It all happened pretty naturally, really. I was an attractive, confident female graduate of the academy, one of just six women out of a class of 40, and the only one of those six who could convincingly pull off posing as a hooker. No offense to the other women - let's just say it was obvious that many of them played for the other team. Anyway, I was quickly selected to join the vice squad, and given the task of putting on a different disguise each shift and walking the streets as a decoy to pull in johns.
At first, I was all business, just seeing it as a chance to prove my professionalism and work towards a promotion, so I could be doing the work I was really passionate about. My goal was to work my way up to the rank of detective, so I could work on really important cases, getting bank robbers and murderers off the streets. If my perfect body and my willingness to pose as a member of the oldest profession was my ticket to get there, so be it.
I should probably take a moment to share a bit more detail about what my work entailed. I was never actually at risk of following through on the act in question with the guys who picked me up. My job was to look the part, walk the street, reel the guys in, and then signal my backup as soon as the john had offered me money for sex.
I showed up to work late each afternoon, dressed in whatever jeans and t-shirt I had thrown on at home, and selected an appropriate wardrobe from the strange assortment of slutty outfits we'd put together at the station. Some days it would be red leather, some days black, sometimes I'd go with the red wig, other times blonde. The key was that I look as inviting as possible, while disguising my actual identity.
Beyond the clothes, wigs, and makeup, though, it didn't take much for me to look the part. At 22, I was in perfect shape - well-proportioned at 5'7" and 120 pounds, nice perky tits, long legs, and a great ass - so my boyfriend always told me, anyway. I had lived a fairly straight-laced life up to this point, so I have to admit I was a little shocked each time I looked in the mirror when I was dressed for the street.
The first few times I went out, I was a little scared, but any feelings of worry quickly wore off as I got used to the routine of signalling for the arrest. Strange as it may sound, it actually got a little dull, as I never did more than just hop in a stranger's car, talk for a few seconds, and then get back out once the backup car's siren went off.
The most enjoyable part of the task for me was choosing the slutty outfit and strutting up and down the street corner, as it was a unique experience for me to act in a such a blatantly sexual way. In fact, before long, this part of the job started to turn me on. Even though it was all an act, and I was being paid to catch these poor suckers, rather than to fuck them, I couldn't help enjoying all the attention as they drove by, honking and hollering at my hot body.
And soon, I found myself quite frustrated, shocked at the realization that at least a small, dirty part of me wanted to follow through on one of these transactions. It was when I started fantasizing about it, imagining a stranger paying me for sex as my boyfriend fucked me to orgasm, that I realized I owed it to myself to live out this fantasy, at least once.
Knowing everyone in vice in this town, I knew I'd need to go elsewhere - the risk of being caught by a colleague was just too great. I quickly decided on Vegas, figuring I could make a quick trip some weekend when my boyfriend was going out of town for business, and catching a little of the 'what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' action without anyone finding out.
Three weeks after I'd made this decision, the opportunity finally presented itself. In the meantime, I'd made a trip to one of the local adult shops, picking out my outfit for the trip - a black leather bustier and mini skirt, matching knee-high boots, and crotchless fishnet tights. I was so turned on by shopping for the clothes that I fingered myself to a breathless orgasm in the dressing room as I tried them on.
I packed my bag, which contained little more than that outfit and a fresh supply of condoms, and hopped the quick flight, checking into the hotel I'd chosen near a likely street corner. I'd done my research in advance, thinking the safest bet would be to target a convention crowd - straight-laced guys interested in a fun time away from the wife or girlfriend - rather than a seedier part of town where I might risk running into a psycho.
I hung out in my hotel room for a few hours, waiting for dusk to arrive, but also gathering up my courage. As excited as I'd been about this scenario for the past several weeks, I was suddenly nervous once it was actually within sight. I showered, played with my long brown hair for a while before finally settling on two youthful pigtails, and then slipped into my skin-tight leather outfit.
I was only on the street for a few minutes before the first car pulled over, and I chickened out, pretending to ignore the driver's advances as if I dressed like this every night and was on my way somewhere. A few more cars slowed as they passed me, and finally I took a deep breath and decided to respond to the next guy who pulled over.
It was a silver sedan, a rental car, I noticed, thinking that to be a good sign, clearly someone in town for business. The driver pulled around the corner to a side street before stopping, so that I had to walk several steps to catch up with him before leaning down to look at him through the passenger window he'd opened. I was pleased with what I saw, a handsome and well-dressed man of about 40 with a kind face. This was my chance, no backing out now.
