The Irreverent Reverend Ch 05

Chapter 5: The police officer inspects Jessica and the Reverend.

The Reverend took a deep breath and rolled down his window. He turned to look at who was making his acquaintance but found only the blinding ray of the officer's flashlight pierce his eyes. The Reverend turned from the light and watched as the beam searched the occupants and the interior of the vehicle. With his light, the officer strip searched the man; his wand of light probed each article of clothing from his head to his foot; he felt naked and exposed, although fully clothed, by the strange way the light fondled him. When the officer was finished with the Reverend, he took his light to Jessica. He performed the same ritual with her, stopping for what seemed a long time on her legs and her skirt which was still bunched up near her stocking tops. She did nothing to hide herself.

"Damn him," her mind screamed and then "asshole." She was not afraid of this man, she had done nothing wrong and besides she had grown accustomed to the brazen stares of men as they looked, ogling her, fondling her with their dirty minds. Usually, Jessica really got off teasing men, leading them on, flirting with them, and tormenting them with the lewd fantasies that erupted in their minds with so little as a flicker of her eyes and a smile or a brief flash of her thigh.

It was a power trip for her, although she had not really analyzed it. She had learned this lesson early in life, on the streets, or more accurately, while still in school. It still amazed her how quickly a man could be turned into a bumbling mass of putty and follow her like a dog, intent only on their primitive satisfaction. She had been labeled as a "slut" early in life and though this role was one that she never aspired to, her life had been hard and she found that a brief display of her charms opened doors for her.

Sometimes the doors that opened and men being the rough creatures that they were, lead to back alleys and dead ends, so that in time Jessica learned how to moderate herself, to keep men on the edge, in a state of semi-flaccid denial, to be careful not to let them become fully engorged, because then the tables would turn and there was no telling what they would do.

It was different with the Reverend. He was so unlike any other man she had been with. The teasing and flirting on the dance floor had really made her hot and their little encounter by the bathrooms played over and over in her mind. Intuitively, he was the kind of man she knew she could trust. He was the kind of man that she could submit to and somehow she knew that he would always be there to catch her if she fell.

This is why the leering gaze of the officer pissed her off so. She was not going to allow this uniformed donkey take control of the situation and her man. Besides, the taste of the Reverend's cock still lingered in her mouth and she wanted it back.

"Good evening officer," the Reverend blurted out as his disdain for this unwarranted search brought him to his senses. He could take the pompous pretenses of some hillbilly cop but he would not allow Jessica to be subjected to such abuse. The officer grunted and returned the blinding light to the man's eyes and simply said, "Your driver's license and your registration."

The Reverend fumbled in the console for the registration and he turned on the overhead light. With the cab's light, the flashlight's glare and the rear spotlights were diminished, and he was relieved. This renewed his confidence and he felt as if, in some small way, he was fighting back. The officer was now outlined, standing before him. He was a tall man, at least 6 foot and bore the resemblance of one who had allowed the sallow of age form over what was once a muscular physique. He carried the standard issue police gear on his belt and in his hand, lightly clutched at the tips of his fingers, was his Billy stick. As the Reverend turned to present his papers, the officer leaned forward so that his face was now illuminated.

The Reverend studied his features; his face was smooth and hard, with ruggedly chiseled bones that rose like an alpine glacier above the hollows of his cheeks. These harsh features did not bother the Reverend; in each of us we are given only a structure, a foundation that builds each passing day, etching the erosion of time in our creases and lines. It is in the eyes that we see the real person; eyes which reflect a lifetime of emotion, days filled with laughter and hopeful expectation, nights of tears and sorrow, and the omnipresent thoughts guiding our waking hours. Each of these emotions sculpt our face as we travel on our journey and, like a great sand dune built by our buffeting life journey, they carve their impressions on us, into us, and when, we become old, our faces, although worn and drooping, hold the secret to what our days on this earth have really been like.

But the Reverend did not like what he saw in the man's eyes; they were tinted, frosted to prevent looking inside. Coarseness covered his features; a layer of grit dusted and muted whatever light might lie underneath. Yet perched on each peak of his rugged landscape there was a look of confidence, like a solitary flag staking out ownership of an inhospitable and desolate territory. Confident and menacing was the face that craned and glared into the Reverend's car.

He waited silently as the man perused the license. "Your car was all over the road on that stretch of highway back there, the officer drawled, lifting and pointing his Billy club towards the empty highway behind them. "Been drinking tonight?" he questioned. "Or is something else going on?" he intonated.

"I just had one beer, I swear," the Reverend reported, "and that was awhile ago, must have been at least an hour ago."

"Humm," the officer grumbled as he took the flashlight and plied the light once again on the man. "One beer should not make you swerve all over the road like that." These questions were becoming a sort of a game now; the Reverend could hear a cold enjoyment in the officer's voice. "You are putting this pretty little miss in danger, don't you think" he said as he basked Jessica in the light once more, the center of the beam resting on her crotch.

"I am sorry, officer" the Reverend said, "I know that I was not speeding."

The officer drew himself back up, out of the of the cab's interior light and yelled, "I will decide whether you were speeding or not" and then returning his sneering face back through the window he took his club and pushed it through the open window, into the cab, stopping only when its tip was just inches from the Reverends lap. "What do you call this?" he demanded.

The Reverend looked down and saw that the zipper on his pants was still open; he had not had time to close it in the trembling rush to pull over. "I asked you why you were swerving," he demanded again. Shocked, the Reverend said nothing. His mind was whirling. He knew the answer of course, but how could he justify this to an officer of the law?

Beside him, in a meek voice that grew stronger with each syllable, he heard Jessica say, "I can explain, Officer."

"Now we are getting somewhere," the officer exclaimed, the amusement returning to his voice and he took the light and shined it once again on the woman. She had done nothing to straighten or pull down her skirt and her legs remained spread open on the seat in a most casual and provocative manner.

"It was all my fault, really," she explained and the Reverend cringed when he heard her tell the story. "I was giving him a blow-job, I am sorry sir." The officer said nothing and waited for her to continue. "I think he was about ready to blow and he must have swerved a little." Jessica's voice had changed back into her charming little miss tone that she mimicked with Ricky back at the bar. The Reverend was beside himself. How could she be speaking like this? It was like he had entered a dream and was falling endlessly down a deep hole.

"I will not do it again," she continued. "I promise to be a good girl." The Reverend could not believe the confidence and the moxie of this woman. She was taking on the cold arm of the law single handedly, owning up to the crime herself, pointing the finger of blame on herself, and away from a man that only hours before, she had never met.

"A good girl do you say?" the officer mimed, as the level of amusement rose in his voice. Removing the Billy club from its position above the Reverend's open pants, he pulled back and slowly walked around the vehicle to the passenger side. As he passed the front headlights, they saw his full appearance. In his stride, in the way he sauntered around the vehicle, they clearly saw that this was a man intoxicated with his badge who was drunk with confidence both on and off duty.

The officer stood outside the passenger door and probed Jessica again with his flashlight. From this new vantage point, Jessica's stocking tops and the fancy nylon lace of her panties sparkled in the light. She held her ground firmly and did not close her legs. Never before had the Reverend met such a courageous woman. How she could bear this scrutiny without flinching was beyond him.

"Get out of the car," barked the officer. "I want to see what a good girl really looks like." He held the light steady on her, not on her hands or eyes to watch for the sudden movement of a criminal, but the beam remained firmly planted between her legs. She felt the heat of the powerful light on her legs and wondered if it was just the light, or something else.

Jessica reached for the handle, opened the door and lifted her right leg up over the threshold and down onto the gravel pavement. The Reverend heard a soft crunch as her heel ground into the dirt and when her stance was steady, she swung her left leg through the door opening, and scooted her bottom off the seat. Her legs were now totally open to the officer's leering light and her panties pulled tightly against her moist pussy. The Reverend was in shock, he must really be dreaming, twice in one night he had witnessed a woman flashing through a car door, first to him, and now to the greedy eyes of the police.

Slowly she swung her other leg through the door opening and standing upright, her skirt fell back to mid thigh and she was decent once more.

"My, my, my, ain't you a purty lady," the officer sang. "Now stand over there in front of the car," he barked using his loud voice again. He pushed the Billy club against the small of her back as she passed him, directing and speeding up her movements.

"Crunch, crunch, crunch," the Reverend heard as she moved in front of the vehicle. "Turn around," he ordered and she stood facing him, her back to the hood. "Mumm, mumm," he hummed "Just a good little girl," mimicking her sugary little voice, and then in a deep bellow, exclaimed, "That likes to give blow-jobs."

The Reverend wished he could see her face, to see her reaction, to know what she was thinking. Did her eyes still exude the strong confidence with which she made her confession, or were they now filled with fear that gripped the Reverend.

"Move your legs apart," he commanded and raised the club to prod between her thighs. With the wooden shaft he pried them apart. "I think you rather look like a cocksucking whore, a slut, not a good little girl," he pronounced. "This was unacceptable," screamed the Reverend inside his head. He could not allow this to proceed. He must rise to action. For weeks Jessica had charmed him and after what had happened back at the bar, and the amazing road hummer, he would not stand for this man to treat her so.

"Hey," the Reverend shouted from behind the wheel. "What's going on here," he demanded. "What are the charges officer?" There was strength and a confidence in his voice. In an instant, the officer's flashlight whipped across The Reverend's face and blinded him again. He heard the ominous crunch, crunch, crunch of the gravel, but this time it was not the petite steps of a high heeled shoe, but the heavy grinding of a boot.

"Get out of the car," the officer screamed and before the Reverend could move the officer had flung open the door, grasped him by the collar and yanked him out. Falling to his knees he felt the sharp edges of gravel bite his legs. "Up against the hood," he barked and letting loose a swing of his club he struck across the Reverends back. Wincing in pain, the club hit him squarely across his kidneys. Searing in pain and unable to raise himself, the Reverend began to crawl and tried to scramble like a wounded dog dragging itself out of striking range of an irate master.

Reaching the front of the car, he tried again to rise up and grasped the front bumper for support. "Hands on your head," the officer barked and the Reverend struggled to stand.

When in state of shock our normal sense of consciousness is lost and we enter a sort of dream-like world. The Reverend must have entered this world, because in his mind's eye this same little scenario, one he had seen on countless variations of cops and robbers, played over and over in his head. He knew what was coming next and was powerless to stop it.

"Legs apart," he officer barked. The Reverend heard these words and he shuffled his feet apart slightly only to hear a whoosh of slicing air and the painful strike of the Billy club against his calves. He shrieked and cramped in pain, the Reverend struggled to open his stance but the force of the blow was too great and with his hands still intertwined on top of his head, he fell forward smashing his face against the hood.

A sugary warmth filled his mouth and the Reverend wondered for a moment what this taste could be until a new pain in his jaw and upper lip filled his mouth with blood.

"Don't move," the officer ordered. There was finality in his words. The officer had tired of this game, the Reverend heard it in his voice, and for a brief moment he thought this ordeal would be over. Directing his attention to the woman, he stepped in front of her and stood in the headlights path. Glaring at him with a hatred that boiled, a hatred that longed to smother and extinguish him with the molten lava of her soul, she held firm her gaze and looked dead center into the eyes of this garish creature.

Seeing that she was no longer going to play coy with him, he spat on the ground and took his club and began to tease about her body. "Ain't you a feisty one," he chided as the wooden shaft flicked her hair up and off her shoulders and felt its way across her breasts and over her nipples. She did not say a word but stood still and defiant. He took the club and twirled it across the smooth nylon of her inner thighs and tugged up on her skirt, toying with her. As he lifted his stick higher and higher, she felt its cool surface move above her stockings and she felt herself cave. Behind her fierce eyes and defiant demeanor, she prayed the officer would not notice that she was really trembling inside; her only thought was to go to the Reverend and cradle his wounded body in her arms.

The cold smooth surface of the stick was having an effect on her, however. She fought to repress it, the mere thought horrified her. There was an awakening and her thirsty desire reared. She had toyed with men all her life but her body had been cold. For years she had worked on coaxing the erotic sensations from her body, trying to allow herself to let go completely, in relentless pursuit of the ultimate orgasm. She had tried toys, felt the loving touch of a woman's tongue, had worn leather, slept in lace but the men, the simple minded brutes never completely satisfied her.

She was in charge of her orgasm and she played with herself every day. Her clitoris had grown extremely sensitive and she liked to keep herself on the verge at all times, she craved the erotic sensations filling her body and fingered herself all day long. For years she worked on coaxing her sexual feelings out of hiding, learning to give in and respond to them completely.

Now, it was as if she had created a monster, a monster that could overtake and devour her. Her nipples had swollen with the first touch of his club and the stroking on her upper thighs created a longing that she fought with all her might, frantically trying to push this pulsing dragon of desire back into its cave. She wanted the Reverend and did not like what the officer was doing. She trembled and her wetness grew.

Jessica was an expert at playing the cat and mouse game of flirtation; teasing then pulling back in coyness; luring, then demurring until she felt a man's passion rise. Her devilish charms would not work with this man. This was her game and she played it well. If she liked the man, she would bring him to full arousal in a rhythmic crescendo so that he would finally tear the clothes from her body and she would splay her legs wide and feel his hardness penetrating her, she would take each stroke and beg for it harder and faster knowing it was her that created the frenzy between her legs. The officer was different; she had never met a man so brutal who spurred the horse of his passion with such viciousness. He would not be putty in her hands. She was at a loss. He was in control.

He needed no reminding. He had known it all along.

The teasing assault of the Billy club continued as the officer stroked her thighs higher and higher. The wooden pole was now under her skirt and its shaft slid back and forth against her thin panties. She tried to block her mind but all she could think of was grinding her heels deeper in the gravel so she would sink lower against his pole. She hoped he would not notice but her hips began to tremble as her mind swayed with fear and passion. He pushed the Billy club firmer now, pushing her new panties into her slit and she felt herself dropping herself against the wooden probe.

For once in her life she felt guilty about being turned on. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Reverend hunched over the hood of the car and she could hear his staggered breathing. Still, her wetness grew as the cold wooden shaft pushed between her lips.

Then, he withdrew the club from between her legs and brought it to his nose to smell her and with a gleam in his eye, he raised the club to touch her cheek. She could feel the warm wetness on the cold stick. He looked at her and in this cruel court, she had taken the law into her own hands, her own loins. He allowed her to become her own jury and she was wet. The sticky wetness felt cool on her cheek as he rubbed the Billy stick across her cheek. She had lost, convicted. She was wet.

He smiled and moved the wooden shaft to her breasts and began to circle them, trace their shape through her shirt. With the club, he flicked her nipples, teasing her with this clumsy baton and watching as they responded to this attention. "Such a good little girl," he cooed and then dropping his club, took a step forward and grabbed a handful of hair and pulling her towards him drawled in a loud whisper, "In these parts, we only allow good girls. Then lifting up with his hand, he pulled her hair so that she had to practically stand on tip-toes and added, "In these parts, it is a crime to be a cocksucking whore."

Holding her firmly in his clench, he dragged her back towards the squad car. Stopping in front of the car where the Reverend lay immobile on the hood, like a nocturnal animal blinded by headlights and had became a road kill hood ornament, the officer lifted the club once more. With a simple upswing, the officer directed the club between The Reverend's legs and struck him in the groin.

He caved. His eyes popped. A torpedo had struck him and he felt an implosion that sucked the very breath of life from him. His groin exploded and in his balls he felt the searing pain of a battlefield. He gasped but his blood filled mouth choked and gagged him. Even his cry had been stolen from him and he slipped against the cold metal of the hood, unable to breathe.