Firm hand of the law

It's easy to know whose hand is on the back of my head. Not by name, mind you, but I know how he spends most of his waking hours. The differences between people are smaller than you'd expect. It's insistent and rough. Self aggrandizing. Police. I half expect to look up and see him in uniform, maybe at the side of the road. Because he caught me giving head to some freak as he blazed down the highway, let's say. But when I look up I see flashing lights that obscure his face. Not police lights. We're inside, I don't know where. And he isn't wearing his badge or his gun. You think you're so smart. He is police, I know it. Maybe not on the job, but he thinks he owns you, wants to prove it, wants to see you kneel before him. The fact that he's thrusting his cock into my waiting mouth is ancillary. If I didn't touch him but still called him sir he would cum just as hard.

I hate cops. I hate talking to them, I hate seeing them on the subway, I hate the way they try to flirt with you while they pretend they're just doing their job. Whenever I've been harassed or robbed or punched in the face, and that's happened, they haven't done a single thing. I'm more afraid of them than the junkies I see on the corner of my street. The junkies can't stand up straight, unlike the upstanding officers. And the way they leer. Access to real handcuffs, the kind you actually can't escape from, doesn't move the needle for me. I would never, have never. But I'm

///// silk /////

in lingerie, and I know it's for him. He likes girls in red. Very creative, he. Who could have told me that? "Let me see your badge, officer, I want to know your name if you're going to fuck my lips." I could say. I don't say. We're well past introductions. If I don't know his name, if I never knew it, it's because he never gave it to me. And if he never gave it to me, but I still know he likes girls in red, and here I am in red and stockings like a good girl (heels too, yes) with his cock in my mouth and his hand bunched up in my hair, then something isn't right. My head is spinning. Against my better judgment, I want it. If I let him cum in my mouth, will that make the feeling go away?

He's going to want to...

"I'm gonna finish on your tits," he grunts. An older man. Much older. The lights are spinning and blind me, so I can't see him, but I imagine a mustache in white like an officer in a drama from the sixties. The reality is probably

Gk gk gk gk

The sound of my throat. And then no more. He wrenches his hand back and my neck feels like it's about to snap. His hand is a blur, stroking his manhood. Spit trails from my lips. Plus, pre-cum. "Pleaze," I groan, mush-mouthed. Like he cares what I think. It's hot on my skin, on my fancy, expensive lingerie. It will take me hours to be sure it's clean. At least there isn't much of it. He doesn't make himself wait.