Homicide Detective's Dilemma

I prematurely submitted an earlier version of this story, leaving out critical parts I intended to include. please enjoy!

Part On

I was a cop in a large west coast American city. I served as a homicide detective, where I learned to read people. Not just hear their words, but read body language. Any hesitation before an answer was a clue to its truthfulness. I was a true believer in justice. I often got to know my clients pretty well. My clients were the Decedent's surviving family members. In many cases, we developed a strong bond based on trust and a shared commitment to getting justice for them.

One case involved the shooting death of a young man outside a night club. Over the course of the investigation, I learned the act was both retaliatory and random. Retaliatory based on the shooter feeling disrespected, but random in that he fired into a crowd. His victim could have been anyone in that crowd, but it wasn't. The victim was Rochelle's son, Marc. Marc was a victim in the truest sense. He went to the club with friends. They weren't carrying weapons. He died in his dancing shoes. The sadness and senselessness of this killing weighed deeply upon my thoughts and dreams. I was like a dog with a bone, chewing on the available facts, pondering my next steps, and frequently checking in with Rochelle to keep her from wondering if I'd moved on to other cases.

Rochelle was young for having a son old as Marc. She possessed an inner beauty, elegance and intelligence. I looked forward to speaking with her. Was it because I felt the need to console her, or was it because of those intelligent, thoughtful brown eyes of hers that held onto me through every word, every sentence, every greeting and good-bye? When I worked on this case, I felt those brown eyes were always on me. She was a loving mom. Her son was taken by a purely evil and selfish act. Under the gaze of those brown eyes, was where I held myself to account for the success or failure of my investigation. I would see those eyes in my sleep, when I was most vulnerable to impure thought. Shaking my head to clear away imagined cob webs, I would put those thoughts away and focus.

It's always a challenge to solve cases where the shooter and decedent didn't know one another. In this instance, luck and determination helped. I identified the perpetrator, and arrested him. He was subsequently tried and convicted. Throughout the process, Rochelle and I stayed in close contact. We had each other's cell phone numbers, so that if there were any last minute changes to the trial schedule, I could let her know. We sometimes shared late night, personal messages about the fragility of life and living like there were no guarantees. I felt vulnerable in those moments, but I knew Rochelle was counting on me for support. I felt an intense need to remain professional and not let her down.

Unbeknownst to me, she would often go into her guest bedroom for these late night texts, to conceal herself from her boyfriend (Sherrod) so he wouldn't see her teasing herself with the white dildo she kept in that room. Rochelle had never been with a white man. She had never considered what that might be like. Until...

***

I prepared Rochelle for the outcome of the trial, knowing that Juries are hard to predict. She knew there was a chance the shooter could dodge justice. He could be freed.

I also prepared Rochelle for what happens after the case is concluded. There would become a void to her life's purpose where seeking justice currently occupied. Learning to live without her son, without the endless court appearances, without our frequent communication. In truth, I was preparing myself, as well. I would miss our talks, texts, the looks she would give me sometimes and watching her walking away. I didn't objectify her sexually. I kept telling myself that.

****

Guilty! The jury got it right, and I saw a warmth in Rochelle's eyes that day. She gave me an all-enveloping hug pulling me down into her with a tight hold low enough so that I could hear her whispered voice, "Marc's life had meaning. You wouldn't allow me to forget that. He lives on in my heart. Happiness falters, but it will grow anew. oh, thank you, Tim." I felt her hand reach across my firearm, to a place just above my belt. from this position she was able to pull me tight to her hip. Police Officers are trained to protect our gun side, but I didn't make a move to do so.

For that moment, I forgot about courtroom decorum, professionalism and the fact there was a courtroom full of onlookers. We squeezed each other tightly, sealing one another's bodies together with unrestricted warmth and acceptance. It was inappropriate, but my body disobeyed my mind when I commanded it to break the hold on her. I drank in her scent, pulling it deep into my lungs. She must have had similar impulses, because I felt an almost imperceptible grinding motion from her hips into me. It sent an electrical shock through my body.

That moment was the only time I had ever crossed the line. A little while later, I walked her to her car, helping her get through the crowd of media, friends (of the defendant and victim) and curious onlookers that typically accompany a verdict in a big case. She and I made eye contact just before I closed her car door. She bore an expression I hadn't seen before. It was a deep penetrating gaze. her lips came together and her head nodded slightly forward. She didn't blink, and seemed to be saying quite a lot without uttering a sound. I was struck in the moment by how beautiful and enticing she was. I had been nearly obsessed to solve her son's case. I had not been consciously aware of how attracted to her I was. I just hadn't thought of her in those terms. Until that embrace, that is.

I was divorced, in my forties, tall, athletically built and easy to look at. Of Irish descent, with Nordic features, I think a 7th Century Viking ancestor of mine may have sailed to the east coast of Ireland and plundered more than material goods before he was through. I've been told I have an intense expression which makes me hard to warm up to. Divorced twice, I guess I was married to my job. I didn't date around the department, and my sexual pursuits were kept private from my professional ones. I had a large appetite for sex. Sex would occupy my mind when I had free time to imagine. I didn't act on my impulses very often, to protect and maintain my professional reputation. I was a red-blooded American male, but I needed to project self-control and calm.

Rochelle was in her late thirties, African American, dark complected with warm brown eyes. She craved sex. It provided an escape from the mundane, but mostly distracted her from intense sadness. She enjoyed and fantasized about hard sex, of the type that required intense participation from both parties. God had bestowed a "brick house" body upon her. She was built to give and withstand rough, aggressive and greedy bodily contact. She was a woman from head to toe, both inside and out. Her man was not Marc's biological dad. He and I were about the same general size. I was probably about five years his senior. We barely spoke over the years. He regarded me without obvious assessment or appraisal. He usually stepped back when Rochelle and I would discuss her son's case. He was standing back in court when Rochelle and I embraced. His expression was without obvious emotion, but it was clear the sight of me deeply leaning into Rochelle did not please him. He had the look of someone not to be taken lightly. Come to think of it, so did I. I had met such men in my professional capacity. They were slow to anger. They usually maintained a calm demeanor, but a trained eye could see the danger hiding within.

I stayed in touch with Rochelle through sentencing. I released Marc's personal property to her after the case was completely buttoned down. We spoke very few words, but it wasn't a detached silence. Sometimes words are inadequate. I had a feeling there was unfinished business between us, but the pretense to stay in touch was over.

A few years passed by, and I had retired from law enforcement. I bought a ranch, some horses and embraced the western lifestyle. I took lovers from time to time. I enjoyed the physical exchange, but sometimes found it lacking. When I needed a little help to release myself at climax, I would sometimes think of a dark-skinned beauty I once knew and imagine her brick house body grinding firmly up against mine, harder than it did in court that day. The thought took me over the top, and into a passion filled, intense release that would sometimes startle my partner.

I looked Rochelle up on social media recently. Was it curiosity or something more? Even though I had retired, and there were no regulations preventing me, I couldn't bring myself to contacting her for the carnal pleasures she was obviously capable of satisfying me with. I cared too much about her, respected her too much to use her. To actually seduce her. To take advantage of her, to act on my strong impulse to push my swollen manhood deeply inside her wet, willing Well would be a betrayal, right? To run my tongue across her breasts, down, across and inside her pussy lips was a bridge too far for the relationship that forged our bond. My throbbing cock would have to find another way to unburden itself. I didn't dare act on my impulse, but a brief internet query couldn't do any harm.

Apparently social media sites track those who look at you, and savvy users can identify those visitors.

My social media presence was devoid of any reference to my past life as a homicide cop. There were photos of me riding my horses in county fairs, parades and back country rides in the mountains. I didn't even look like the same man. That intense expression was mostly replaced by a wry smile, and a little bit of facial hair. I completed a cowboy hat well enough that one belonged on my head.

Rochelle thought so, when she viewed my page. She carefully scrolled through my photos. I filled out my Wrangler jeans well. My business slacks never revealed that, she thought. There was something irresistible about a man riding a horse. Something, indeed.

Rochelle hadn't realized so much time elapsed, and hastily closed her iPad and finished preparing dinner. Her breath was ragged, and she felt a hunger that dinner would not appease. She was living with Sherrod, the same man she'd been with during trial. Their relationship had grown somewhat cold, but remained comforting to her. She needed some of the past to get through the present and future. Her need to feel, smell and taste something from when her life was happier was intense. During lovemaking with Sherrod, she'd close her eyes and pretend her life was vibrant and filled with endless hope and possibility. Sherrod was an excellent lover. He was well endowed, and had staying power. His muscular physique was pleasing. He took the time to "whet" her appetite, and she frequently reached orgasm when he penetrated or pleasured her with his mouth. Sometimes she would have trouble climaxing, but usually found a way to get there by drifting into fantasy thoughts about a lover she'd never tasted, but with whom she had shared a form of intimacy that was hard to put into words.

While the pot of water heated up to boil, she sipped on her glass of pinot noir. As she finished a second glass, a warmth filled her body with thoughts of satisfying an old, primal need. She slipped her manicured fingers inside her jeans, finding a warm, moist place to put them to good use. Pushing her pelvis into the kitchen island, her index finger led the expedition. It was already so wet! It didn't take long before her body began to buck. The orgasm was intense, more so than any Sherrod had been able to deliver in recent memory.

She and Sherrod ate together, mostly in silence. Sherrod had to meet a client downtown, leaving her there alone. After dinner was consumed and the dishes were cleaned and put away, Rochelle drew a hot bubble bath, where she slipped her gifted body into, using a lit candle to see. Her cell phone was handy. She began to stimulate herself while imagining being pleasured by a man she once knew. She knew this man through tragedy, and knew him to be someone who lived ferociously. He must certainly love or fuck with the same intensity, she surmised. She brushed away the impulse to Sext him. She unconsciously texted his number from memory. She was typing in the number when she realized what she was doing. The water was warm, but her body shuddered as if cold. What the hell was she doing? How would he respond? She couldn't betray Sherrod, although he seemed so distant these days. Was this still even his number? She only knew that the years did not diminish her carnal need. There was only one way to satisfy this hunger. It had to be fed. It seemed so out of her character, but the thought was warm. It washed over her like the warm bubble bath. Carefully, she blocked her number from the recipient, and typed in, "You probably don't remember me." Before hitting send, she took a selfie of the front of her body, where her delicious breasts penetrated the soapy water, along with her left hand resting over her mound (a lone finger penetrating her labia). She was pleasantly surprised at how sexy she looked. Her right index finger quivered as it pressed Send. She instantly regretted it. She was researching on Google how to recall a text, when she received his response.

****

I had just finished knocking back two fingers of single malt whiskey when my phone alerted me to the incoming text. I opened the photo. Seeing the beautiful merging of soapy water and flawlessly darkened skin, I noticed a familiar ring on the hand in the photo. My body reacted strongly to what I was seeing. My mind was racing. I pushed down to flatten the rising protrusion in my Wrangler jeans. With a light-headed sense of urgency, I tried to organize my response. I began typing a reply, but lacked the necessary dexterity and clearness of thought. Was I drunk? Why was it so damn hot in here, I thought. Then, I realized lust overcame me. Maybe I should just send a photo to her. I could feel my cock straining against my jeans to get out. Indulging that, I took a picture of it in all its glory. The head pulsed, my shaft strained. It looked angry, but nothing could be so untrue. I hadn't been this turned on since... I also took a close in photo of my intense eyes. I sent a photo of the latter, with the caption, "I still smell the faint scent of perfume mixed with your flawless skin and hair. And those eyes! I imagined seeing you like this a thousand times." I held my breath when I hit send. I was relieved that I hadn't sent the dick pic, although it seemed impressive enough. I had never sent such a photo, but in the moment I began to understand why men do.

***

Sherrod had left a Nanny Cam in both bedrooms, because he thought Rochelle was fixing to cheat on him. He had put the camera inside the ceiling fan down rods months ago, orienting the lenses towards the bed. He was self-impressed with how well it blended in.

Over the past few months, he watched as she pleasured herself, alone in bed. Frequently, she retrieved a large dildo from under the spare room mattress. It was Caucasion-toned, but Sherrod gave very little thought to that. Ashamedly, it turned him on to watch her use the phallice. He mused to himself that he may be guilty of stealing, since Rochelle was the equal to any top shelf online sex worker. Should he pay her?

Rochelle would lube the dildo then put it between those big, firm tittles pointing the head up towards her mouth. Her mouth would open each time the dildo slid upwards. Sherrod could watch the camera in real time or view recordings later on. He saved them all. He would usually go to his office to see what surprises she had in store. There, he would slide out his cock and focus on the dildo sliding towards her mouth. He wouldn't last long. The thought and visual was over-powering. His spunk would explode into the cloth he kept for these occasions.

When he left after dinner, he made it to the office in time to see Rochelle leave the bedroom with the dildo. He quickly drove home and saw her car still in the driveway.

He went inside, pretending to have forgotten his wallet, but she wasn't in the kitchen. He crept upstairs and could hear the bath water running. He was disappointed that his careful planning and trickery didn't anticipate her using the tub to self-fornicate. Maybe it was just a bath. Naw. She brought Moby Dick with her. The thought brought him to full arousal, and he slipped out the front door. He drove off towards downtown, parking near a condo complex. Sending a quick text, he walked up to the front security gate as it buzzed him inside.

*****

When Rochelle received Tim's reply text, she realized her next decision would have far reaching consequences. His words were warm and they thrilled her. She ached for him. She writhed in the tub, as she imagined him there. She knew he was forbidden fruit. She had a life, and a partner whom she loved. Loved? The word confused her at the moment. She desperately needed to feel Tim, to taste him, to feel his raw power as he took her. God, he looked great in those jeans! That thought brought her closer to orgasm. The dildo was warm and malleable. It bent and folded as she rammed it inside herself. She lost all control, and momentarily feared she would damage herself with the force she was applying. Her orgasm was loud, violent and deeply satisfying.

*******

Sherrod went up the elevator to the 14th Floor. He had donned a navy blue blazer and carried a briefcase with him to suite 1415. Knocking on the door, he announced himself to the occupant as the Notary Public she scheduled to meet with. He liked these disguises, and had several more in the trunk of his car. When the door opened, an attractive blonde woman led him inside. The briefcase and blazer hit the ground before he took two steps inside. Sandra, a married single (married but living separately from her wealthy husband) turned away from Sherrod, placed her hands high on the wall, as he cupped her with his body. He brushed her hair back and buried his mouth and teeth onto her bare neck. She pushed back into him, grinding her tight little ass against his stiffening man joint. It felt evil, wrong and oh so fucking good. Sherrod said no words during the exchange. He was wild with a passion that he needed to satisfy. His visual thoughts were on Rochelle while his hands were on Sandra. She knew he was not hers. She needed his body, his brutish masculinity to take her, to wipe away the boredom and to make her feel desired. She was more than ready for him, by the time he disrobed her and pummel-fucked her hard into the wall from behind. The thought of this apex male with his chocolate skin taking her with such force sent her into orgasm, several in repetition. Her husband was an adequate lover, but this was far beyond adequate! She was exhausted and drenched in her own sweat as he dressed and left. Sandra heard his foot steps as he walked down the building hallway. She felt his seed trickling out of her womb. Moments later she was in the shower, cleaning up to meet her husband for a late night rendezvous. That had sounded so exciting to her, about an hour ago.

****

Rochelle and I talked on the phone, flirting back and forth. The innuendo was palpable. It felt fun and exciting to both of us. Rochelle felt a tinge of guilt, but she assured herself she could call the whole thing off at any time. For the moment, she was determined to have this man, to give him gifts long denied. They planned to meet the next weekend, three days from today. They agreed on meeting at a strip club near the airport. It seemed a bit tacky, but it was practical. It was dimly lit, and it would promote the mood for what may come. Chances were low that they would run into people they knew there. I booked two adjoining suites at a hotel within walking distance.