The Sergeant and the Suspect

Author's Note: A version of this was on Literotica a while back, but I removed and updated it. The Prologue will make it appear that the story is a BDSM tale. It's not. It's a lesbian romance in which that first scene sets up the encounter between the Sergeant and the Suspect.

Prologue

I am hungry and when I am hungry I go to a bar to drink. Thursday nights are best. It's always in a wealthy suburb north or west of town.

Never the same place twice. Tonight I was heading to Weston. It's a thirty-minute train ride to the city which means lots of bankers and lawyers. A newish bar with leather furnishings for an "Old-World Feel." That's what the website says: "Old-World Feel." Photos of smiling twenty-something men with good hair and great teeth in suits with white shirts and red ties. Tall ladies in sparkling dresses and just the right proportions of jewelry and just the right lift in their heels and just the right size of their tits and, surely, just the right dabs of perfume. All laughing about a jointly shared, inside joke.

I have a nice car. An Audi S4 convertible. Red. When I'm hungry, though, I drive an Accord. Cream. I never use valet parking when I'm hungry. I park on the street. Close, but not too close.

It was 9:23 when I sat at the bar that Thursday. Just like in the picture. Class. The bar itself a wood with a burgundy flavor to it. Taps with either local IPAs or foreign brews. It's never Miller Time in this place. The bartender, in black trousers and white shirt with the top three buttons undone and chest hairs that I suspect were conditioned and combed, is immediately asking me what I'll have. "Ginger ale in a wine glass. No ice." Looks enough like a white wine to pass. It attracts them.

By "them," I mean the three or four gentlemen who eyes kept returning to and lingering up and down me. Helped by my little black dress with an extended slit and thigh-high black stockings with a hint of lace at the top. Louboutin 4-inchers. I need to wear black gloves because of an allergy. Blonde with blue eyes--neither the hair (wig) nor the eyes (contacts) are naturally what they appear but that's what they'll appear to be tonight. Nor is my bust real; My tits are but my cleavage is enhanced by my bra. One must fulfill others' expectations, no?

Back to the "gentlemen" eyeing me. To be clear, I've had more than my share of ladies doing the examining but while I have come close I have yet to have the pleasure of one. Nor has one yet to have the pleasure of me.

No, tonight it is the "gentlemen" eyeing me that get my interest. Each wondering how he got so lucky that someone like me walked into a bar like his, in his backwater, suburban town. Wondering if this is their lucky night. "A fantasy walked into a bar--"

One approaches to say hello-may-I-buy-your-next-one and I thank him but say no because I never take the first nibble. A trip to the ladies' to give the others time to muster the courage.

No, not the first. It is the I'll-show-her-a-real-man second one I want. And he comes. Of course he does.

"Financial advisor." They're usually "financial advisors." Sometimes a "lawyer from Harvard," neither of which is likely true but to him it doesn't matter because he'll be gone before I have time to check his CV. Tonight it is a "financial advisor." Probably spends his days executing other people's trades. Surely someone's flunky. He is not unattractive. Tall and looks like he spends more time at the gym than a secure man would. Top button of his shirt undone. Tie--red over a white shirt--loosened.

Tomorrow is Friday and he has a the-market's-up flush. I let him pay for my second glass of "wine" and our dance begins. He's very interested in the fact that I'm very interested in him. I let him pay for my third glass, which is actually Chardonnay. I am who he wants me to be and where he wants me to be and I saunter again to "the ladies'" to let him mull it over. And to fix my make-up and make sure my wig is perfect. It always is.

"Oh! Is that the time? I have to get up early for work."

"What do you do?"

"I have my own firm." Usually unspecified but if asked I say it's "high-end computer software." This one doesn't ask.

"May I walk you to your car?"

"I'd like that. I'm just down the street."

I reach for his hand as we walk. It is sweaty. He is in a fantasy. It is just not his.

I rub his cheek when we reach my Honda. A bit of stubble.

I correct myself. "I don't have to get up that early." I raise my mouth to his. Nothing but a peck, but it garners his first moan.

"I'm...I'm not far." I feel his hand on my waist as he says this in an almost mockable tone.

"I do not want to go too far." Smiling as I drag my hand down his cheek before reaching behind his head and pulling it to me and my lips. This one not just a peck.

He hurries back to get his car, bouncing from foot to foot as he waits for the attendant. Who'll get a nice tip. He pulls next to me and I wave and nod. I follow him, parking on the street a few doors down from his little apartment building. We enter the lobby and I reach for his waist as the elevator takes us up. Fifth floor. Fumbling for his keys until he gets it right and we are in his living room. He was not expecting company. Luck be a lady tonight. I decline the proffered water as he rushes to make his bedroom presentable. "I'll be right out."

A quick stop in the bathroom and he comes for me, his shirt's top button no longer undone and his tie tightly at his neck. Jacket on. Going with the Cary Grant look. I run my hands down his sides and accidentally cross his crotch. He is happy to see me.

"Take me." That is my trigger. My words act like a starter's pistol.

He pulls me into the bedroom, and it takes no time for him to get himself down to his boxers. He is expecting a slow striptease from me when he is done.

"Let me see him."

He is proud. He removes his boxers, tossing them to the side. Facing me again, he pushes his hips forward ever so slightly. Very erect. I approach. My hips gyrating. One. Two. Three.

I am inches from him. And from "him."

"Let me get something from my bag. I'll be right back. Wait for me on the bed."

When I return, still dressed and with my hands behind my back, he is on his back, fully erect. Probably more than he has ever been. Probably more than he will ever be again.

I lean to kiss him and he opens his mouth and sees the gag too late. I am good at this. It is in and secured before he can register the first thought of what I am doing to him. And that first thought will be that I am playing a game and he gets even harder. If that is possible.

If a cat plays a game with a mouse, I am playing a game. He is now compliant. "It'll be fun," he thinks. And it will be. I pull out four scarves. Generic, untraceable scarves. "You like?" He nods. They always nod. I secure his wrists. I secure his ankles.

I take some ice I got in his kitchen and apply it to him. He softens. When he does I place a cage over his dick and lock it in. I exchange handcuffs for the scarves. Generic cuffs. I dangle the keys. Over my mouth. And I swallow them. I've learned how to do it. I open my mouth and show him it is empty. They are gone. His brain struggling to grasp the trouble he is in.

I strip. Slowly. I let the dress drop. His head is turned so he can watch.

I step out of my little black dress and fold it neatly, carrying it to his dresser, letting him see the ass cheeks and the strip of my black thong as it caresses my crack and bisects my booty. His breathing is labored into the gag, spit escaping its sides. I take a handkerchief from my bag and clean his lips, removing any traces of my own then returning it to my bag. His dick is turning red. The poor thing. All that blood and no place to go.

I turn and reach my hands behind my back to undo the clasp to my bra. I remove it, covering my tits with my hands and place it on my dress. When I turn back, his eyes bulge. They--my tits, not his eyes--are not big. Surely not as large as he was led to believe by my cleavage. They are, though, spectacular and they are real. I saunter back towards him, exaggerating my hips' motion in my Louboutins. Now he is flailing, desperate to get relief for his trapped dick. I am down to my silk thong and my long gloves and shoes and stockings. All of them black. I spread my legs as I stand before and facing him. I remove my thong and turn and place it on my other things.

Again I face him, now naked. Except for my long Audrey Hepburn gloves, my stockings, and my Louboutin 4-inchers.

I reach into my bag a final time. I stand in front of him with my hands behind my back, on full display to him in his agony. More spit sliding from his mouth, sweat pouring from his forehead. His head bouncing off the pillow, his eyes registering, and his mouth trying to say something. "Please" perhaps. Maybe "Why?" I want him to enjoy looking at me for a minute more. His eyes are getting larger, his dick locked in place torturing him.

"Just one more thing baby." And I pull a blindfold from behind my back. He lifts his head so I can secure it.

"I have enjoyed this. More than you will ever know."

* * *

I enjoy my game. I think most of them do too. When I close his door, I tape an envelope to it with five small keys. At about 6:30 the next morning, before anything truly bad can happen, I find a public phone--not that easy these days--and call the police department in whatever town I was the night before. They don't record calls like 911 centers do. A desk sergeant will pick up, half-awake since nothing happens in these towns at 6:30 in the morning, and I'll say someone needs help in apartment whatever at address whatever. I don't want them to have to break the door down, so I mention that "the door is unlocked," and I hang up.

Columbo

"Morning Columbo."

Sgt. Brianna Jameson was not Italian and rarely wore a raincoat but she got that nickname when she cracked one of her first homicides as a sergeant by leading the suspect to confess unknowingly to kidnapping a business rival. She was a Metro PD sergeant. Now she'd been called in to handle a series of kidnappings, none of them fatal, that plagued outlying towns. The kidnappings were in several jurisdictions and the various police departments agreed to bring in Metro PD, which had far more experience with that sort of thing.

"How many is this, Jonesey?"

Jonesey was Billy Jones, a detective who worked regularly with Jameson.

"Four. That we know of."

"Great."

The crime scene was the guy's apartment. He sat in a T-shirt and shorts, no shoes. Looking real embarrassed. He was found at about seven that morning when a local officer showed up. He was buzzed in by the super and when he got to Apartment 504 he found an envelope taped to the door. Getting no response to his knock, he opened the unlocked door and upon entering the bedroom found the tenant/victim cuffed to his own bed, a cage on his penis, and gag in his mouth. A blindfold over his eyes. Otherwise naked.

The officer ripped off the blindfold and pulled the gag from the mouth. The tenant could barely get his breath. His eyes looked terrified.

"She took the keys," he said as he shook his cuffed hands. The officer looked at the envelope he held and found five tiny keys. He undid the cuffs, first the wrists and then the ankles. The tenant could barely walk. The townie handed the fifth key, but the tenant was too upset, and the officer delicately removed the lock from the cock-ring and pulled it away.

While the tenant was in the bathroom, a second car pulled up and the officer went to the apartment. One of the responding townies recalled a departmental memo about a woman who was kidnapping men and, well, doing what just had been done to this guy. The instructions were to immediately contact Metro PD, which was in charge of the multi-jurisdictional investigation. And that is why Eugene Dellers was sitting in his living room waiting to be interviewed by two Metro PD homicide detectives, one a man, the other a woman. The woman was the boss.

"I assume it's too much to hope for fingerprints?"

"Probably, but we're checking."

Jonesey gave a run-down of what they found so far. Last seen at a supposedly classy bar not far away. Bought a woman a white wine. She went to the ladies' and the pair left together. Bartender gave ginger ale that looked like wine. Nice tits, but definitely a wig. Real fuck-me heels. Expensive. Strange about the long gloves, like Audrey Hepburn. They all say, "like Audrey Hepburn."

Said "no" to first guy who hit on her. "Yes" to the second. Real sweet. Might have been a professional except that she turned down the first guy.

Her car down the street. His in the bar's lot. Attendant says he was super pumped, saying he was getting a "fine piece of ass" that night. Big tip. Didn't get a good look at her car, but seemed ordinary. The victim never remembered the car either. Some kind of light-colored Japanese or Korean sedan. It didn't get much attention.

"So pretty much same-old, same-old?"

"Pretty much same-old, same-old."

Both detectives found a bit of humor in the situation, cruel as it was to Mr. Dellers. Why were homicide detectives on the case? The second victim was the son-in-law of the local mayor who was a political ally of Metro's mayor and inevitably he volunteered his PD to help and after the third victim the mayors in the towns outside the city where the kidnappings took place used the Bat Signal to get Metro's Mayor's help.

The Captain assigned this one to Jameson to be the point person. It was politically hot enough, with blaring headlines and live shots from outside Metro PD's headquarters, that it could make or break her career. If she fucked it up, she'd be at vice until she started collecting her pension. She was thirty-five with pale skin and fiery red hair. She was not thin but the other cops had long since learned to keep their distance. Her father was a retired Lieutenant but she took care of herself very well, thank you very much. She made sure everyone knew that when she kicked a detective in the balls with her knee a month or so after she got out of the Academy. Word got around.

Once that was taken care of, she was just another cop scratching to stay alive and keep her arrest numbers high. After three years, she was out of uniform and a junior detective. Bounced from robbery to vice to a short stint with narcotics before finding a rabbi in homicide. And then that big break she caught with the businessman who took the antitrust laws into his own hands and capped the CEO of a rival. So arrogant that he looked at Jameson as a woman and not as a detective. Which is why he's doing twenty-to-life Upstate.

Briefing

The squad room was crowded. Detectives from all four of the towns where the known kidnappings took place were there as were the usual members of Homicide. Every one of them trying to balance their job with the sense that the victims got what they deserved, with more than a few cops thinking they got what they wanted.

"I don't want to have to give this speech one more time so let's catch this woman. Let's walk through the similarities."

"Sergeant, are you sure it's a woman?"

"Well, either that or a guy who knows how to dress like one. Look, this is someone, male or female, who really knows how to exude femininity. The victims are not completely stupid. One or two might, but not four guys. And who knows how many more too scared or smart to report it. No. Four plus guys would not leave the bar with a guy who couldn't pass as a woman. So it might be an experienced cross-dresser or tranny, but my money's on a natural woman. Which may be the only thing natural about her. Remember, no one said she had big feet."

"Just fuck-me heels."

"Yeah. Those fuck-me Louboutins. People, those are the ones with the red soles. Pay attention. So the outfits are pretty much the same. Especially the gloves. I'm thinking it's to avoid fingerprints."

"What about kidnapping women?" This was from a detective from the town with the most recent kidnapping.

"No. Just men. Remember in that one town a few months back where the second person to approach her was a woman and she said, 'I don't swing that way'? Well, she may actually swing that way--"

"Maybe she only swings that way."

"Yeah. Maybe she only swings that way and is taking revenge on men. That's one of our theories. Anyway, that at least was her line. So we're pretty sure it's men she's after."

Jameson looked out.

"Thursdays?"

"Always Thursdays."

"Yet. Different gaps between kidnappings?"

"Yup. Fourteen days. Thirty-five. Longest was sixty-three."

"And this last one?"

"That was the thirty-five."

"Right. Random bars?"

"They all cater to the millennials and they're all in towns with easy access to commuter trains into the city. So the bars target young, single professionals who come into town. The vics tend to live in a new apartment building."

"Any video?"

"Nothing we can use. We're checking last night's, but don't hold your breath. And even if her call is recorded, she knows how to disguise her voice so no luck there. We don't know the suburbs that well. Can any of you guys from the burbs think of similar towns that haven't been hit?"

Two raised their hands. The first said, "Ellisville" and the second said, "that's what I was thinking."

Jameson asked whether there were any others. She was told there may be, but that was the best guess.

"And did the bartender at this most recent bar save the suspect's glasses the way we've asked them to do?"

"They don't do it because it's a pain in the ass. So her glass was cleaned within hours of when her DNA was on it. Way before he was found. We have to get them to do it."

"Tell them they'll be heroes if they're the ones who help us grab this asshole. Tell their bosses too. Make sure the owner of places in Ellisville knows this, but don't tell him his place may be targeted. I hate to say it, but we have to let her make a move before we do anything."

Jonesy piped in. "So we're going to stakeout these places?"

"I don't see we have a choice. Can't be every bar in the region. Harris. I need you to go town-to-town and identify any other places she's likely to go to. She hasn't done it in the same place twice, but we can't take that chance. I'll clear the OT with the powers-that-be. But, Harris, get me that list. And if anyone else can think of a place, throw it in the hat."

"What about the city?"

"There are too many. We have to hope she doesn't change that part of her pattern. For now, just the northern and western burbs."

She broke up the meeting after arranging for one of Metro Homicide's people to work with detectives from the Four Towns to do on-scene canvassing and follow-up interviewing.

When they were gone, she sat with Jonesy at his desk.

"At least we have some time. We have to recheck the crime-scene stuff. I'll run this by the Loot and see if he'll give us the bodies we need."

A Tip

"Sergeant Jameson."

"Jameson."

"Sarge. We just got a tip from a bartender. Woman ordered ginger ale in a wine glass."

This was the Thursday five weeks after her last appearance. Jameson put the address in Waze. She was floating in her department SUV, waiting for a report to direct her to a possible appearance of the woman. The bar happened to be about three miles from her. Waze said it'd take eight minutes. Waze doesn't account for lights and sirens. She'd make it in three. She smiled. Normally she only gets to use them when there's a body getting cold and from all reports this woman's body was far from that.

Jameson got details as she raced through the Thursday night traffic. Johnson was in the place. He was good. Young and handsome. Calm. Excellent bait. He'd be the lucky Man No. 2.