she doesn't remember me? Doesn't like me? There was no answer, which was both a disappointment and a relief. She turned away from the door; then she heard it open and turned back.
Ramona loomed in the doorway. She evidently was fresh from the shower. She wore a robe, and her lank black hair hung wetly down to her shoulders. Ramona looked blankly at her. "Yes?" was all she said.
She felt like she had been punched. "You don't ... you don't remember me? In my car ..."
"Oh, oh, oh, of course I do. Forgive me. That was nighttime, and you were dressed so different. It just took me a minute to recognize you." She took a step outside and swiveled her head up and down the street. "Come in," she half whispered, indicating she should enter.
She stood in the small entranceway, facing right. Directly ahead of her was the kitchen, narrow and featuring a formica-topped rectangular metal table with four matching red-vinyl-cushioned chairs. To the right was the living room, dim because all the drapes were closed. To the left was a narrow hallway that she thought must lead to the bedrooms.
Ramona said, "Look, sit in the kitchen. Have coffee if you want. I have some made. Let me just dry my hair and get dressed, and I'll be out in a few minutes." She was off down the hall.
