A Conflict of Interest

If her boss had known about it, she would never have been allowed near the detainee interrogation room, of course. A conflict of interest. And a major one, too. A huge big fat conflict of interest the size of St Paul's Cathedral. But she hadn't said anything to Morris. She could hardly believe she was going to do this, because DS Paula Hatcher had always done things by the book. By the book, and to the letter. And she was an excellent detective sergeant, she knew she was. Intuitive. She could read people. So how had all this got past her? Had she let her judgment be clouded by infatuation?

Yes, that was probably the best word for it - infatuation. But how was she going to explain this to Chief Inspector Morris later? Because it would all come out in the wash for sure. She had rushed into interview duty simply because she just had to see Charlie again. Even though it was going to be in the interrogation room at her own police station. Yes, at her very own nick. Her Charlie. Well, that was how she had come to think of him, she admitted to herself with a heavy sigh, "my Charlie."

The power he had had over her (and still did, apparently). Well did she remember the wetness between her legs that first night. Before he had even really touched her at all. "God, yes," she remembered thinking to herself when she finally felt his hand slip under her skirt and then slowly rise into her forest wetlands in the lift up to Paula's flat the night they met. He had been surprised and gratified -- not to mention profoundly excited - to find her little knickers were already absolutely sodden.

"Never on a first date, Paula." It sounded a kind of silly cliché now, but that was her rule. Well, it had been. It had been her rule. But it was a rule she had thrown to the ground and trampled underfoot into little pieces on the very first night she met Charlie Redman.

And since that night Charlie had screwed her willing police officer pussy every which way. He had taken her anal cherry, too. No, it was more than that. He had taken it, yes, but he had slid into that forbidden dark hole at her own bidding. Not so much her bidding as her begging, in fact. She had never thought she would let anyone at all in there, let alone suggest it herself. "How many backdoor virgins actually ask to be arse-fucked?" wondered Paula to herself.

Paula was no pussy virgin, though. No shrinking violet she, either. Paula liked sex, and by age 38 she'd been bedded by quite a few men, maybe a dozen, some of them more memorable than others. But none of them had even come close to Charlie. He'd given her orgasms she didn't even know she was allowed to have. His lovemaking kept her mouth permanently open in an O of ecstatic amazement as he worked on her. The men she was used to had employed their hands very little during sex, or even not at all, but Charlie had this technique of resting his gently on her shoulders, and jerking them down sharply so that her cunt would meet each inward thrust of his thick veiny rod much harder. Or he'd roll her over him, and his hands, holding her buttocks in the steeliest of steely grips, would pull her down just a little more violently as she glided to the base of that slippery pole. Or he'd simply run his hands all over her firm, small breasts, her ears, her hair, her arms, her legs or her clit as he fucked her. And she didn't even dare remember how wonderful his hot tongue felt when it ran riot all over her equally hot cunt.

And the things Charlie said to her. "Oh, all those things he used to say," thought Paula, wistfully. She loved to hear him talk as he rode her so roughly. Roughly, true, but there was a kind of tenderness to his manhandling of her body too. He seemed to time his sexy words so well, just at the moment he knew she was at her horniest, to double or triple or quadruple her horniness with a few well-chosen phrases: he would be deep inside her tight wetness, for instance, and then he'd hold himself in there right up to his balls, deliberately flex himself and whisper how good her hole felt clamped around his shaft like a vice. "I can feel you gripping my stiff cock with that tight cunt of yours, gel," he'd say.

Gel. That was what he used to call her. And Paula loved being called gel. It wasn't his accent, in the way some Londoners say "gel" for "girl", it was just a thing he had. Sometimes he'd take it out and stare down at her, on his knees, masturbating that thick pussy-poker slowly, proudly, showing it to her, so she understood it was soon going to be fucking her hard again, then he'd bring it up to just barely graze her quivering vulva, rub it around her red, red thatch a little, and say "Is that red pussy going to swallow me, then, gel?", and then she'd grab at it herself impatiently because she just couldn't wait, and slide it home like a woman possessed.

He had a way of controlling her. But he was controlling someone who wanted to be controlled, who desperately sought his control. The second night, after he had fucked her cunt raw for a solid hour, a whole sweat-drenched hour, and given her so many orgasms she'd lost count, he finally took that rigid rod out, slid it unceremoniously into her mouth, still dripping with her juice, and said "I'm going to empty my cock in here, Paula gel, and you're going to swallow it. All my spunk. You're going to take it all in your mouth." No, not even so much as a 'please'. But there was no need for any please or a by your leave, because Paula would have cut one of her own arms off just to feel Charlie's warm sperm shooting down her throat, if that was what he wanted.

When he'd finished, he had slapped both her cheeks a little with it as they panted. Then he had let go of his cock and said, "Now you slap yourself about a little too, gel". And she had done so, tentatively at first, but then he had snapped, "Harder! Harder, Paula!" And so, with her finger a blur rubbing at her clitoris, feeling like a cheap whore -- and wallowing gleefully in the feeling - DS Hatcher had cock-whipped her own face in a frenzy on her second date with Charlie until both her cheeks and his spent member were glowing bright red. "Yes," Paula thought as she walked uneasily down the corridor towards the interview room, "it was infatuation. That's what it was."

But it wasn't just the sex. Charlie was the perfect gentleman. Paula wasn't used to men dutifully reaching round ahead of her to open doors. Even the door of his car. She thought she had only ever seen that done in old films, where Cary Grant or someone opens the door for the woman to get in first, closes the door very carefully, taking care not to get her skirt caught in it, and then walks around the car to get in himself, or gets out after he parks, and hurries round to open the woman's door for her. Sometimes she thought he must have studied all those old films, because these days, Paula asked herself, how many men spring politely to their feet from a sitting position when a woman arrives, or gets up to leave? Not many, but Charlie did. While down at her nick, Carfax, Robinson, Pettigrew and the rest of them would have very few scruples about absent-mindedly scratching their balls or their arses in full view of her or the other female officers. Or taking a gulp from a can of Pepsi, and belching loudly and deliberately as they peered at their PCs.

And he was interesting. She would mention a certain place or a certain thing, and he would have been to the place or would have experience of the thing or, if not, he knew about them, and could talk about them knowledgeably at length. He could cook. Not haute cuisine, mind you, but he wasn't the type who offered to heat up some Heinz baked beans for you, and dump them on soggy toast with a bit of Marmite, washed down with Newcastle Brown Ale straight from the can.

Educated, too. He spoke Spanish, Italian, and some Russian too. He didn't have an upper-class English accent or anything like that, nothing so snobbish or posh, but his speech certainly wasn't peppered with the lewd copper talk DS Hatcher was so used to hearing down at the station. Apart from the dirty little phrases he breathed in her ear when he was pleasuring her that turned Paula on so much, probably the most vulgar word in his entire vocabulary was 'bloody', and he didn't say that one very often either. Even when he gently stroked her bottom, it didn't seem vulgar, the way you see some men rubbing their hands all over their woman in a rather disgusting public grope. No, his hand kind of glided over her. Over her bottom, or any part of her body. And he had this thing when he would suddenly stop in mid-sentence as he was talking to her, look her up and down in a way that simply melted Paula, give her one of his engaging smiles, and then dive on to her neck and peck at it, kiss her ear and whisper "Mm, don't you smell sexy, Paula gel?"

Infatuated? Smitten? Bowled over? Swept off her feet? Yes, it had been all that, all that all at once ...

Paula took a deep breath, and opened the door of the interview room, and there he was, her Charlie, handcuffed to the metal arch at the centre of the table. Charlie Redman, caught by her own colleagues with a truckload of the stuff.

"What do I do for a living?" he had laughed over a Chardonnay that first night, eyes twinkling: "Oh, import and export, commodities, a bit of this, a bit of that, you know."

No, she hadn't known. But she knew now it had been more a case of import and distribution, and no export at all. And he'd omitted to mention that one of the 'commodities' was heroin. It turned out it was the only commodity he dealt in, in fact. DS Hatcher's Charlie was a smack trafficker. And she hadn't had the faintest idea...