John Dorland pressed his foot down on the break, slowing the car down as he approached his usual stakeout spot and eased his navy blue unmarked police cruiser off the interstate and into a wide truck turnout, backing the rear of the Dodge Charger up under the cover of the maple trees that lined the turnout fifty yards from the edge of the asphalt. He turned off the headlights, leaving the engine idling, and flipped on the dash mounted radar, settling back into his seat for the remainder of his ten hour shift. The amber glow of the cruiser's parking lamps illuminated the late night like a pair of cat eyes, warning all who passed by that he was on the lookout for speeders. He had been patrolling the same isolated 100 mile stretch of Interstate 5 in southern Oregon for the past twelve years and the two-lane straight, flat expanse of asphalt was a prime target area for drivers to rack up traffic violations.
It was two in the morning and there were barely any vehicles on the freeway, even with it being the peak travel season, with the exception of a few semis that rumbled by, their heavy engines breaking up the silence of the night. In his decade plus of service with the state police, he had stopped several speeders, usually letting them off with just a warning and telling them to slow down. He dealt with the few irate assholes that had to give him a hard time about not wanting a ticket to mar their driving record, giving them the ticket anyway along with a notice to appear in court, which usually pissed off the out-of-state drivers. But at this hour in the morning, he was more concerned about catching drunk drivers even though the occasional speeder still tore through under the cover of night.
John had been sitting for an hour and he had only seen one truck pass by and he let out a long breath. It was going to be a long, slow night. He dropped the windows in the cruiser, the slight breeze of the warm summer air blowing in through the car and warming his already sweaty skin. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the headrest, shifting down further in his seat and drawing his knees up to rest on either side of the steering wheel. He stood 6'4" and weighed 250 pounds, all of it muscle and the state issued cars were not big enough for his stature, they wouldn't issue him an SUV no matter how much he insisted, so he had to deal with being uncomfortable and tonight was no different.
To top it off, he had been thinking about his wife all night and his cock was starting to strain behind the fly of his tight uniform trousers, having gone without a decent fuck for five days. His wife was out of town visiting her ill sister and wasn't expected to be home anytime soon. He had to resort to jacking off but there was only so much satisfaction his fist could give him. And as the mental picture of his wife's breasts popped into his head, his cock throbbed in his trousers and he lifted his hips off the seat, reaching down to adjust his aching cock in his boxer briefs to a more comfortable position, pushing it to the side so it rested against his thigh instead of against his swollen cum-filled testicles. If he didn't get fucked soon he was going to go crazy.
******
Vivienne McMillan sped down the remote section of Interstate 5 in the late evening, the Porsche quickly eating up the asphalt as the needle on the speedometer vibrated against the 105 mph mark. She had two days to get back to Los Angeles and a traffic accident just outside of some small Podunk town in southern Washington had her sitting in gridlock for more than four hours. She had become infuriated at the catcalls she had received while sitting in traffic with the top down on her Carrera. She had dressed to travel, not draw attention to herself but when she looked down at her attire she couldn't help but notice why she was receiving all the unwanted attention. At 5'11" and weighing 120 pounds with astonishing measurements of 34D-24-35 she was all legs and breasts. Her long hair was twisted up in a windblown knot, it usually fell down around her breasts to hide their size, but it was hot and she had the top down on her Porsche, and her hair was less likely to get snarls that way. Her short white shorts rode high on her sleek tanned thighs and her huge breasts strained behind the thin cups of her demi bra, pushing up and over the V-neck of her cropped white tank top, showing off an ample amount of cleavage and the sheer floral edge of her turquoise bra. She seriously thought about chucking her four inch Jimmy Choo's at the man in the Ford pickup truck sitting next to her who insisted on her climbing in with him and giving him a blow job in traffic and the more she ignored him, the worse his comments got.
When the road crew finally had the overturned semi out of the freeway and traffic started to move, Vivienne flipped the crude man off and floored the accelerator, leaving the man sitting with his dick in his hand and unable to catch up with her, her car much faster that his beat up truck. Traffic had started to dissipate on the freeway as the sun started to set and she settled back in her seat, sliding a Matchbox 20 CD into the player and cranking up the volume. She cruised along at a high rate of speed, staying in the passing lane and keeping her eyes out for police cruisers. She made pretty good time and as the sun disappeared completely and the stars came out under the warm summer evening, she made even better time, enjoying the wind blowing through her hair as she maneuvered down the open road, her eyes constantly watching the lane in front of her as her Porsche tore down the asphalt. She couldn't help but think about the man's crude advances, she hadn't been fucked decently in over a month, but his toothless grin had her wishing she was back in California.
She blew past an open stretch of interstate, never seeing the amber lights of the car parked under the trees.
******
The radar on the dash buzzed loudly, bringing John out of his daydreams. The triple red digits were frozen on the LED screen and he pushed himself back up into his seat, reaching for his seatbelt as he shifted the car into gear, flipping on the headlights. A speeder. So much for his boring night. He eased the cruiser onto the asphalt and punched the accelerator, the Charger's heavy duty engine taking him from zero to seventy in five seconds flat. He could see the blur of red taillights in the distance and he stepped down further on the gas, his adrenaline pumping through his veins as the needle of the speedometer quickly inched towards the 115 mph mark. Shit, this guy was fast. As he got closer, he recognized the shape of the taillights, a Porsche Carrera. It was built for speed but his car was built for the pursuit. When he was a quarter mile behind the speeding car, he flipped on the takedown lights, the red and blue strobes hidden in the cruiser's grille lighting up the night.
John eased off the accelerator as the brake lights came on the Porsche, tailing the car for another quarter mile before the turn signal was flipped on, the speeding car finally easing off the side of the road in a wide turnout, the headlights pointed towards the bank of trees. He turned the cruiser off the asphalt, the gravel crunching under the tires as he rolled to a stop behind the expensive silver car. The headlights and flashing strobes reflected off the California plates and the first thought that leapt into his head was the expensive ticket he was going to write the idiot who wasn't aware of the state traffic laws for driving over 100 mph.
He started to reach for his mic clipped to his shoulder to call in his location with the 12-30 and quickly released the button as he caught sight of the mahogany haired woman sitting behind the wheel of the Porsche. He didn't usually have as much trouble with women drivers, they grumbled and groaned a little as they took the citation they were issued, some even offered sexual advances, and that just pissed him off even more and he jacked up the price of their ticket. Things could get hairy, though, and he might need backup, but he doubted it. Another trooper was too far up the road for assistance.
John reached for his flashlight on the dash and his citation book on the seat and climbed out of the cruiser, straightening to his full height and stretching the kinks from his back, walking across the gravel to the car, his flashlight poised above his shoulder as he approached the driver, looking down at the woman sitting behind the wheel. The high beam of the flashlight illuminated the inside of the car and the woman squinted against the brightness, temporarily blinding her and giving him a chance to look her and the inside of the car over. Her glossy brown hair was pinned up on the back of her head in a sloppy windblown knot. Her large breasts were forced upwards by her bra and they strained behind the low cut clinging fabric of her tank top, her gumdrop-sized nipples were as hard as bullets from the wind that blew across them and pushed indecently against the material of her top. He shined the beam down a little lower, taking in the rest of her, eyeing her shorts that rode high on her legs, giving him a clear view of their long, toned length but not of her crotch, it was concealed under the denim. She had a body to die for and the most beautiful face he had ever seen. He felt his cock twitch in his tight uniform trousers, reminding him that he was still alive and in need of a fuck. "License and registration please, Miss."
Shit, Vivienne thought, this was the last thing she needed, a speeding ticket. She hadn't realized she was driving so fast, her car cruising along steadily at the fast speed like anybody else's did at fifty. She let out a frustrated breath. She was already running behind and now this. She reached over and dug her license out of her pocket book and leaned over in her seat to fish her registration out of her glove box, her shorts dipping low on her hips as she dug around inside for the piece of paper the officer was demanding. "How fast was I going?"
John moved the beam of his flashlight, first directing it at the woman's huge breasts, they were a lot bigger than his wife's, and then to the deep cleavage between, down the length of her back to the bare expanse of skin between her tank top and the waistband of her shorts that dipped even lower exposing the flowery triangle of her turquoise g-string at the crack of her ass. He bit back a groan. His wife never wore skimpy undies. "I clocked you doing one twenty in a sixty-five mile per hour zone, Miss."
Vivienne sat back in her seat and reached over the door frame, holding the pieces of identification out to the man. She squinted against the beam of his flashlight again and lowered her gaze, her eyes focusing on the considerable bulge behind the fly of his tight navy blue uniform trousers and the hardness of his splayed thighs. She let her gaze travel higher up his body to his pale blue uniform shirt pulled taut over his ballistic vest and the wide expanse of his shoulders and further upwards to his handsome face with its chiseled features. She couldn't make out the color of his eyes, but with his short cropped blonde hair, she would bet anything that they were blue. The brass tag over his shirt pocket said J. Dorland and there were two chevrons on his sleeves over his bulging biceps.
"I'll be right back, Ms. McMillian," he said, walking away.
