Hand her over

"She's over here!" you shout, grabbing her arms and twisting her around to face the cop—your hands deliberately blocking her distinctive goggles as you shove her forward. "You son of a bitch," she said as she wrestled from your grip. Catwoman then tried to run, "I'll remember thisssssssss." She said as the cop tasered her—electricity crackling as she hit the ground—while you backed away slowly, hands raised. The officer cuffed her snarling form. "Selina Kyle, you are under arrest for the robbery of Gotham Museum's Egyptian wing," the cop announced, hauling a twitching Catwoman to her feet. Her slitted pupils locked onto yours—promising retribution in a single glare—before she was shoved into the cruiser.

You followed the cop as she read Catwoman her rights, keeping your hands visible and your breathing shallow. The cruiser door slammed shut on Selina Kyle’s furious hiss; you could still feel her venomous stare through tinted glass. The officer turned, sizing you up, you then got a good look at the officer and she was kinda cute. "Thank you for your help in the capture of this dangerous criminal, she stole over $3 million worth of artifacts last night," she said, holstering her Taser. Her badge glinted under the alley’s lone lamp: Officer Montoya. "I've been trying to catch her for a while now, she's slippery," she smiled at you, her dark eyes assessing yours.

"Consider this a reward for assistance in her capture," She then turned off her body camera, before leaning up to kiss you deeply, her tongue slipping past your teeth. You froze—GCPD policy forbade this, but her grip on your jacket kept you anchored as she explored your mouth with startling expertise. When she finally pulled away, breathless, she smiled before pulling you into the alley's shadows. "I'm not exactly supposed to do that... but Catwoman's capture might just get me that promotion," she murmured against your neck, her hands already working at your belt buckle. "You can be my celebration." Your protest died as her knee pressed between your legs—every nerve screamed danger, but adrenaline and her unexpected hunger left you trembling against damp brickwork.

She looked around to make sure no one was watching. She the dropped to her knees and pulled your pants down. Her warm mouth engulfed you instantly—hot and wet and urgent. You gasped, fingers tangling in her short-cropped hair as your head thunked against crumbling brickwork. This wasn't just gratitude; this was desperation, a frantic energy humming through her lips and tongue as she worked you with rough, practiced efficiency.

Her eyes stayed locked on yours—dark and insistent—as she pushed you deeper down her throat. The alley stank of piss and rotting garbage, but all you tasted was copper-thick arousal and the ozone-tang of her stun gun still hanging in the air. Her teeth grazed you once, sharp enough to make you flinch, but she only chuckled low in her throat and sucked harder. You wondered if she always celebrated arrests like this, or if Catwoman’s capture had really meant that much.

Montoya looked up at you, as she licked the underneath of your shaft. She didn't break eye contact, her pupils blown wide in the gloom. "You ever had a cop on her knees for you before?" she murmured, her breath hot against your skin. Before you could answer, she plunged down again, swallowing you to the root—forcing a ragged gasp from your throat. Her fingers dug into your hips, pinning you against the brickwork as she worked with relentless rhythm. Somewhere beyond the alley, sirens wailed—a distant reminder of Gotham’s chaos—but here, trapped between her mouth and the wall, all that existed was wet heat and the scrape of her duty belt against your thigh.

Her technique was brutal. Efficient. No teasing, just raw suction and the scrape of teeth when she dragged her lips upward. You braced one hand against crumbling mortar, the other tangled in her hair—not guiding, just clinging—as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked like she was draining venom from a wound. Her stare never wavered, dark eyes reflecting the flicker of a dying streetlamp. You realized this wasn't gratitude; it was dominance. She’d marked you as hers the moment she kissed you—a transaction sealed in spit and desperation.

Your hips jerked forward involuntarily, driving deeper into that wet heat. Montoya gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she didn’t pull back. Instead, she dug her nails into your thighs and swallowed convulsively, throat fluttering around you like a fist. The rhythm stuttered—choked, gasping breaths between deep swallows—and you knew you were close.

The alley spun. Brick scraped your knuckles raw. Her fist punched your thigh—a frantic signal—but you couldn’t stop. Lightning coiled in your belly, spilling down your spine. You came hard, vision blurring as she milked every drop with vicious suction, her throat working like a pump until you were shaking and empty.

She pulled off with a wet pop, coughing, tears streaking her cheeks. For a heartbeat, she stayed kneeling, gulping air, spit-slick lips glistening. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, "Happy with your reward?" she rasped, rising unsteadily. Her uniform was rumpled, knees stained with alley grime. You couldn't speak, pulse thundering in your ears. She chuckled darkly, adjusting her belt buckle. "Now needless to say this never happened, okay?" Her eyes hardened, voice dropping to a whisper. "Because if it gets out..."

You nodded, still gasping, the taste of copper and ozone thick on your tongue. Montoya holstered her Taser with unnerving calm, but her fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed her uniform. "Good," she muttered, glancing toward the alley entrance where her cruiser idled, engine growling like a caged beast. "Now get lost before anyone sees you here." She then handed you a card—thick cardstock, embossed with a GCPD badge and a handwritten number—her expression unreadable in the gloom. "My personal number, if say you want to ask me out for coffee or something," she added, her tone casual but sharp as broken glass. "Don't be stupid with it."

You stumbled backward, fumbling to pull up your jeans with slick fingers. The alley felt suddenly colder, the shadows deeper, as Montoya strode toward her patrol car without another glance. Her cruiser peeled away, tires spitting gravel, leaving you alone with the stench of piss and the ghost of her teeth on your skin. You looked at her card—thick cardstock, embossed GCPD badge, that handwritten number—and jammed it into your pocket like contraband. You dating a cop? Especially Montoya? Impossible. But you wouldn't mind seeing her again, especially if she kissed like that again. You started walking, your knees wobbly, heading toward your apartment.