The Collector

PART 1 -- A Purring Cat

The two officers looked at the suspect through the one-way mirror.

She was young. Early twenties, maybe less. A petite figure, cloaked in a heavy felt blanket, crouched on the cold metal chair. She was wearing a black lace mask over her eyes, underneath short flaming red hair. With her head bowed, she stared at her wiggling toes beneath the blanket.

Captain Parker sighed. He was the kind of guy who needed five coffees to get through a daytime shift. The kind of guy who needed extra large ashtrays. Possibly two of them. And he was going through a damn night shift, he was out of cigarettes, the intern with his coffee was taking forever and he had a criminally insane girl locked in his interrogation room.

"Why the mask?" He asked, massaging his forehead to keep a growing headache at bay.

The nearby officer straightened up and cleared his voice. His name was Oliver Grayson, and he was a well-shaven young recruit with dark hair and green eyes. Looking at him, Parker always thought: "A square jaw like that might get you pussy, but in the force it just lands you in the ICU." It didn't help that he was showing far more green than his eyes ever could.

Oliver said: "I'm afraid she won't tell, sir."

"I mean, why haven't you taken it off?"

"Anderson tried, sir. He, uh, nearly got his eye clawed out, sir."

"So handcuff her."

"We... we did. But the doctor, he said the mask has to stay on."

"It doesn't look like it's holding her head together, so the mask has to go."

"Uh, the doc said she needs the mask. Says she's probably traumatized, you know. The mask is supposed to be keeping her sane, or something like that."

"Sane? Sane as in, scratching away at a police officer? As in, roaming around town at night stark naked?"

Officer Grayson didn't reply. He just swallowed and nervously broke eye contact. Thankfully, a hectic intern entered the room and got the captain's full attention. Parker quickly took his coffee mug and clipboard from the boy and sent him away, ignoring each and every one of his attempts at a conversation.

Captain Parker entered the interrogation room. The masked girl didn't seem to acknowledge his presence in the least. He sat at the transparent table, right in front of her, put down his clipboard and sipped his steaming coffee.

He started reading out loud:

"Trespassing. Indecent exposure. Assaulting a police officer. This is pretty serious stuff. You know that, miss?"

The masked girl looked up at the captain. Underneath the black lace, her blue eyes sparkled. Her delicate features looked sweet, but inexplicably unnerving. She smiled. He couldn't help but notice, she was wearing lip gloss.

Her lips parted slightly, and she said nothing.

Captain Parker quickly looked away, facing back to his clipboard. He put down his coffee and read on:

"It says here your body shows no signs of pysical harm, besides small cuts and bruises you got from walking around town barefoot. Did you do it on purpose, miss? Why would you do that?"

The girl's smile widened just enough to reveal a sliver of sweet, cherry tongue behind white teeth. She tilted her head to one side, displaying a supple, luscious neck made of alabaster skin. The captain's eyes raced from her lips to her neck, then hit the brown felt blanket.

He remembered that was all she had to cover herself with.

She got one foot off the chair and out of the blanket, then placed it, tip-toed, on the linoleoum floor. By the time the captain noticed, the felt was once again covering her modesty.

So she wasn't barefoot. She was wearing thigh-high stockings, black and translucent, with a lace hem. The stocking was damaged around the sole and knee, with bruised skin underneath. Parker figured it didn't make much difference walking around barefoot or like that. Then he thought about the knee damage, and pictured her kneeling down on the ground.

Hiding?

Naked?

The masked girl giggled. Startled, the captain realized he'd been staring. He cleared his voice, scowled, and moved on with his interrogation:

"Look, we're trying to help you here. If something, anything happened to you, we need you to cooperate with us to catch who did it. If nothing happened you still need to cooperate, because things are looking grim. You get that?"

She arched her back and rolled her head backwards. The blanket opened slightly, showing a perfect line of skin from her neck, to her collarbone, to her sternum, framed in just a hint of youthful, firm curves.

The captain shut his eyes and massaged his temples. His headache was getting worse. His wedding band was itching. He needed a cigarette. He sighed. Eyes still shut, he paused until he got his cool back, then asked:

"Can you even speak? You're not a damn mute, are you?"

Again, she giggled. "No", she said. Her voice was low but feminine. Warm and comforting like a hot bubble bath. "I can speak just fine." She spoke slowly. Every word a warm secret, lovingly crafted by her tongue and lips.

He thought she sounded like a purring cat.

"Good, now we're getting somewhere." He opened his eyes and asked "Come on, tell me your name."

Coyly, she bit her lip and shuffled under the blanket. Soon, her cuffed hands were out in the open. She seemed to be making an effort to keep the blanket in place with the rest of her body, but it still slid off of her right shoulder, revealing a flowery tattoo sleeve, green with some red here and there. It was hard to tell, but it seemed to go all the way from her elbow to her back.

Holding the blanket with her armpit and elbows, she showed her cuffed hands to the captain and smiled. "Take these off, and I'll tell you anything you want to hear."

Parker glanced at her fingernails. Long, red, sharp and polished, except for the index and middle fingers on the right hand. Those fingernails were broken; presumably by Anderson's face.

She seemed to notice, because she added: "I promise I won't scratch you." and wiggled in place ever so slightly. "Free me, captain." This movement loosened her body's grip on the blanket, and it slid further off her shoulder, revealing more skin, more tattoo, more curves, and the side of her... "I'm sure your wife won't mind..."

Something burned captain Paker's arm. He cursed and recoiled and cursed again. His coffee. He'd been lunging forward, and knocked over his mug. Even the girl got sprinkled by the scalding drink. She squirmed and flinched, then giggled as she fixed the blanket.

"That's it." Parker said, standing up "That's fucking it." He tried to keep his cool but it slipped through his fingers. His wedding band was burning, and it wasn't the coffee. His head wasn't the only part of him throbbing. He got around the table, all the way to the masked girl. Looming over her, he stared into her eyes and barked: "You're spending the night in jail. We'll see if you feel like talking, tomorrow." She seemed smaller, up close. Somewhat powerless.

But not scared.

Parker pointed at the one-way mirror and commanded: "Grayson, lock her up. Watch over her cell, keep an eye on her all night, make sure she doesn't do anything stupid. And get her some god damn clothes already."

Officer Grayson entered the room to do as he was told. Gently pushing the girl's shoulder, he gestured towards the exit. The masked girl faced Parker one last time and whispered:

"Your loss."

PART 2 - Relieved

The district's jail cells had the exact layout you'd expect: three brick walls and an iron fence. Two beds sat on opposing walls in each one, with a barred window high up on the third wall, and weathered sanitation fixtures in the corner.

Grayson accompanied the masked girl to an empty cell, but couldn't avoid passing in front of the locked up drunkards who began hollering and whistling as soon as they saw the blanket-clad beauty. He told them to shut up, to no avail; she giggled and thanked him for the effort.

As he was unlocking her cell, she said: "you're a nice guy, mr. Grayson." He didn't know how to reply, so he kept quiet, opened the door and slid it open. She walked into the room, holding her blanket and a bundle of bright yellow clothes, her nyloned feet barely making a sound. She turned to face him as he locked her in, and asked: "What's your name, mr. Grayson?"

"Oliver. I'm, uh, Oliver Grayson."

"Thank you for the nice clothes, Oliver."

"Uh, you're welcome, miss. But, well, I don't think they'll fit. That jumpsuit may be too big I'm afraid..."

She smiled: "How can you tell, with this blanket in the way? Undressed me with your eyes, have you, Oliver?"

His cheeks flushed red, and he mumbled some form of apology, but she laughed over it.

"I'll try it on" she purred "And let you know how it fits."

He nodded, then stood there, quietly, until she shook her blanket and raised her eyebrows. Glowing red, Grayson realized his faux pas and turned around, letting her have this small measure of privacy.

Oliver heard the noise of the jumpsuit being laid on the bed, then the unmistakable swish of the blanket on the ground. His heart sped up, warming up his chest; he licked his lips and fought the urge to turn around and take a look. His mind raced back to a few minutes earlier, when he was looking at the masked girl as she talked -- no, as she flirted -- with the captain.

Parker managed to keep his cool in ways Oliver never could have. He thanked the one-way mirror for hiding his obvious erection, and was glad nobody else was there with him. Pictures of the girl's gorgeous body flashed back into his mind. The toes touching the floor, her luscious neck stretching back, the blanket rolling down just enough to...

Another sound. Springs. Was she sitting on the bed? Was she done dressing up already? Part of Oliver was relieved, but he also felt a sense of loss. He willed his erection to go away, but it wouldn't obey. Maybe seeing her in an ill-fitting prison jumpsuit would ease it up a little bit. He tried to say something, but the words chocked in a dry throat. He collected himself and finally managed to ask: "Are you done?"

He received no reply other than the sound of springs, like weight shifting on a bed, and a short humming. Was that a yes? He wondered. The cell block was quiet, save for the idle chatter of the drunkards in the other room. They kept cat-calling the masked girl and making lewd comments even now that she was out of sight. For some reason, this irked him the wrong way. Slamming his baton against the nearest iron bars, he commanded them to shut up. Surprisingly, they did.

They'd probably passed out.

With everything quiet, Oliver asked again "So, are you done?" this time whispering, to avoid drawing the drunkards' attention. Expecting a similarly quiet answer, he listened intently.

All he heard was an unmistakably female panting.

"Uh, miss? What are you..."

Another shift in weight. Now, she was also making a wet slapping sound, in synch with the huffed breathing.

"Miss, uh, you probably shouldn't... I mean I'll have to..."

She moaned, loud, moving around some more on the bed; the wet slapping intensified, and so did her ever-shorter, whispered breaths. Little groans and whimpers kept escaping her lips despite her will.

He couldn't take it anymore.

He turned around.

One hand still working deep between her legs, the other clutching at her breast, she lay down on the bed, on her back, head facing the iron bars. Her alabaster skin flushed red all over, she shook and squirmed in the throes of orgasm. Her mouth agape, tongue out; her hand squeezing hard her firm, generous breast; thighs pushing against each other; feet clawing at the bedsheets.

When the moment passed, she finally relaxed. Stretching her arms and legs, she let out a satisfied moan and smiled at Oliver. The man's eyes raced over her gorgeous body. He took her in a little at a time, enjoying every inch of that heavenly sight.

He'd always had a thing for feet, so that's what first drew his eye: nyloned toes, still wiggling in the afterglow. Tracing his gaze, she curled up her legs and he found himself lost among her thighs. The sweet curves drew his focus down below, his hands aching all the while with desire to touch that perfect skin.

With her legs curled up, he couldn't see much past her shaved mound. Just a glimpse of wetness, and a sparkle.

A sparkle?

Was she pierced?

He saw a butterfly, small and blue, tattooed below and to the left of her pierced navel. He noticed her breathing, deep and slow and relaxed, pushing her ribcage through the skin. Between alluring hipbones, the flat stomach couldn't hide the outline of the firm abs underneath.

Oliver's erection was already pushing painfully against his zipper; the masked girl's proud, voluptous breasts didn't help him any. Both nipples were pink, rock hard, and pierced. She had something tattooed on the outer rim of the right breast, but it was hard to read cursive that far.

Her arms were outstretched towards him. Crimson claws clutching at him, calling him. Those deep blue eyes gleaming with mischief and perversion. Her wide smile mouthing, "come here".

That was it. He didn't care anymore. She'd drawn him all the way into her world now. There was nothing else in his mind but her. This masked girl showing herself with such impunity. Throwing out her precious body for all to see.

She was dark and fleeting like a dream. He was afraid he'd wake up and lose her forever.

No.

Tonight, she would be his, and his alone.

Shaking with lust, he fumbled with the keys until he got the right one in the lock. She sat up on the bed and leaned towards him, eagerly smiling and biting her lip.

But then, something happened.

A door slammed at the end of the corridor. A gravely voice called out for Grayson. Startled, the officer dropped his keys, failed at picking them up, and left them on the ground.

A big policeman, taller and broader than Oliver, stepped into the masked girl's field of view. The bandaged eye made his scowl twice as scary, and his unkempt beard all the more disgusting.

The man, who both recognized as officer Anderson, faced Oliver and told him:

"You're relieved."

"What?" he said "But I've only just..."

Anderson barked: "Relieved, I said." And stabbed Oliver's chest with a fat finger.

The younger officer recoiled. He took two steps back, rubbing his ribs. The masked girl cowered, sliding all the way back to the far edge of the bed. Anderson looked at her and grinned. "Will you look at that! Put on a cute show for little Ollie here, have we?" he turned to face his colleague "Now I see why you don't want to leave!"

The big man laughed. "Well, too bad! I'm here to stay." He picked up the keys "And I'm going to get what I deserve." He easily unlocked the door and slid it open, then stepped into the girl's cell. Oliver burst out: "What... What are you doing, man?" Anderson laughed: "Don't worry, newbie. I turned off the cameras."

Oliver tried to say something else, but the drunkards had woken up, and their taunts and screams drowned him out. "Get her!" they'd say, "Make her scream!" Anderson heard them, and replied "I fully plan to.". The big man ripped off his shirt, revealing a scarily muscled build and a very hairy chest.

The masked girl stood up. Back to the wall, she tried hard to keep away from the man but couldn't. As soon as he was within reach, she lashed out with her nails; unfortunately, Anderson grabbed her forearm before they made contact.

Twisting her arm, he forced her to turn around. She cried in pain, and he laughed. The drunkards hollered. He dragged her all the way to the toilet, then kicked out her knee and crouched behind her when she fell.

"You almost blinded me, you bitch."

Swiftly, he hancuffed her hands behind her back. One of his hands held her face over the toilet by the hair, while the other freed his throbbing, massive penis. "I'm going to make you pay. I'll fuck you in the ass while you drown. If you want to live, you'd better squeeze me real tight and make me come soon."

Then he did it. He pushed her head into the toilet. The masked girl struggled hard with all her might, but was hopeless against the huge man. The drunkards heard the commotion and cheered on, unaware of the horror. "Don't worry" Anderson said "You'll get your turn... If she lives." Then got closer, preparing to enter her exposed bottom...

...But he stopped.

There was a loud zapping noise, and Anderson blubbered incoherently before falling over. The masked girl quickly sat up and looked back to see the once massive man crumpled on the ground, convulsing.

Behind him stood Oliver, mad as hell and clutching a taser.

PART 3 -- Raving Audience

He gestured for her to get out of the cell. As soon as she did, he locked up the sliding door, trapping Anderson inside. The big man moaned pitifully and tried to move but failed. The masked girl, her face still wet with water and trails of makeup, smiled at her hero.

She turned around, facing away: a gesture he didn't understand at first. When she leaned forward, lifting her firm buttocks toward him, with her cuffed hands on top, he realized she wanted to be set free.

He obliged.

Now uncuffed, the masked girl faced him once again and picked up something off the floor: it was Anderson's ripped shirt. "Oh, that's right." Oliver said "I think your jumpsuit and blanket are still...". She didn't wear it, though. She dried her face off with it, then threw it on top of the unconscious molester.

She got closer. He smelled her sweat, her sex, luring him further into madness. Her breasts brushed against his shirt. She cupped his hand and whispered: "Aren't you supposed to lock me back in?" He didn't answer right away: all his efforts went towards keeping his desire at bay. Her soft hands caressed sparks into his palm.

Whenever he tried to speak, he ended up just kissing air.

The only free cell was adjacent to the one with the drunkards, and not through a brick wall, but just a shared iron bar fence. Oliver frowned and mumbled: "I'll just, you know. Move some guys around. Get you a, uh, more private cell, you know..."

The masked girl, still holding his hand, glided over to the empty lockup. The drunkards saw her naked and erupted in a fit of cat-calls and assorted screams; Oliver tried to cover her body by standing in the way of her audience, but it didn't work.

The masked girl curled up to him. Before he knew it he was already hugging her shoulder, holding close that warm, soft, luscious body. Her breasts pushed into his chest, her hip bone rubbing his throbbing erection, she put one hand on the cold iron bars of the empty cell and whispered: "This one's fine."

Oliver flushed. His mind raced. Only minutes before, he wanted to take this girl, make her his; Anderson's violence had turned him off and made him feel like he was taking advantage of a poor, misguided young woman. Parker's example also dragged him away: the captain felt she wanted to play him for a fool, and he was probably right. This masked girl was no good: she was just trying to seduce cops in order to ecape.

Regretfully, Oliver made his decision.

He firmy pushed the warm girl away, then unlocked the door and slid it open. She made no objections when he guided her in, but a disappointed and somewhat stupefied expression bloomed in her features. The drunkards crowded the shared iron bars and stuck their arms as far as they would go, trying to grab what some of them called "That hot piece of ass".

Oliver locked the door. The girl pushed into the bars close to him, perfect breast squeezing through the bars, and begged: "Oliver, please, don't go." But he was determined to be a professional. That was the right thing to do: leaving right then and there. He turned his back and got to the exit.