The officer makes a discovery

The window drops and the night air rushes in, cold against the damp skin of your inner thighs. Blue light strobes across your face, catching the wet streak on your chin, and the officer standing outside the driver's door recoils. His jaw tightens. His eyes move from your face to your bunched dress to the man behind you still tucking himself away, and his hand goes to the radio on his shoulder.

"Out of the vehicle. Both of you. Now."

The driver's door opens. You hear his shoes hit the pavement, and then the engine revs. The door slams. Tires shriek against asphalt and the car lurches forward, taillights shrinking down the road until they round a corner and vanish.

You're left standing on the curb in the strobing blue glow, the cheongsam clinging to your damp skin, the slit gaping open to your hip. The silk is darkened with sweat across your ribs and lower back. You taste salt and musk still coating your tongue. Your knees are unsteady.

The officer doesn't chase. He watches the car disappear, then turns back to you. His face is carved in the hard light of his patrol car's beams. He's broad through the chest, the dark fabric of his uniform stretched across heavy shoulders. A silver badge catches the light. You are surprised at how young he looks. He can't be more than mid-twenties, but carrying the authority of someone who was forty. You become oddly short of breath, and your breathing speeds up, as you think about being bossed about by someone so young... that is a new sensation for you. Your eyes linger on his square jaw and deep-set eyes that don't blink.

"Step to the vehicle. Hands on the hood."

His voice is commanding and deep for such a young guy.

Your legs move before the thought finishes forming. The pill hums through your blood, warm and insistent, and your body obeys authority the way a compass needle swings north. You walk to the patrol car. The hood is cold under your palms when you press them flat against the metal. The engine ticks beneath the surface.

He comes up behind you. You feel the heat of him before he touches you. He's close enough that his belt buckle clinks faintly as he shifts his weight. His shadow falls over your back.

"Spread your legs."

You step wider. The cheongsam rides higher. Cool air touches the wetness between your thighs and a shiver rolls through you that has nothing to do with the temperature.

Metal clicks against metal. He takes your right wrist first, pulling it down behind your back, and the cuff ratchets tight around it. Cold steel bites into your skin. He reaches for your left wrist and pulls it back to meet the other. The second cuff closes. The chain between them is short, forcing your shoulders back, your chest forward against the hood.

You arch your spine against the position. Your nipples press against the sweat-damp silk. The restraint sends a pulse of heat straight to your core, and your hips shift involuntarily against the hood.

He leaves you there. Standing, so exposed, by the edge of the road is much more vulnerability than you had ever thought you'd experience when you first changed earlier that evening...

The officer radios in the missing car - giving the licence plate perfectly - before he turns his attention back to you.

After a few strides, he leans in to you. His breath is warm against your ear. He smells like coffee and leather and gun oil. His chest presses against your restrained arms as his mouth comes close.

"Tell me what's going on."

The words spill out. You tell him about the study. The X-Change pill. The "Compliant-Breeder" formula. How it rewrites your body and your will. How you have to obey. How you left the Vanilla Alternative and got into the taxi. How the driver told you to unbutton him. How you took him in your mouth because you couldn't not do what you were told. How he came down your throat and then the blue lights appeared in the mirror.

You tell him everything. The honesty pours out of you like water from a cracked cup, the pill stripping away any instinct to lie or omit or protect yourself.

He listens. He doesn't interrupt. When you finish, the street is quiet except for the idle of the patrol car's engine.

He straightens up. You hear him exhale slowly through his nose. Then the sound that comes next is low and rough and it vibrates through his chest into your back.

A laugh.

"So let me get this straight." His voice has changed. The professional edge is still there but there's something underneath it now, something dark and curious. "You have to do everything someone tells you to."

You nod against the hood. The metal is fogging under your breath.

"Everything."

Another nod.

His hand settles on the back of your neck. Not restraining. Resting. His thumb traces a slow line down the ridge of your spine, stopping where the cheongsam's fabric bunches at the small of your back.

"Get on your knees."

You sink down. The pavement is rough through the thin silk at your knees. Your cuffed hands press against your lower back, the chain pulling taut. You're eye-level with his belt now. The buckle is brass, dull-finished, and his hand moves to it.

He unbuckles it slowly. The leather slides through the loops with a whisper. He drops it. It hits the ground next to you with a heavy sound. Then the button. Then the zipper.

He pulls himself free. He's thicker than the driver was, and harder, the shaft flushed dark with blood, the head thick and ridged. He holds it in front of your face. The smell of him is different. Muskier. His hand comes to the back of your head.

"Open."

Your lips part. He pushes forward. The head of his cock stretches your mouth wide, rolling over your tongue, and you taste the salt of him. He doesn't ease in. He feeds you the whole length, inch by inch, until the tip presses against the back of your throat and your jaw aches around the girth of him.

"Hands behind your back. Don't move them."

They already are. The cuffs ensure it. But the command sends another pulse of wet heat between your legs and you clench your thighs together on the pavement.

He starts to move. His hips roll forward and back, fucking your mouth with long, measured strokes. His hand holds your head still, fingers tangled in your hair, controlling the depth and the pace. Each thrust pushes him deep enough to make your throat clench, and saliva spills over your lower lip, dripping onto the silk of your cheongsam.

"That's it," he says above you. "Take it."

You do. Your mouth works around him, tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft, tracing the thick vein that pulses with his heartbeat. Your lips seal tight around the shaft and you suck on the outstroke, cheeks hollowing.

His pace quickens. His grip tightens. You feel him swelling thicker against your tongue, the ridge of the head flaring. His breathing goes ragged. He pulls back until just the tip rests on your lower lip.

Then his radio crackles.

"Unit seven, report. Status on the abandoned vehicle?"

His hand freezes on the back of your head. His cock throbs against your lip. Above you, his jaw clenches hard enough to make the tendons in his neck stand out.

The radio crackles again. "Unit seven, respond."