Gina’s Yoga Mat Gets Ruined

You both barely make it back to your desks before the next text buzzes in.

Amy: Yoga mat. Now. She’s in the holding cells doing that stupid “performance art interrogation” thing with a perp. We have twenty minutes.

You meet her in the locker room. Gina’s bright pink yoga mat is rolled up in the corner next to her ridiculous essential-oil diffuser. Amy unrolls it with a wicked grin, then drops to all fours right on top of it, ass up, skirt flipped over her hips. Her pussy is still leaking your last load, creamy and obscene.

“Fuck me on it first,” she demands. “I want it soaked.”

You don’t need telling twice. You kneel behind her and slam back inside her sloppy cunt, gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. The mat squeaks under you as you rail her, wet sounds echoing off the lockers. Amy reaches back and spreads herself wider, pushing out more of your cum with every thrust so it smears across the rubber surface.

When you feel yourself getting close, you pull out and start painting the mat in long, heavy ropes - thick white streaks across the pink. Amy spins around immediately, pressing her face into the mess and licking up a mix of your cum and her own juices before rubbing her tits and stomach all over it, glazing herself.

She even scoops some onto her fingers and wipes it across the inside of Gina’s favorite headband.

“She’s gonna smell like your balls during her next “namaste” bullshit,” Amy laughs breathlessly.

You both roll the mat back up exactly as it was—now thoroughly marinated—and slip out.

***

The break room is next.

Amy gets there first and pours out half the coffee pot into the sink. Then she hikes one leg up on the counter, fingers herself viciously until she’s dripping again, and lets it all run straight into the pot. You step up beside her, stroking fast, and add three more thick spurts directly into the dark liquid. She stirs it with the communal spoon, spits in it for good measure, then tops it off with fresh coffee.

You both wipe everything down and leave just as Hitchcock wanders in, already muttering about needing a cup.

Amy texts you from her desk ten minutes later:

Amy: Hitchcock just drank two cups. He said it had “extra body” today. I almost came again watching him.

***

The game spirals harder after that.

By 5 PM you’ve both snuck into the evidence room. Amy sits on a box of confiscated drugs (carefully sealed, of course) while you fuck her tits and finish across a stack of Rosa’s favorite knives - leaving them glistening. Amy carefully rubs her soaked panties across the handle of Rosa’s personal baton before tucking them back into her own pocket.

Later, during evening briefing, you watch Captain Holt take a slow sip of that tainted whiskey. His eyebrow twitches for half a second - the only tell - but he keeps talking in that perfectly measured voice about case statistics while unknowingly swallowing your cum and Amy’s pussy cream. Amy’s thighs press together so tight under the table you think she might bruise.

After the briefing she drags you into the copy room.

“Terry’s protein shake is next,” she whispers, already unbuttoning your pants. “I want you to fill the bottle while I sit on his desk and piss in his drawer. Then we’re doing something really nasty with Boyle’s lunchbox tomorrow.”

You groan, stroking yourself as she describes the plan in filthy detail - how she wants Boyle to unknowingly eat your cum on his avocado toast again, how she wants to leave a pair of her cum-soaked panties in the women’s bathroom for Rosa to find, how she wants to milk you dry onto the precinct’s official case whiteboard before the morning meeting.

She drops to her knees in the copy room, takes you down her throat, and looks up with those dark, depraved eyes.

“We’re never stopping this game, Jake,” she says, strings of spit connecting her lips to your cock. “I want every single person in this precinct unknowingly marked by us.”

You grab her hair and fuck her face until you’re pumping another load straight down her greedy throat. She swallows most of it… then holds the rest in her mouth, walks straight to Terry’s protein shaker on the counter, and spits it in.

She screws the cap on, shakes it, and gives you the filthiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Your move, Peralta. Who’s next?”