Cop Reports Speeding

Cop Reports: Speeder

© 2023 by MormonJack

I cannot express how grateful I am to VallesMarineris (VM to me because I'm lazy and don't want to type it out each time). VM's encouragement, guidance, suggestions, and critical advice were essential to me in putting this story together. You should check out some of VM's stories if you haven't, yet. I can only hope that some of VM's skill and talent with rub off onto me. Like many, I tinkered with the story after VM's last review. So yeah, all errors are mine.

Thanks for taking a look at this: my first story posted on Literotica. Your constructive feedback is welcomed. Disparaging comments about cops (and me, for that matter) will be deleted.

This story is based on my experience as a police officer. A little of this is fictionalized and the rest is based on an actual traffic stop. If you don't like cops, or a cop's perspective, do us both a favor and just move on. And no: there is no sex in this story, but the event was somewhat sexy and pretty interesting, at least to me.

I plan on submitting some other stories from my years as a police officer (and still going). I plan to group them together under the Cop Reports banner/series. Likely most will be on the lighter side of things, hopefully even humorous. I like seeing the "funny" (if there is anything funny) in the situations I encounter. It makes it easier to sleep at night. However, I'm also toying with stories that are dark. Well, that is, if I can bring myself to relive them enough to write them down.

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Can a cop be professional and an unintentional voyeur?

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It was early evening, 6:30pm, mid-July and 85 degrees. The sun was still high in the sky and there were no clouds to shade us. The Puget Sound area is not hot like Phoenix, but for us "weather-wimps" in the PNW, when the temp hits 85 degrees it IS hot. It is especially hot if you're sitting in the sun in a black car, like my black patrol car.

I was watching traffic approaching our position using my side-view mirror. Abruptly, my radar emitted a shrill sound. By the pitch of shrill I knew, but I took a quick glance at the readout anyway, then looked back to my mirror.

"A red Mustang," I said, "but I'm not going after it."

"What do you mean you're not going after it?" asked Liz.

Liz, or Officer Elizabeth Quick, was my field training officer (FTO) at that time and was sitting in the passenger seat (which the rookies fondly call the LAFTO seat or lazy-assed field training officer seat) making notes on my daily evaluation sheet. I'm sure that Liz had some similar name, if not that very one, for FTO's when she was a rookie. It just that way.

I was monitoring traffic on a 4 lane road in and out of town and, in my view, 35mph was too sedate for the road.

"It was 10 over, and I don't stop them unless they're going over 10," I replied. "I don't cite unless they are going at least 15 over, or they act like jerks to me," I added because I knew she and I were at odds on that point.

We had this discussion before. Her view was that if she goes to the trouble to stop someone, she's going to give them a citation, and she will stop someone at 10mph over. Me? Well, it was like I told her, I wouldn't cite unless they are going at least 15 over. My "rules" were within department policy. Still, it didn't stop Liz from huffing and scribbling some more notes in my eval.

Liz might have been making notes, but we were good. An rookie officer gets to know their field training officer rather fast: you spend anywhere from 4-6 straight weeks, 5 days a week and 10 hours a day, working together before transferring to the next FTO. We quickly got to a friends status. Oh, "working together" really means that the FTO would mostly watch you, guide you at times, criticize you, and evaluate your performance for Admin, but not actually "work" together, unless there was a need for the FTO to step in and actually lend a hand. Anyway, she and I got along well so I could get away with some sass.

A few minutes later the radar emitted another shrill sound. I could tell this one was pitched higher and my adrenaline surged: game on. I took a quick glance at the readout to confirm what I suspected and then looked back (side mirror again) to see what's happening.

I spoke up, "It's a black sedan weaving around a couple of cars. I'm going to stop it." With all that I had to do, I forgot to call out the speed to Liz. But I was going to stop the sedan: she had to know it was over 10, right?

Watching it in the side mirror, it looked like the black sedan was speeding toward us much faster than the readout suggested, but I had locked the speed on the radar and was fast enough for me to make a stop. I put the patrol car (OK, it was technically a patrol SUV but what does that matter?) into gear and checked my mirror that I could merge into traffic.

"It's clear to get in behind them," I said to Liz, referring to the black sedan and two other cars. I waited just a few seconds for the sedan and the two cars to clear our position. "Civic," I told her. "I couldn't catch the license plate. I'll get that when I we are close. The windows seem tinted. I only got a vague outline of the driver, and probably only the driver in front."

With the black sedan and the two other cars past my/our position, I pulled into traffic and accelerated hard, trying to catch up as quickly as practicable. At the same time, I activated my lights and siren. I quickly caught up to and passed the two intervening cars as they pulled over to the side of the road. The black Civic was about 50 yards ahead of me, and not yet slowing. I wasn't sure whether it would stop or not.

'Surely,' I thought, 'the driver had seen the flashing lights and heard the siren by now.'

With some additional acceleration, I got within 20 yards of the Civic, at which point I was able to discern the license plate number. I slowed and maintained a safer distance behind the Civic. The driver must have finally noticed me behind them, and started slowing. I backed off my speed, still maintaining my distance to the Civic.

With the Civic slowing, I grabbed my radio mic and called out, "Dispatch, Patrol 456, traffic stop."

A second later we hear dispatch's acknowledgement: "Patrol 456."

"City Avenue and Baker Creek with Young X-ray Queen four nine one," I replied to dispatch.

"Patrol 456; Dispatch copy: City Avenue and Baker Creek with Young X-ray Queen four nine one. 1845." (That's 18:45 military time or 6:45pm).

I could hear Liz writing things out on my eval. I could see out of the corner of my eye that she was nodding while writing. 'Good grief,' I thought, 'how can she write while the car is moving?'

I silenced the siren but left my emergency lights on. I pulled to the side of the road and then positioned my patrol car so that the nose of the car was extended slightly into the far right lane. This created a protective space for me to talk to the driver without getting hit by an oncoming vehicle.

'Damn,' I thought as I unbuckled, 'I should have told Liz as I was turning off the siren and positioning the car. Ah well. I may not have said it to her, but she certainly had to notice.'

I checked behind for oncoming traffic as I activated my body-camera. "'Bodycam' on, and I'm clear to get out," I told Liz. I saw her nod as she was getting out as well. Like me, she tapped her body-camera and started recording.

I approached the car on the driver's side, pausing at the back corner of the black Civic to touch it. In the Academy I was taught that touching the car leaves my prints on it, ostensibly creating proof that I did, indeed, stop the car in a traffic stop. It's not really necessary with body-cameras anymore, but I had an old-school traffic instructor teach me to do so at the academy.

'Damn,' I thought as I quickly pulled my hand back, 'that is fucking hot!'

Obviously, this car had been out in the sun for a while. I heard a laugh/snort and looked up see Liz smirking at me. She raised her hand and wiggled her index finger at me. Apparently she didn't buy into the old-school ways. Shaking my head, I proceeded forward. Liz was a pro: she moved forward at my pace toward the passenger window to make sure she could scan the car and observe my traffic stop interaction.

I checked out the sedan as I moved toward the driver's seat. I saw balloons and presents (?) piled up in the back seat. No wonder I didn't see anything when it passed me. I couldn't see anything dangerous or suspicious in the back or on the floor, so I moved forward a bit more just as the driver's window was rolling down. Moving closer to the window, I could feel the air-conditioning from the car. It felt good, actually. And there, looking out the window, was a young woman's face. An attractive young woman's face.

'A very attractive young woman's face,' I thought.

Positioning myself to speak with her, and to scan the front interior of the sedan, I start my "traffic spiel."

"Ma'am, I am recording this conversation. I'm Officer Smith. The reason I pulled you over ..." I blanked.

I could see that she was crying. At my pause, she blurted out, "I'm so sorry so sorry I have never been pulled over before and I've never had a ticket and I'm so sorry and I'm nervous I don't know what to do when I'm pulled over and I'm so sorry oh God I'm crying." Or something like that.

I didn't blank because she was crying or nervous or rambling. No, I blanked because my mind had just registered that this young lady was wearing a full-body fish-net stocking and, seemingly, nothing else. (To be honest, a bit later I also noted that she had on some slippers. It's something an officer is supposed to look for because the law prohibits driving barefoot.)

I regrouped. "Umm..." Ha! How is that for regrouping?

I powered on, "Yeah, the reason I stopped you is because I measured you going 49mph in a 35mph zone. So, I ..." Another pause.

I realized, at that moment, I could see the cutest, perkiest creamy-colored breast with a rock-hard nipple prominently poking through the fish-net stocking. Using my analytical mind in conjunction with my police-trained observation skills, I thought, 'Wow, the air-conditioner seems to be working fine.'

I defy all you guys out there, and some of you women, to say nothing of the sort would have occurred to you and that you, as a police officer, would have professionally carried with your spiel without the slightest pause.

Being a rookie, I looked up for help, thinking, 'This is definitely a time for a female officer to take over. Liz! Yeah, she has my back, she should handle this!' So, as Miss July (that's how I thought of her) rummaged around for a tissue, presumably to dry her tears so her makeup didn't smear, I looked over the top of the car toward Liz. I knew, as a good FTO, that she had seen my predicament. My belief was confirmed as I saw that her lips were drawn together in a tight grin to keep from laughing out loud. I'm sure she sensed the pleading in my eyes. Yet, to my dismay, she shook her head, turned, and walked back toward her LAFTO seat in the patrol car, leaving me to "suck it up."

I centered my mind, reminding myself to focus on my training. I looked back into the car, to Miss July's eyes (I'm not kidding there), and said, "Ma'am, you're going to be OK. However, right now I need to see your license, vehicle registration and proof of insurance." Phew... the general traffic stop spiel was complete.

One of the important things you learn and train at as a police officer is to "watch the hands." So, I watched Miss July's hands. More particularly, I watched her right hand as it reached down between her legs, lifted her right leg up, and pulled her driver's license out from under her leg.

'Whoa,' I thought, 'bare!'

She handed me her license. I took it like a gift from God that it was. Miss July, aka Miss Amy Lyons, sat there for a moment, looking at me expectantly. I realized that she likely forgot the other documents I requested. It happens all the time, actually.

I smiled and said, "And the vehicle registration certificate and insurance card, please."

"Oh right," she replied, startled that she had forgotten. "They're in the glove box."

Paying close attention (safety first, right!), I watched as she unbuckled her seat belt and leaned over to the passenger side of her car to get the vehicle registration certificate and insurance card out of the glove box. Honestly, I tried to just watch her hands and I was fairly successful until I could tell that there wasn't a gun or knife in the glove box. After that, I didn't try so hard. Being an observant officer, however, I confirmed that her body stocking did NOT have a back pocket, which explained why she was sitting on her license.

I must say that I genuinely appreciated the view of her perky left breast, but the truth is that I'm an "ass" man. So, it was with the utmost professionalism (ha!) that I confirmed that she had a spectacular ass, which moved in small but interesting ways as she dug around in her glove box for the requested items. Scratch that, in my opinion her ass bordered on world-class, and I've not seen anything close to those gorgeous cheeks in person. Again, I defy you guys to tell me you wouldn't have looked.

She returned to her sitting position and handed me a vehicle registration certificate and her insurance card. As you probably know, most people have many old vehicle registration certificates in the glove box, as well as a current certificate. With a quick scan, I confirmed that the vehicle registration certificate she gave me was expired.

Looking back to Miss July -- Dear God, she had gorgeous puppy dog eyes, too! -- I pointed at the date on the registration certificate and said, "This is an expired registration certificate. Do you have a current registration certificate?"

"I think so," she said, nodding to the affirmative.

Once again, blessedly, she stretched out to the glove box and scavenged around in it until she found another registration certificate. I swear to God I did not groan as she stretched out that second time. And, fortunately for me, it took longer this second time for her to find another registration certificate. Oh, just you all know, I knew that Liz would point out, and record in my daily eval, my error were I to return with an expired registration certificate. For that matter, I also checked to make sure that the insurance card was up-to-date. Just to be sure. It was.

She sat back up and handed me the documents. 'Wow,' I thought, 'I could watched her do that all day.'

"Wait here, please, while I verify these documents on my computer," I told her.

Once back in my patrol car, I saw that Liz had tears in her eyes from laughing.

"You saw what she was wearing! Why didn't you take over?" I asked.

"You're the one that stopped the car," she replied, "not me. It's your stop. You're going to have to deal with 'awkward' shit once you're on your own. Oh, and it is funny as hell watching you squirm."

I double-checked all of the records on the MCT (mobile computer terminal) in my car. It turns out that Miss July, or Ms. Lyons, lived just a few miles back the other way. She had a valid license, current vehicle registration, and current insurance. I reported the same to Liz, and then made to get out of the car. Liz stopped me.

"Aren't you going to give her a ticket?" she asked, nodding to the MCT. We use a computer program to generate the citations. We have a small printer in the car to print them up.

"Nah," I said, smiling, "she was only going 14 over." That wiped the laughing grin off her face. She gave me that "knowing" scowl, but whatever: she could put it in my evaluation if she wanted. As I told her before, my ticket limit was 15mph over.

I returned to talk to Miss July.

Trying very hard to look her in the eyes, and mostly succeeding, I asked, "Why were you going nearly 50 in a 35mph zone? What's the rush?"

She blushed! It was cute.

"Umm," she replied, "I'm on my way to a birthday party for 'a friend' and I'm running a bit late."

'Damn,' I thought, 'that is one very, lucky "friend."'

"OK," I said, "I get it: you're running late and trying to get there as quick as you can. HOWEVER," I said, trying to give my most-stern look, "you can't go that fast down this street. Today, though, I'm cutting you a break: I'm just giving you a verbal warning to slow down."

As much as I wanted to drag this "traffic stop" out, I was pretty much done and I knew I needed to let her go.

"You're free to go," I said. "Please drive slower and safely."

As I held out her documents, I realized that she was probably right-handed (we watch the hands, right?) as she turned her body to me to take all 3 documents with her right hand. With that revelation, I also confirmed that the air-conditioner was still working just fine on both sides of her car. Yeah, rock hard and standing up through the fish-net.

Walking back to my patrol car, I stopped the recording on my body-camera. I got back into the patrol car and, after the Civic left, I drove about 50 yards to a safe location off the road.

I grabbed the radio mic. "Dispatch, Patrol 456 clear of traffic stop."

Dispatch was quick to respond, "Patrol 456, dispatch copy, 1903."

'Eighteen minutes', I thought. 'Not bad, though I wished it had been longer.'

I looked at Liz. She was nodding and writing some more notes. I though my performance was really good. I entered my traffic stop notes on my MCT, excluding any mention of the fish-net body stocking or how well she rocked that look.

Lastly, I concluded my notes with a statement that the encounter had been recorded on my body-camera.

'Video...hmm,' I thought, smiling to myself. 'Maybe I will watch the body-camera video later. Just to critically evaluate my traffic stop, of course.'

I looked up. Liz was staring at me like she knew what I was thinking.

"It would be for evaluation purposes," I said, weakly.

Liz tilted her head and raised an eyebrow over her right eye. "You did just fine," she told me. "Better than fine: it was awkward and you did well. No need to review."

Damn!