Ic3 Female

It wouldn't have happened if we hadn't had to use Oscar-Tango 13 that night. I'm pretty sure it's illegal to go out in a patrol car that doesn't have an operational camera system, but we had two off the road needing major repairs, and due to financial restraints and sickness there was only one overloaded mechanic working that week, so the sergeant in Ops just allocated us O-T13 and told us with a wink to try and avoid arresting anyone that night.

Sorry, I'm not starting at the beginning – I do that sometimes. My name's Shelley Porter, I'm 22 years old and I'm a constable with the Metropolitan Police Force, based in Streatham on South London. I'm petite – five-foot-two with a slim figure and a small bust – and I've always been considered quite pretty, with collar-length bobbed corn-blonde hair, blue eyes, a pert nose and a small mouth with generous, naturally pouting lips.

I'd been out of training school less than two months on the evening I'm talking about I was on patrol with my regular partner Bob Friend. Bob's well named: a beefy Glaswegian about 40 years old, who treats me like a kid sister, protecting me half the time and poking fun at me the other half. He's a good copper and I think I can learn a lot from him. Anyway, about half an hour before the end of a quiet shift we were patrolling streets near Streatham Common, lined with the sort of big Victorian houses that have now been converted into half a dozen flats, when a call came in about a disturbance a couple of roads away. With a groan Bob drove over there, but without the blues-and-twos (flashing blue lights and two-tone siren).

When we got there we didn't need to look at hour numbers to know which address we were heading for: the place was lit up like a Christmas tree, with a battered computer chair lying in the small front yard outside a smashed downstairs window and a cacophony from inside suggesting that all hell had broken loose. Another patrol car was already parked across the street and Bob yanked ours to a halt under a street light, snarled "Stay here" and charged through the open front door of the house like a bull stung by a wasp. I did as I was told but sighed in frustration; I knew he was trying to keep me out of the way of trouble, but that was the first real action we'd seen all week and I'd joined the force to get involved, not sit like some porcelain doll on a shelf.

Nothing happened for a couple of minutes, then Bob and one of the other lads emerged dragging a struggling figure between them: an angry and vociferous black woman - IC3 female in our jargon - in her early thirties, over six feet tall in the four -inch heels she was wearing, accompanied by a flimsy vest which struggled to contain her impressive bust, and a brown leather skirt that ended a third of the way down her naked thighs. My colleagues pulled her towards our car, and as they passed through the garden gate one of her shoes came off. Quick as a flash she managed to free one of her arms from the bloke helping Bob, stooped, grabbed the shoe by the toe and tried to use the stiletto heel to puncture Bob's head. His reactions were too fast and the woman yelped in pain and dropped the show as Bob's huge hand closed tightly around her wrist. Tottering on one high heel she kicked it off angrily and Bob snatched open the rear driver's-side door of our car, bundled her into it and snapped his handcuffs on one of her wrists, cuffing the other link to the door. Then, panting slightly, he told her, "Right, you can sit there and calm down a bit." Turning to me he added "Watch her." Then, looking back at our passenger, he asked her, "So, were you working in there Lola?"

Suddenly calm, she gave him a big-eyed innocent look and replied, "I don't know what you mean officer. I was just a guest at the party."

Bob chuckled at that. "So not one bloke's given you fifty quid for a blow job all night?"

Still looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth Lola wrinkled her brow. "I'm sorry, blow job? What does that mean?" Bob grinned and shook his head ruefully; then there was a shriek from inside the house and he turned on his heel and bolted back inside.

I sat watching the prisoner in the rear view mirror, wary of the free hand that Bob had helpfully left her, and with one hand resting on the can of CS gas clipped to my belt. Lola had an attractive face – not exactly pretty, but striking: shoulder length clack waved hair, huge eyes, highlighted by purple eye-shadow, high cheekbones, a long slim nose, a pointed chin and a wide mouth with thin lips and big very white teeth. She caught me studying her and stared back. Then, with a smile, she said in a London accent with a Caribbean lilt, "God, you're a pretty one aren't you. How old are you, ten?"

I willed myself not to blush at the comment, and almost succeeded. For some reason I couldn't possibly have explained at the time, I couldn't draw my eyes from hers, boring into me in the mirror, that same smile playing about her lips. Then she shuffled down a bit in the seat; the movement pulled her tiny skirt even higher up her thighs. She didn't have any underwear, and she allowed her thighs to loll apart, leaving little of her anatomy to the imagination. Bizarrely I felt myself hypnotised by the sight – I've never previously had the slightest interest in other women or their private parts. Lola must have followed my gaze, because after a moment, to my shock, she slid her free hand between her thighs and started stroking herself. I felt my mouth go dry; I knew I should say something, tell her to stop, but I couldn't find the words. I glanced back at her face and her eyes were still locked on mine, her smile wider now. In a half-whisper, she said, "Enjoyin' the show, baby fuzz? Maybe you'd like your tongue to go where my fingers are?"

Feeling my cheeks flush again I knew I had to put a stop to her game. Turning awkwardly in my seat I tried to put a stern look on my face, and said, "For your information, 'baby', I am not and never have been..."

I got no further. Taking me completely by surprise she thrust two fingers into my mouth. For a split second I was both scared and horrified; then the taste of the sticky liquid on her fingers hit me, like a wave washing over me. I had never experienced anything remotely like it: I felt as if I was tipsy on champagne, or perhaps more accurately as if I'd just taken a long pull on a joint – light-headed and slightly out of control of myself. I tried to pull away, I really did, but my body wouldn't obey my brain, and against my will my eyes fluttered closed and I actually started sucking Lola's fingers. She responded by slowly sliding them in and out, fucking my mouth with them. I heard her chuckle, then in her deep, rich voice she murmured, "You were about to say you aren't into girls. Well I got news for you baby fuzz: you are, you just didn't know it till now."

It was insane, there I was, a uniformed police officer on duty, completely under the control of a prisoner who was handcuffed in my patrol car. Suddenly her fingers withdrew from my mouth, and I jumped with surprise, my eyes snapping open, as Bob wrenched open the door to which Lola was cuffed. He told her, "Right Lola, any other time I'd be taking you in for breach of the peace, assault, and probably soliciting, but tonight's your lucky night. My sarge is doin' a special on stroppy whores, so as long as you promise to be a good girl and go straight home I've been told to let you go."

Lola gave another of her chuckles and replied, "Oh trust me constable, I'm always good – ask any of my gentleman friends." Muttering curses under his breath Bob unsnapped the cuffs and sent her on her way. As we drove back to the station he chatted normally to me, telling me what a mess the house had been in; but in the darkness of the passenger seat my face was burning with embarrassment for the third time in a few minutes, and I prayed that he hadn't seen any of what had been going on as he returned to the car. When I got home my live-in boyfriend, Keith, was hoping for a bit of fun in bed but I told him I was too tired. In fact it took me hours to get to sleep; every time I closed my eyes I saw Lola pressing her fingers into her pussy, and tasted her as those same fingers pressed into my mouth.

When I woke the next morning the first word in my mind was Lola. By coincidence Bob and I had agreed to swap shifts that day with a couple of colleagues, so I had to drag myself back into the police station barely ten hours after leaving the previous night. Before we started our patrol I checked Lola out on the computer. Her real name was Esmeralda Veronica John, she was 31 years of age, and she had a few convictions for soliciting, nothing very serious. For reasons I couldn't have explained to myself at the time I made a note of her last known address. Our patrol was pretty dull – the highlight was an unsuccessful search for a flasher on Streatham Common. While we were driving around I decided that I was going to go round and see Lola and give her a piece of my mind. What the hell did she think she was playing at, assaulting an officer? And just because she had caught me tired at the end of a shift, and with my guard down, who was she to decide I was a homosexual?

Normally I shower and change out of my uniform before leaving at the end of a shift, but I wanted to get this confrontation over with. I hung up my stab vest in my locker, but kept on my white shirt with my service number on the shoulder epaulettes, my short black-and-white-check necktie and my black trousers, covering them over with a light bum-length nylon jacket. All the way over to Lola's address my heart was thumping in my ears. She lived on the third floor of a converted house, and as I climbed the steps I asked myself over and over again what I was doing there, and exactly what I was going to say to her. After I pressed her doorbell I nearly ran away like a naughty schoolgirl, and most of me desperately hoped that she wouldn't be in, or that she'd be with a client. Then I heard a tread behind the door and a moment later it opened to reveal the occupant of the premises, dressed in tiny denim cut-off shorts and another hide-nothing vest.

Lola smiled broadly when she saw me and said, "Well, baby fuzz, what a nice surprise." I was suddenly too nervous to respond, but when she stood aside I passed into her flat and she closed the door behind me.

I suppose I expected her to invite me into the lounge or something; instead she loomed over me, my back still to the front door, her hands flat on the door, her arms wither side of me trapping me in place. She was grinning as broadly as a Cheshire cat, and instantly I felt as nervous as a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. The logical part of my brain was telling me to say what I had to say and get out of there; the rest of it was screaming at me to run. I felt paralysed in her gaze, like a mouse with a python swaying over it. Clearing my throat, I started to stammer, "I, um, that is, I just wanted to..."

As in the car the previous night she didn't let me finish. With no warning she ducked her head down and applied her lips to mine, her big tongue surging into my mouth and exploring. At the same time I felt one her hands ease between two of the buttons of my shirt and close around my small tittie inside my bra. I knew somewhere inside me that this wasn't why I was there, that what she was doing to me was wrong and inappropriate; yet at the same time my tongue responded to hers, my back arched pushing my boob hard against her hand, and one of my arms slipped around her neck. She laughed into my mouth, and broke the kiss long enough to husk, "I'm glad you kept your uniform on – I've always wanted to fuck a lady cop."

My free hand pushed against her weakly, as if trying to break the contact; then, even though I willed it not to, it curled around one of her big tits and began to squeeze. Desperately I said, "Look, I don't want this, I..."

A finger pressed against my lips, silencing them, and, as she nibbled my ear lobe, she whispered, "Don't lie to yourself. You're on fire, and we both know I'm the only one who can put the fire out."

Still in a clinch, and with her lips still attached to my ear, she shuffled us sideways and through a door off the entry hall of her flat; a moment later we fell sideways onto her bed. Instantly she rolled on top of me and started kissing my mouth again, removing my clip-on tie and pulling my shirt up towards my shoulders to drag it off. Finally accepting that this was really going to happen, I sat up and pulled my shirt off, then reached behind and removed my bra. Lola chuckled in delight and scooted down the bed, undoing my trousers and removing them, my thong panties, my heavy work shoes and my ankle socks. It took her mere seconds to get rid of the two items of clothing she was wearing and then, for the first time in my life, I lay with my naked body pressed to the naked body of another woman.

Lola pulled me into her arms and at last I kissed her with as much enthusiasm as she had been kissing me, marvelling at the aching pleasure in my belly and between my thighs. She ran one of her hands across my chest, massaging my little stiff nipples, and pressed one of her thighs between my legs. I could hear my pussy scooching against her, and I was almost embarrassed at how wet I was. Before long her mouth had replaced her hands on my tits, and the hand had crept down my body and three fingers were exploring my insides. Within moments I felt myself surging and my back arched off the bed, pressing my snatch down on her probing fingers as my labia clenched around them and, almost screaming with joy, I pressed my head into her shoulder as I came.

Instantly Lola slipped her head down my body. She paused briefly to rub her nose in my soft downy blonde pubes – "God, I love this" – then her hands pressed my thighs wide apart and – oh my God – I felt her breath on my soaking pussy, followed by her tongue. I swear I will never forget that first time Lola went down on me. Three blokes had done it for me, but they were rank amateurs compared to her. As her tongue lapped inside me, fingers pressing in in front of and behind it, I seriously thought I might actually die from arousal; my whole body felt as if it was on fire; I could hear a long wail of pleasure which I knew I must be making, yet it seemed to be coming from a long way away. Whenever I had sex with Keith I thought it was nice, but that first time with Lola (and every time since) it felt like the only thing I ever wanted to do for every second of every day for the rest of my life. That time when I came, with her face buried deep in me, I think I finally understood what people mean when they talk about a full-body orgasm.

I thought she'd stop after that, but she carried straight on. She lifted my legs over her shoulders, and to my astonishment her tongue slid between my buttocks and pressed into the puckered rose of my bum! Nobody had ever done that to me before, and I couldn't possibly have imagined how incredibly erotic it could feel, especially as she continued to fuck my pussy with her hand. (She told me later that her entire hand was inside me.) Within moments I had a third shattering orgasm then, tears of pleasure streaming down my cheeks, I had to beg her to let me rest for a while. As she cuddled me, stroking my hair and caressing my bum cheeks, she suddenly giggled and said, "Christ, I don't even know your name!"

We must have lay for nearly an hour, barely speaking, just kissing, cuddling and caressing as I adjusted to the idea that I was a lesbian whose lover was a black call-girl I had first met less than 24 hours earlier. I giggled thinking just what my father, a very posh, mildly racist and very homophobic, barrister would make of that. Lola has extremely long, muscular, legs, and I revelled in the feel of our pussies pressing together. Hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence, I dipped my fingers into her shaved quim, fucking her with them and feeling a huge surge of pleasure and pride when I gave her a gently orgasm. Finally Lola whispered to me, "Okay baby Shelley, it's your turn for a snack now."

It took me a moment to realise what she meant, then my stomach turned over in fear. Kissing her, I replied, "Oh God Esme (as she'd told me to call her), I want to but...I don't know what to do."

Another of her trademark chuckles emerged. "It'll come to you honey. Just go down there, take a really big deep breath, and do what you feel." I did as she asked, pausing on the way to tickle her salty belly-button with my tongue, and stroke my cheek across the soft smoothness of her pubic mound. When I nestled between her legs I took my first close-up look at another woman's vagina. It was beautiful, glistening with her juices, big very dark labia either side of a pink slit, with the pearl of her big clit at the top. Resting my hands at the very top of her thighs I placed my nose right against her and inhaled deeply. God, the aroma of her arousal was intoxicating. Desperate to make my lover happy, and to return some of the pleasure she'd given me, I dabbed my tongue against her; encouraged by the groan she gave in response I pressed my face into her, burying my tongue inside her, rubbing her with my nose, and caressing her lips and her clit with my fingers. She sighed constantly, and gave me verbal encouragements. She tasted truly heavenly, and it felt as if I was between her thighs for weeks, although in reality it was about fifteen minutes, during which she writhed and vibrated to several releases, her sweeter nectar delighting my tongue.

In all I spent about four hours in Lola's bed that evening, and I've been with her twice more in the week since then. Each time has been just as good - I can't say better, after that incredible first experience. It's not just Lola anymore though. There's an openly lesbian sergeant about twice my age at the station, and yesterday evening we found ourselves alone together in the women's showers. I'm not sure exactly how it happened but, to cut a long story short, within half an hour we were sitting in a curtained cubicle together, naked, snogging as we masturbated each other to orgasm. She's left a note in my pigeonhole today, inviting me round to her flat tomorrow, when we both have a day off. I've already told her yes.

I know it's only been a week, but already it's clear it's just a question of whether Keith dumps me before I tell him I want him to move out. Men are no longer part of my private life. I don't know how things will turn out with Lola/Esme (or with Sergeant Liz), but I will always love her for showing me who I really am, and for introducing me to more physical pleasure than I would have believed it was possible to experience.