The following is part 1 of a 2-part a cop/civilian extreme noncon story. About 3900 words. It is violent, has usage of weapons/the threat of weapons, and probable psychopathy. Turn away now if this is not your jam!!
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Sebastian sighed as he flipped his cruiser's lights on. For the life of him, he could not grasp why people would pass in a non-passing lane, and in a residential area at that. If you're about to shit yourself that badly, it's all coming out when you inevitably die in the car crash you cause.
The black Ford pulled over in a small residential neighborhood of affluent homes. *"Of course it's an F-150"*, he muttered to himself as he pulled in behind the car. He took a brief moment to glance at the nice historic homes surrounding him - he was nothing if not a appreciator of fine Victorian and Edwardian architecture - and went about ticketing the asshole who was making him do the least favorite part of his job as a state trooper.
As he was walking back to his car with the driver's - Michael or something or other - license and registration, he noticed a little Audi Q8 waiting quietly behind his cruiser. Even from his vantage point, he could see the driver was beautiful - long, silky black waves, large almond shaped eyes framed by thick lashes, and full, pink lips. She was definitely East Asian, Korean, maybe? Her hands rested on top of the steering wheel - no ring. And she was giving him a small, tired, apologetic smile.
He grinned at her and waved her on. He couldn't help but sneak a look at her plate. Not vanity, always an immediate +1 in his book. For a split second, he watched her car ascend up the hill silently - *ooh, electric* - and for another split second his monkey brain said ***follow her.*** He shook his head like a dog shaking off water. *Fucking idiot. Focus on your job. You're a fucking cop and that shit is behind you.*
He finished ticketing the dumbass that wouldn't shut up about how slow the car in front of him had been going, and sent them on their way. Sebastian - Bas, for short - walked back to his car and sat in the drivers seat for a bit, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, staring at the hill up which the Audi had disappeared. Suddenly, as if they'd developed a mind of their own, his hands guided his car up that hill.
Each house was well-enclosed in its own mini forest - deep, winding driveways disappeared into trees. Bas knew this neighborhood well - it was known as one of the richest neighborhoods in their small city. Pembroke only had about 250k people, but was home to one of the world's best private hospitals. Hundreds of affluent doctors moved here to get paid $800,000 and live lavishly in a medium cost-of-living town.
Bas was paid pretty decently himself, especially for someone with a bachelor's degree. As a lieutenant, he made about $152k a year. Nothing to scoff at for a 34-year-old single man with no kids. He lived in a nice 13th-floor apartment with walls of windows overlooking the quiet city and lived comfortably. Plenty of time for hobbies-- woodworking lent him strength in his large, veiny hands, and powerlifting lent him strength, well, everywhere else. At 6'4", he was formidable, and his stature, soft brown curls, bright hazel eyes, and handsome face adorned with light stubble made him very popular with the ladies. He typically had a new beautiful woman in his bed every weekend, but he never let them stay. They were always boring. Otherwise, he had everything to live for-- a pensioned career, good health, and bright prospects.
*So why the fuck was he following a pretty girl into her neighborhood?*
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Rose stopped to check her mail outside her home. It had been such a long day. She'd had two complex open heart surgeries, and they'd been back to back. An 11 hour day, and then of course she'd gotten stuck at the entrance of her neighborhood because some idiot had gotten pulled over. It had looked like her neighbor Mikey, a neurologist with the patience of a toddler and the personality of a wet noodle.
As a cardiothoracic surgeon and one of the nation's top specialists in congenital heart defect corrective surgery, Rose's services were in top demand. The teaching hospital in Pembroke had offered her $725k to be a consulting physician with associate professorship, and it had been difficult to turn down when she had just finished her second fellowship last year. At 33, her colleagues often jokingly called her a baby genius. Graduated from college at 19 after doing early college in high school, a year of research at Imperial College London, then med school, residency, two fellowships, and finally her dream job.
One could call her lucky, but she was simply an excellent surgeon and a doctor of the highest caliber. Controlled, poised, and incredibly detail oriented, almost to a fault. Yet patients always praised her bedside manner: Her soft, reassuring voice promised good care, and her unique ability to relate empathically to patients while breaking down their medical presentation into small, digestible pieces was not one often found in surgeons. She was gifted.
She sifted through her mail as she walked back to her car, peripherally noticing the police car she'd gotten stuck behind on the way in and assuming he was doing a quick sweep of the neighborhood. There's been reports of a string of break-in rapes in town, and police had yet to catch the culprit. How scary.
Her Edwardian home loomed into view through the trees. She actually had one of the smallest houses in the neighborhood - 2,700sqft, and she'd bought it last month for $1.2 million. It had 14ft ceilings, huge stained glass windows, and original old-growth wooden floors, gnarled yet smooth, planks almost 2ft wide. It was her dream home, and she loved the peace of living in her dream home *alone*. Rose had always valued control - likely it was due to a tumultuous childhood with abusive parents who'd beaten greatness into her, but as soon as she'd moved out she'd ensured to control every aspect of her life. Perhaps it was why she was such a good surgeon - what more control could you ask for than to, quite literally, have someone's life in your capable hands?
She dropped her keys in the ornate carved key bowl at her entrance, slid off her boots and placed them neatly in her shoe closet, and padded to her kitchen for a snack. Washing her hands for at least thirty seconds, she toweled them off with a hand towel before tossing it into a small laundry basket at the side of her large 6ftx8ft kitchen island. She'd actually designed the island herself, using a beautiful antique 64-shelf apothecary cabinet she'd found while working in London. It had cost her $8k, and another $10k to ship it here, but she'd had it outfitted with a thick slab of dark rainforest green marble imported from India. It was the centerpiece of her kitchen, and all that was on it was a sink and a bowl of apples and bananas.
Rose trudged upstairs and took a long hot shower, washing the sickness and disease and hospital off, before changing into a deep green, floor-length silk chemise with intricate lacing at the bodice that hid nothing. Just because she had no one else to appreciate her body did not mean she could not appreciate herself. Her small pink nipples peeked through the lacing, and she had small nipple piercings that she'd gotten at 18 as a form of rebellion. Small diamond and pearl flowers sparkled at the end of each of the gold barbells.
With a deep sigh, she grabbed out a carton of blueberries, some cheddar, and whole wheat crackers. She didn't have it in her to cook a meal. It was a beautiful spring night so she cracked a few windows, grabbed a knit blanket, switched on her TV, and snuggled onto her large fluffy down sectional. Time to veg out a little before bed.
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