Chapter II: Hard Duty
Barney just sat there, silent as a cemetery.
"Jesus," Lisa begged, "say something, will you?" She fumbled a cigarette alight.
He stared emptily at her tobacco, shook his head as if to clear it. "Sorry. It's just hard to believe."
"What?" she bridled, spitting smoke. "That tight-assed little me has been getting her brains fucked out after ten years of complete celibacy?"
"No. I mean, that, too. But . . ." He watched her smoke some more. "Look, I don't want to hurt you, Lisa, but it's really hard for me to believe that you didn't see it coming. I mean, a guy picks you up in a bar, takes you to his room - obviously for sex - and you didn't know he thought you were a pro?"
He saw she was doing her best to control her anger, shaking with the effort as she fought for clarity. There were visible changes in her from the last time they'd shared an after shift beer. The cigarette, for one. She looked as if she'd been smoking for years, not less than a week. The white tube seemed an extension of her hand.
That, too, was slightly different. Her cuticles were pushed back and her filed nails wore a clear polish. She used them to brush an errant lock of hair from her face. She wore it down, not up and away from her pretty, angularly waifish features. It looked like she used spray or mousse to hold it, another recent development.
And the face it framed wore a touch of foundation, blush, powder, mascara, eyeliner and lip gloss. Obviously, she didn't just brush her teeth and throw on a clean uniform any more. And, the uniform itself was neatly tailored, not standard issue. It left no doubt in any observer's mind that beneath was, not just a cop, but a slim and shapely woman.
The fear in her bright blue eyes was new, too. Seeing any emotion in them other than anger was, in some ways, the biggest change of all. Her deeply bowed lips finally blew a smoky sigh, then shaped sad words.
"Yeah. I know. Maybe if I hadn't let him get me drunk, I'd have seen it coming. Shit. Maybe I didn't want to see it coming and got drunk so I could do it. After what happened with Wilson, maybe I felt so much like a whore that . . . Hell. Who knows?"
He nodded, tried a little humor. "I feel responsible. If I hadn't told you to loosen up, this wouldn't have happened."
She didn't hear the levity as she ground out her cigarette. "That's bullshit, Barnes. I was a disaster waiting to happen. It's like every bit of sexual energy I've stuffed since the rape is boiling out of me. If you hadn't put the idea in my head, somebody else would have."
She sighed again. "I guess I just need to be more careful."
"No shit. All you need to do is get busted for coming on to some vice cop in a hotel bar."
She grinned, her eyes finally regaining some sparkle. "That'd shake things up around the precinct, wouldn't it?" Her smile softened. She reached out, took both his hands in hers. "Barney, there's no way I can begin to tell you how good a friend you are. If I hadn't been able to talk to somebody about this, I'd have lost my shit big time. Thanks."
He squeezed her hands, then reclaimed his own. "No sweat. You'd do the same for me."
"You know it. But now it's time for food. No more eating out for a long time." She shook her head, made a wry face. "I can't believe I really bought those clothes."
"Hey. Cut yourself some slack, girl. It's okay to look as sexy as you feel." He stood. "Besides, if push comes to shove, you know now how to make your wardrobe pay for itself."
Her laughter tinkled gaily as they walked out together. Her smile endured all the way home. Too bad Barnes was gay. She could really get interested in him in a physical way.
She unlocked the door, surveyed her living room with fresh eyes. She hadn't felt this good in four days, since last Saturday, before she'd let that stranger fuck her. She felt like what her Catholic friends used to describe after exiting the confessional. Her crippling shame was gone. Well, almost anyway.
She probed it like a kid poking at a scab. The thing was, it'd been such fun. To dress up and paint her face and strut her stuff like that. To bask in the heat of men's longing gazes. To really feel, after her twisted adolescence, like a desirable woman who didn't have to fear becoming a victim again.
That was the bottom line, she realized as she dropped her uniform blouse and slacks onto the bedroom floor. She'd become a cop because she needed to feel strong - protect herself by protecting others. She'd become virtually asexual to minimize her sense of total vulnerability.
She stepped into the shower, relaxed even further under the stinging spray of scalding water. She'd tried to amputate her femininity. She weighed her firm tits with soap-slick hands, massaged them with suds until her nipples stood out, dark and proud.
It was too bad she'd felt she had to do that. All those years, wasted. All those formative relationships that could have happened and didn't. Her soapy hands ran down her body, rubbed her belly, slipped lower. Hot water drummed against her hard, high ass. Her lashes fluttered. Her hips rocked. Thank God it hadn't worked. Thank God she was still a woman. Warm and alive. Pliant, succulent and desirable. Responsive. Capable of deep pleasure, and giving the same.
Both hands were busy by then. Exploring the wonders of her body, eliciting shivers of joy from recesses still veiled in mystery. She was so naive, so inexperienced. Her hips had established a regular rhythm. So eager to learn.
Her breath was coming in quick pants. She heard the magical music of her soft whimpers and moans echo faintly in the shower stall. In a way, doing it with strangers was good. No messy involvements. No ugly scenes to extract herself from. Just wonderful kisses and caresses. Just cocks filling her mouth and stretching her cunt. Just come exploding in her womb, gushing into her mouth. Just the miracle of fantastic, awesome orgasms. No ugly entanglements beyond those between washable sheets.
She leaned against the shower wall as her knees threatened to buckle under her. Her brilliant red lipstick smearing the length of faceless dicks, her pussy oozing delicious pale stranger's come. Yes. She wanted that. She had to have it. She envisioned men lined up to fuck her. Watching one another kiss her hungry red lips, fuck her writhing, endlessly spasming body, dumping their seed into her bottomless pit, rolling off her, only to be replaced by the next one.
She began a howl, bit her lips harshly to silence herself. Her hands were a blur, one digging into her seeping hole, the other toying with the button of her ass. More than one. On her knees, like in a nasty picture she'd seen in a magazine she wasn't supposed to know was in her brother's bottom drawer. A massive cock lost in her sodden cunt. Another, greased, buried up her ass. A third pushed down her throat. A fourth and fifth sliding through her oiled little fists. Bathed in come. Soaked by it. Sticky and smelly to the bottom of her soul.
She bit her lips even harder, blocked most of her shrill scream, doubled up over her hands. It was the best yet, made the orgasms the captain gave her seem pale and paltry. Her hands slowed to tender strokes, then speeded, then slowed again. It went on and on. It eased only to return, diminished in gradual, glorious stages, leaving her on her back, knees up thrust and spread, under the spray of warm water.
It seemed ridiculously hard to move. The hot water was almost gone, though, and she had no desire to cool down. She worked the faucets with her red-tipped toes. She didn't have to take that polish off. She wished she didn't have to strip her fingernails, either. They were so pretty.
She crawled from the tub, amused by her weakness, but made uncomfortable by the overwhelming power of her fantasy. Dreaming about sex was an all new thing. Her rigidity had been so steely that even her imagination had fallen victim. It, too, it seemed, was making up for lost time.
She blotted herself dry, wriggled into her cotton panties. Plain. Not lacy and colorful. But her hips were loose. Hell, everything was loose. No tension was left inside her, anywhere. She smiled into the mirror as she ran her brush sensuously through her shoulder length, coffee brown hair. She admired her pretty little tits as they bounced invitingly. Her lips were passion and bite swollen, seemed irresistibly kissable. She was momentarily humbled by the intensity of her beauty.
She'd always treated her body as a machine, a tool she used to move herself through space. It lifted weights. It did pushups and situps. It maneuvered the academy's obstacle course. It trained her weapon at targets. It'd never before been truly a part of her.
Now, she saw it could be a vehicle of pleasure, a source of joy for herself and others. Its skin was soft and creamy and radiant, flushed with residual heat. It was lushly curved, if lean. It was softly muscled, strong. It was flawless.
Except for the curly, damp tufts of dark pubic hair poking through the leg openings of the bland panties. She remedied that with scissors and a razor, ran lazy fingers through what remained of her thatch, parted it to view the pretty pink slash within its cover.
She'd read that some women removed all their pussy hair. What would that be like? She grinned, brushed at the dew still lingering in her lower lips. No more hair between Captain Wilson's teeth. He'd bitched about that, last Friday. Nothing to prevent her from watching each delectable detail of what he - or her next stranger - did to her.
The way that thought came surprised her. It hadn't been part of another fantasy, but a flat statement. She left her panties on the bathroom floor, swayed distractedly to her bed. She would do that again, she understood as she lit a cigarette. Somewhere, sometime - many times - she'd see someone she wanted and take him. In a motel or apartment or on a park bench, she'd unzip him and stuff him into her cunt, without qualm or hesitation. Not for love. Not for money either, of course. That was too dangerous.
She chuckled, low in her throat. Jesus. She wouldn't whore herself again because of the Job. Not because of any moral stance, or even a legal one. Only because, if she got popped, she'd never work again. She mused idly; if it weren't for that inescapable fact, would she sell herself again?
