Iller Cop

Chapter VII: The Princess Escapes

Horror clamped around Lisa like a vice. It took every iota of her strength to keep quiet, not to show any reaction to the news. She hadn't even known his real name. Paul Twilley. She'd only called him fag, wimp, Lisa. He was dead, split from his mutilated cock to his false tits. There were pictures.

Her horror had two parts. First came the irrevocability and senselessness of the violent death of someone she knew. He'd fucked her. She'd fucked him. She probably still carried minuscule traces of his life deep in her cunt. The thought made her nauseous.

The second aspect was that her double life could well be exposed. The recorded time of death put her in the alley with him less than four hours before some deranged animal had ripped him open. The investigation could turn her up. If it did, there went the ball game. Fuck. She could produce an alibi, if the other whores on her street would speak up, but that would still totally destroy her life.

She excused herself, too abruptly, and locked herself in a bathroom stall. She didn't puke, like she thought she would. Her smoke tasted like dried cabbage. Slowly, over the time it took to finish the cigarette, she saw that, regardless of whether she was implicated or not, life would never be the same.

Whores like Paul/Lisa died all the time. They were beaten to death. They were stabbed or shot. Sometimes their bodies were found. Sometimes they simply vanished, like the girl she'd gotten her corner from. Every time she put herself out there, the man she ended up with could be some psycho. There was no way to know, beforehand.

She'd heard the stories the girl's told. She'd been aware of the risk factor. But this drove it home. This made it personal. It could happen to her.

No, she corrected. It would happen, not could. If not by knife or gun, by disease or drug. It had to. What she was doing to herself wouldn't make sense otherwise. If it didn't happen on its own, she'd do something to make it so.

Peculiar place to find one of those crossroads in life, she smiled thinly. The middle stall in the ladies' shitter on the seventh floor. Guess it's appropriate, in a way.

She heard the door open, recognized the faint squeak of Ann's beige pumps. She dried her eyes.

"Having trouble with the plumbing, Lisa?"

"Nothing serious. Who drew the . . . Twilley thing?"

"Homicide took it away from us, as usual. Why?"

"I can't talk about it now. Not here. Want to go for a ride?"

"Where?"

"To the morgue."

Trotter didn't answer. Lisa flushed the toilet, drew a deep breath, and faced her. This was going to be a class A mother-fucker. But the sergeant didn't do anything more than meet her eyes and follow her from the room. The elevator ride was also silent. Only in the car, with Lisa staring out the passenger's window, did her partner speak up.

"You knew this guy." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. Biblically."

"It wasn't any accident he was going by your name. Hair like yours."

"No. No accident." She spilled all of it, never once looking inside the car.

Autumn was encroaching on summer. In the park, the trees were still green, but they knew. By the angle of the sun and the length of the days, by the first fluttering northerly breezes, they knew. Change was coming. They didn't resist in any way.

In a week or two, they'd begin to release their leaves. They'd served their purpose. It was time to go. Sometimes, she guessed, you'd find them blocks, maybe miles away. These very leaves, skittering through the concrete canyons, blown up against alley walls in little drifts.

"So what are you going to do?"

Lisa found a cigarette. "Better cover your ass, Ann. This is going to get messy. I've got to tell Homicide what I know. No way I'm coming out with my badge. I'll be damned lucky to stay out of jail. If you stand too close, they might want to sniff your cunt, too."

Trotter drove a half block in silence. "I can't let you do it, Lisa. I want you to keep that beautiful mouth shut. There's no fucking reason to do it. None at all. He's gone. Dead. You can't bring him back. All you can do is take yourself down."

Lisa shook her head. "I wish I could just forget about it, Ann. But it's more than feeling responsible for what happened to her. Him. Twilley. Paul Twilley. I can't let that happen to me. And it will, if I don't stop it." And it'll happen to you, too, someday, she thought. We both know it will.

"Okay. If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me. You're right, you know. They're bound to investigate everybody who ever had anything to do with you. You're going to be responsible for taking others down, too. Like Wilson, maybe."

She knew it was true. Her heart felt like lead. It'd be so easy. So easy to just listen to Ann. She'd heard those sweet lips murmur words of love to her mere hours before. Now she was on her way to destroying yet another life.

Maybe, she reminded herself. Maybe not. I've got to follow my convictions. It's the right thing to do. Fuck, is it better to let her end up with a knife in her guts, or a reprimand? Surely that's all she'd get. Too many people owe her favors.

Trotter read her re-formed determination. Her anger showed through. "How about Wilson, then? You expose yourself as a whore who he just gave a juicy transfer to, and what's going to happen to him?"

Lisa stared out the window. "I'm sorry, Ann. I'm really sorry. But it's the only choice I have left. I've tried everything else, don't you see?"

"No. I don't see. And lots of other folks won't, either. And believe me, babe, you haven't really tried everything yet."

She spent the span of a red light staring coldly at Lisa's graceful body. The curve of her slim, round hips. The ripe swell of her full little tit. What she could see of her face, the rich red corner of her pouty mouth, the artfully traced and tinted corner of her eye.

"That's too bad, hon. What a hell of a waste of talent." She pulled away when the light went green, speculatively raked her companion's body one last time.

"What are you going to do after the dust clears? And it will, you know. You won't do any time. The papers'll give you your thirty seconds of fame, and things'll settle down after a while. But what about you? Where will you go? What will you do?"

Lisa shrugged. "Doesn't matter. That's not the point anymore."

"What is the point?"

"I don't know. I just know it's not what I thought it was. It's never been what I thought it was." She'd tried to do what They told her. She'd failed. She'd tried to set up her own system. It'd turned out to be just as full of lies as Theirs.

Trotter stopped the car in front of the building housing what was left of Paul Twilley. "Why the morgue, Cole? Why the fuck do you want to do this to yourself? It's not necessary."

"Maybe not. But unless I do it, I'm afraid I'll change my mind someday. It won't be real anymore. I'll forget. I'll only remember the good parts. What it felt like to clutch a hundred bucks in my fist while some stranger's cock split my cunt. And that's not what it's really about. That's only part of the truth."

She nodded toward the doors. "There's another part in the basement, in a cooler, wearing a toe-tag. And there are other parts I don't even know about yet."

Trotter's smile was icy. "At least there's something we agree on."

She did puke, later. She'd known she might. Fuck, maybe she wanted to vomit as much out of herself as she could. Maybe she wanted to feel drained, bleached as clean as she could get.

Then, it was off to an appointment with the homicide boys. Trotter had run away to make ass-covering phone calls, no doubt. That was just as well. She needed to do this on her own. They'd kissed goodbye in the elevator.

"Will you come by tonight?" Trotter had asked, still slightly cool, despite the knee pressed firmly between Lisa's thighs.

"You're sure that's smart? Risking being seen with me?" Lisa moaned.

"You'll be discreet. Come in the back way."

"Yes. I'm not going to want to be alone after this. Have some decent wine chilled? And be ready to fuck my brains out."

It went better than she'd expected. The two dicks on the case, Rogers and Brandt, stayed polite throughout, kept their questions and comments civil and to the point. She saw their anger and outrage, though. Not because she'd been a whore, but because she was hurting the Force. She'd tarnished her badge, the same one they wore.

They didn't take it from her, of course. Neither did Captain Sloan. She marched straight into his office and laid it out for him, too. It was pretty mechanical by the third telling. He was shocked, then grim. He didn't actually can her. He couldn't, until she actually signed the statement tomorrow. But he did suspend her without pay pending a review board. They both knew how the board would find.

That night, at Ann's place, she let her hurt and fear come out in the only way she felt strong enough to act it out. She got drunk and decadent.

Trotter laughed and broke the kiss Lisa had initiated. "Jesus. You are one horny bitch, Cole. Don't you ever get enough?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out. Why? Don't you want me?"

Ann cradled a hard little tit. "There. Does that feel good?"

Lisa arched her back, pressed into the caress. "Umm. It's a great start."

With her other hand, Trotter tickled a darkly stockinged thigh. "You look so soft tonight. So feminine. It makes me want to take charge, Lisa. It makes me want to dominate you."

Lisa's legs slowly parted. She cried out softly as the slender, wise hand stroked her upper thigh, insinuated itself upward. "Yes," she whispered. "Please. Do whatever you want to me. Tell me what to do, Ann."

Submission was exactly what she'd been craving. She wanted to relax, to not have any responsibilities at all other than to follow very explicit orders. Lick pussy, suck tit, lay still, roll over. It would make life so simple, make all the day's horrors and uncertainties vanish.

That was exactly the sort of release she craved after ruining both her careers. To have no worries for a while. No fears. To escape. To not have to be strong, just for the night.

"Fuck me," she begged, her cunt suddenly sodden, even though no fingers had petted it. "Hurry. Please."

Trotter shook her head soberly. "No good, babe."

"Ann, please. I need -"

"I know what you need. I know even better than you do, slut. Don't I, you cheap whore? You're going to do whatever I tell you, right?"

Lisa began to protest, began to let her hole chase the hand that was so maddeningly close. She bit her lips, made tight fists. More than she wanted immediate gratification, she wanted the other more. The helplessness. The infantile dependency. "Yes. Whatever you say."

"That's the idea. I've had all afternoon to think about it. I made some phone calls. We're going to have a little going away party."

She groaned. "Ann, I don't think I'm up for -"

"I'm talking a real party, whore. I'm going to see to it you get so thoroughly fucked tonight that you'll never want to turn another trick as long as you live. Put down that glass, wipe that insipid grin off your face, and go take a fucking bath."

She did as she was told, trying to imagine exactly what was up. All her regular johns? A train of tricks some of the street girls put together?

By the time the bath was draining, her nipples had been tweaked to full extension and her pussy lips were red from rubbing. She scraped the rough towel over herself more thoroughly than necessary.

Trotter had an absolutely scandalous outfit laid out for her. A black lace bustier, webbed down the gaping front, would cradle her tits, not hide them. Its garters would support her hose. The crotchless g-string panties left everything important exposed. The fingerless lace opera gloves were something new. No skirt. No blouse. Just stiletto heeled sandals.

She didn't ask, didn't protest, just dressed. Trotter examined her, adjusted the garters and tits to suit herself, then ordered her to the vanity to be made up.

Lisa did nothing but watch and wonder. Watch the consummate whore's face her lover was creating, plastering her face with too much of everything. And wonder at the anger, the barely contained rage she did it with. Even through Lisa' building lust, it didn't feel right. It was more than part of the game. It hadn't been like this before. She wasn't at all sure she liked it, but did nothing to break the spell the vast space inside her cunt was weaving over her judgment.

She stared raptly into the mirror, watched her face bloom with wicked color. Her sultry lids turned deep grey and silver all the way to her penciled brows and temples. Her lashes became black, long and thick and brittle. Their roots were traced with a black tinged with blue, making her azure eyes glow darkly.

The pores of her face vanished under foundation and powder. Her high cheekbones were unnaturally flushed above the artificially pallid perfection of her skin. The contours of her nose and chin had been visibly shaded. Her lips burned with her most treasured deep scarlet lipstick. Her mouth had been reshaped by a false outline, the color so thickly applied and so heavily glossed that no texture showed through. Her lips looked as slick as molten glass, and that hot.

"And you'll keep them that way, you fucking worthless cunt. Every time you smoke a cigarette or take a drink, or swallow a cock, you be damned sure your mouth is fucking perfect. Understand?"

"Yes, mam."

"Every time you fuck up and forget, you get three lashes with this." She slapped her leg with a short whip. It was soft, but hurt like hell. Lisa should know. It was hers. She'd both used and felt it before. She hated it, and Ann read it by her visible cringe. Why the threat of real punishment? Was she really still that mad?

"I won't forget. I promise."

"We'll see. Now, to make sure you stay in here without peeking until I'm ready for you to come out, I'm going to tie you to the bed. Lay down."

Lisa's fears were again lost in a hollow rush of need. She spread herself, her haunted eyes locked on the overhead mirror as the padded restraints were fastened around her wrists and ankles. They were hers, too. Had Ann broken into her car and lifted them? It didn't matter. They felt perfect, gripping her, stretching her, displaying her. She was a doll, a grotesque Barbie. Her nipples bulged, strained toward the ceiling. Her cunt steadily oozed fluids. Her parted, panting, gleaming lips said she was on the brink of orgasm. And they didn't lie. But there was no blindfold. And Ann, instead of fucking her with the huge dildo laying on the floor, left and closed the door.

It was all different, all new. She'd never been bound and left alone. She'd never looked like this, not even at her most wild. Never felt like this, so fucking turned on it was insane, and unable to do a damned thing about it. It was torturous. It was cruel and heartless.

And she loved it. Everything about it was perfect. The way her crimson mandarin nails hooked over the palms of her gloves, and her matching toes peeked through the impossibly tall shoes. The way the seams of the hose twisted gracefully as she turned her legs, admiring their beautiful shape. It was all absolutely ideal. She recognized, after a time, that this was what she'd always had in mind, how she always dreamed she should look. It wasn't who she was. It was who she craved to become with all her heart and soul. In a way, it truly was her soul made visible.

Ann must be trying to show her this about herself. That was why she was mad. Because Lisa had been blind to something she should know about. Something vital. Seeing herself this way changed everything. How could she ever stop being this, now that she'd finally seen it?

She was still enraptured, her vision so powerful that it kept her right on the edge of a stupendous orgasm, when she faintly heard the doorbell the first time. A few minutes later, there was a distant knock. The guests were arriving. She could hear the confused murmur of deliberately lowered voices.

Soon They would come for her. Come to look at her. Come to fuck her in every hole, all at once. It wasn't important who They were, as long as there were enough. It had to go on and on. She didn't care about anything beyond the realm of cocks and holes. Until she recognized, through the deafening din of her fantasies, a particular laugh.

Captain Wilson's laugh.

Then, other voices became clear enough to recognize. Ann's, of course. But, wasn't that Chandler, from the old precinct? And Riley and Donovan, the inseparable duo in Vice?

Her panic and denial rose sluggishly through the clinging fog of her transcendent lust. No. It couldn't be. Ann wouldn't do that to her.

The shrill cackle of that asshole Deputy Chief Walters' distinctive giggle shattered her refusal to face the facts.

That's exactly what Ann had done. Her peers. Her superiors. They were all out there. Soon, Ann was going to lead them through the door, show them who Lisa Cole really was.

She fought lethargically. She had to escape, snap or stretch the thick, soft ropes enough to wriggle free. It was hopeless. She knew from experience they were stronger than they looked, not mere props. All she succeeded in doing was wrinkling the bedspread.

Before the totality of the humiliation to come really registered, brought with it a desperate anguish and hysterical tears, the door swung open. Ann stepped through, smiling harshly, raking her with cold eyes.

"Well, well. The little slut's figured out what's going on. She's not as brainless as she looks, guys. Come on in. Say hi to the guest of honor."

Men began filing through the door. She knew them all. She'd worked beside them, heard their briefings or seen them pass through on their way to Wilson or Sloan's office. And they were staring hungrily and mockingly and pityingly and hatefully at her totally exposed self, painted and garbed like the Princess of Whores. They were all going to fuck her. She knew it by the look in their eyes as much as the bulges in their pants. They were going to gang rape her. And there was nothing in heaven or hell she could do to stop it.

"The sloppy cunt's chewed her lipstick guys. Can you believe it? She's in love with her mouth, you know. Know how many different red lipstick's she's collected. Forty-four. Right, Lisa?"

It was really forty-nine. Five more had come in the mail the day before. But she couldn't speak.

"I told her what'd happen if she did that without fixing it. Told her I'd use the whip on her. God she hates that. Loves to dish it out, but can't take it."

That drew a low chuckle from some of the audience. Most, though, seemed not to have heard Trotter. Their unwavering stares hurt. She'd never been looked at this way. The eyes bruised her tits with their collective weight, sank into her cunt like an invisible cock. But the pain was subtle, just as subtle as the discomfort of chains after wearing them for a while.

And, like that, it easily became pleasure. The lash fell across her thighs. Lisa felt a hard squeeze somewhere within her cervix. A second blow fell, across her stomach. The knot opened, bloomed like a night flower. They might hate her and pity her, but they'd fuck her anyway. The third blast of searing pain came from her tits. The black blossom became all there was. She plunged into its core with a shrill scream. She was nothing like any of them had ever seen before.

"Here, whore. Let Annie fix your lipstick for you. Hold still. I know the brush tickles. That's a good girl. You want to be sexy for the boys, don't you? I thought so." Aside. "Look at this, fellas. The slut's having an orgasm. I told you she'd be glad you all came."

They started fucking her soon after shooting a couple of rolls of film of her. Nobody'd ever done that before. Ann held up mirrors so she could always see exactly what the lens was seeing. They were capturing her there. They were trapping her, freezing her as she was at this moment. They were making her real. For all time, that's the way she'd be.