Wait for the cop to come back.

You sit down again.

It's the first time, you think, that you've had a chance to sit in safety. You'd like to think things through, try and work out some logic to what's going on, but nothing useful comes to mind after ten minutes of waiting. "Avoid people glowing purple". Well, it'll have to do, for now.

The door clicks suddenly, and the cop walks back out to sit down at her desk behind the window. You stand and walk back over, not encouraged by her slow, unhurried gait, and it's only when you reach the window yourself that you realise this isn't the same woman you were speaking with before. The golden epaulettes on her shoulders are the first clue, and when she lifts her head from the paperwork on her desk you see a youthful, attractive woman with light copper skin and imperious brown eyes. She looks you over, and if ever one expression could say "dismissive", this would be it. "Name?"

"Sorry?"

"Name?" She clicks the end of her pen, and pulls a form free from a book of them in one of the cubbies on her desk. Her gaze strikes you yet again and you find yourself convinced that if you want to get anything done you're going to have to answer her questions.

"Taylor Devon."

Her own is embossed on a golden bar across her chest; Captain Marquez. Ok, so at least she's a big shot around here. "Occupation?"

"Uh, student."

She moves to scratch it down on the form, and then her pen stops. Slowly she looks up at you again, eyes running critically over your figure. Right now there's a lot of figure to judge. "Student?"

"...yes?"

"And you aren't in college?" Her eyes meet yours, now, her lips a thin line.

"No, that's why I'm here, because I was on the streets and-"

You jump as the woman slams both palms down on her desk. "As I suspected! A streetwalker!" You back off, hands up in surrender. "A common whore!" The woman's once staid demeanor has been replaced by a spittle-throwing anger, but she's almost smiling in her rage. You turn - you know when you're not wanted - and run for the doors. Or at least try to. In your sudden confusion you only manage to run slap bang into the noticeboard on the wall to your side. Pressing your hands against the glass front, you peel yourself off of it, and the shouting behind you gives you all the motivation you need to run again when you notice something out of the corner of your eye.

It's a list of staff here at the station. Captain Marquez is there at the top of a tree of faces, all neatly dressed in their best uniform.

Well. A Captain Marquez is there, anyway. One that looks about 60 and close to retirement.

You're on the cusp of a thought when the purple light reflects back at you from the noticeboard's glare.

"A hooker!"

You turn, and glare at this bitch of a cop. You come in here to help her out, and now she's going to curse you out for doing what you do? Like it's a crime to get paid in this town? "Hey, shut the fuck up, okay? You wanna be a bitch, you can be a bitch by your own fucking self."

Her eyes gleam dangerously at you. "A slut. You probably don't even charge. You're just a body swollen with sin, aren't you?"

Flash.

You stride up to the desk, trying to ignore the way this gorgeous cop is making your slit wet. There's no chance she'll give you a pity fuck, not someone like her, though most of the cops here don't turn a blind eye to you when you offer to work off an arrest in trade. Still, when your tit pops free of the bikini top you have on under your open jacket, you don't bother to pop it back into place. You jab a finger at her face, tapping the glass. "Fuck you, bitch."

"I bet I know why you came in here, too." The cop's devilish smile is triumphant. "You're going to turn yourself in, aren't you? Because you know you deserve... punishment."

Flash.

You watch as the cop's hand trails down to the nightstick at her side. You didn't think the cops around here carried those anymore, but as the cop's hand lingers on the top of the shaft, suddenly you can feel the wetness dripping down your leg, and it's all you can do to pant out an answer. "Y-yes...."

She walks slowly - agonizingly slowly - around to a door between her side of the room and yours, and as your hand drifts up under the tiny skirt you wear to provide easy access and take advantage of that, she fishes out some keys and unlocks the door.

It swings open, smooth as silk.

On the other side, one hand on her nightstick, the other on the handcuffs swinging from her belt, the cop waits. The strong, and, you hope, vigorous, arm of the law.

You saunter forwards, putting on your best cock-teasing walk, ass jutting, tits displayed. Normally you'd be advertising - right now, though, you just want to make sure she knows just how much punishment you're going to need. You might need to stay here for a long, long time. Just to make sure you've got all those criminal urges out of you.

You're in luck. Much later on, she has a cell already picked out and waiting for you. You'll have to be here for a while, just to make sure you don't go back to your usual ways. The most comfortable bed in the prison, she says.

You just wish you could sit down to find out.

- END -