Macho Sluts (39 page)

“Let me go,” she cried, wrestling with his hand.

“Let me go,
sir
,” he corrected, holding her in place. When she realized he was not pushing her down any further, she stopped struggling. He regarded her coldly, displeased by her refusal to use his title. “Sticks in your craw, doesn't it?” he said. “But before I'm done with you, you'll call me ‘sugar' if I want you to.” He waited, then suddenly insisted, “Suck it!”

“No.”

“No, sir,” he corrected her again.

How clever of him to append that hateful honorific to a refusal. How easy, to begin calling him “sir” while she refused to suck his cock. But I am wise, like all hunted things, she told herself, and I know if I say that word I will descend a step down the ladder into submission.

“Yes, sir?” he suggested. “Yes sir, I'd love to suck your big drooling cock, sir?” The atmosphere in the car was charged. Heavy breathing came from the front seat. Something had to break.

He turned her loose and reached for his gun in one smooth move. The cold steel of the barrel stroked her cheek, and she froze. Nothing in the world was as big as that gun. He came at her again, backing her into the corner, and took her chin with one hand. “You will take it in your mouth, you know.” The trigger clicked.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and slumped. Of course. She was the thing that had to break.

“Good. Now open your mouth—just a little—that's good.” His kid glove pursed her mouth into a kissing shape. The barrel of the gun, tasting of smoke and steel, was poised between her lips. She struggled to open her mouth wider, to swallow it whole and get it over with, but he would not let her. Carefully, patiently, he dictated just how much of the barrel she could take into her mouth and how slowly or quickly it would slide in and out. It was impossible to think of or remember anything else that had happened to her, other than the pistol ravaging her tender, wet mouth. He pressed deeper, into her throat. Despite the constriction produced by fear, she did not gag on it. Not once. She did not dare.

Finally, he withdrew the weapon and wiped it on her T-shirt, over her breasts. “Thank me,” he said absently.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. The pistol teased her nipples into erection. When he slid it back into its holster, she gave a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Then he took her by the ears and brought her face back to his dick. It was only half hard now, lying in a fat curve on his thigh. The dribbling head had made a small, dark spot on the light gray wool of his trousers.

“Kiss it,” he whispered, stroking the back of her neck. He wrapped one hand around his cockhead. She bent her head and put her mouth on him. She actually did kiss the vein that ran like a vat work along the underside of his shaft. His cock jumped a little, startling her. “Lick it,” he urged her, sliding down in his seat. Her tongue bathed the smooth rod, but he would not let her put the tip of it in her mouth. Instead, he lifted his balls and fed them, one at a time, to her. She took each orb into her mouth and laved it.

Suddenly, without prompting, she engulfed the whole sac and sucked and tugged on it. The twin eggs in their purse of skin and hair stretched out her cheeks and tickled the roof of her mouth. He gut-groaned the peculiar sound of pleasure and fear that men make when their manhood is taken from behind someone's teeth. “You do that real good for somebody who doesn't like it.” He nudged her away and she extruded his testicles slowly, careful not to scrape them. He pointed his cock at her. “Want it?” he asked.

She did. And she could not lie. Why bother in the face of death? “Yes, sir.” Two words, and the whole world changed. She was now an actor, not a victim. He uncuffed one of her hands, refastened them in front of her body.

“Joe, gimme a safe.”

She heard the door of the glove compartment open. Without turning around, Joe held out a foil packet between his first two fingers. “Take it,” Don snarled. “You don't think I'm gonna put it on myself, do you? Or don't you know how?”

She tore open the small package (it was surprisingly tough) and took out a flat circle of latex. It had a rolled rim. How was this little bitty thing going to fit over that big piece of cop-meat? Impatiently, he urged her forward, and she took his cock between her hands. His pre-cum was running freely, and he jumped when the tip of her little finger slid into the piss-slit. As she rolled the rubber over his erection, she milked him, keeping the latex sheath snug. He pinched the nipple at the tip of it, squeezing the air out of it, reminding her what was about to rush out of his tool. The prophylactic outlined and exaggerated every wrinkle and vein, and its base fell short of the root of him.

As she stared, fascinated by the strangeness of his body, some of the starch went out of him. The leather-gloved hand fell on the back of her neck, exerting gentle but irresistible pressure. So she turned her head, opened her mouth, and took all of his partially rigid dick in her mouth. She pumped up and down it a few times to get her saliva going, and his response was immediate. Too bad, she thought. If he wouldn't get completely hard, I could keep all of it in my mouth quite comfortably. Now it's going to be harder to get it all down.

“Teasing bitch,” he muttered. “Get down on it, cock-tease. Don't worry, you can take it all. We'll make a good cocksucker out of you. We know how, don't we, Joe?”

Mouth full, she suddenly became aware that the patrol car had stopped moving. It was parked somewhere. A window had been unrolled enough to admit fresh air and the sound of wind in trees. Also, slurping sounds were coming from the front seat. Somebody else was getting a blow job—from his partner!

Were those two cops faggots? It didn't make sense. Her cunt convulsed. Leathermen were sexy enough—dark knights and princes that she loved to look at, even if women weren't supposed to touch. By comparison, cops were kings—fuck, emperors. In the hierarchy of sex objects, she guessed gay cops ranked right up there next to God. But, shit, if Don was supposed to be gay, it didn't reduce the menace level much. He could get good head anywhere, any time. She knew she hadn't had enough practice to be as good as the boys who went to the glory holes, fell on their knees, and stayed there for hours, taking eight inches and more down their throats until dawn. How was she going to please him enough to save herself?

“That's right,” he said, as if he could read her mind. “I know a good cocksucker from a lousy one. So tuck your teeth in and take a deep breath, because I want to fuck your throat, honey.” He held her head still and bucked his hips, rolling the tip of his hard penis back and forth across the spot in the back of her throat that made her gag. Tears came to her eyes, her nose ran, and her mouth streamed with saliva and coughed-up mucus. Every now and then he let her up for air, but as soon as she had taken a deep breath, he seized her again, and filled her throat and pummeled it. It was deeply and perversely thrilling to be used this way, with just the right amount of cruelty. She found herself wishing she could taste his cock instead of the bland skin of the condom. And she was proud that she had made it hard, not one of the city cops in the front seat. These were dangerous thoughts, but she could not relinquish them.

After a while, he let go of her, but she stayed on his dick, slowing down a little and taking it more shallowly, licking the shaft rather than simply swallowing and sucking. He let her, hissing every now and then with pleasure, until he couldn't stand it anymore, then he grabbed both side of her head and fucked her face again, deeper and deeper until she thought she would strangle. “You're fighting it,” he said, his dick invading her, provoking her reflexes, shaming and exciting her. “You ought to open your throat and just let it in. I can tell you love it, I can tell you want to do me real good, so just let it happen. Let me use your throat like a pussy. You don't have to choke like that. You can breathe around it. Of course, it you want to choke—” And he held her extra tight for an especially vicious bout of sword-swallowing.

Finally, they synched with each other in the automatic moves that had to lead to his orgasm. Both of them were pumping without thinking, and he began to talk about her mouth being better than a tight piece of ass, and how much cum he was going to shoot in her mouth. He said, “I love fucking you this way, in your face. Your mouth is you in a way that your cunt isn't. I want to stick it in
you
, not some dark, blind hole without a name on it. I want you to know who is doing this to you and remember forever.” He made her ask him to come, plead as well as she could around the gag of his flesh. Her lips, the inside of her cheeks, her tongue and throat were swollen from arousal and friction. When he was beyond being able to stop himself, he held onto her neck and head and forced her to perform the perfect strokes that would provoke and prolong his ejaculation. He went deep to come, all the way to the bottom of her throat, and blood hammered in her ears as all her air was cut off and her gorge rose with bruising force. But he did not allow her to eject him. He held her head down to his groin until he was through spurting.

Then he took off the doused condom, tied a knot in it, and tucked it down the front of her jeans. It was still warm. “You worked hard for it. You wanted it. So take it,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. When she tried to resume nursing on him, he cuffed her away from his big, naked dick, and she sat up, dizzy and wet-faced.

Joe handed back a thermos cup. The tall patrolman drank, then held it for her. It was black coffee. Yuck. She drank it anyway, needing the moisture. “You've had worse things in your mouth,” he said drily. “Recently.”

“Where to now?” Mike asked.

She started. Had she been asleep? The question reminded her that this bad dream was still in progress, and filled her with dread.

“The thirteenth precinct,” he said, putting his cock away and zipping up. “I've reserved us a private suite. Just drop me by my bike first.”

“You go it, sir,” Mike said.

Within ten minutes, they double-parked by a big Honda wearing the state highway-patrol decal. He patted her cheek. “Don't forget me, huh? We'll get together for more fun and games real soon, because you have potential.” He got out of the car. His boots crunched on gravel. She watched him kick the machine into life, then peel off. The squad car followed him, and this time there was a siren.

Now misery settled in. She cursed herself for a fool. The cop hadn't exactly raped her, had he? What would they do to her, now that they'd seen her weakness? And had she really been stupid enough to think that bastard would let her go, just because she made him come with her mouth?

She tried to defend herself against this onslaught of condemnation. ‘I'm not stupid, I never thought about getting loose,' she told the angry voices. ‘I just did it because I wanted to, and I was in a situation where I had nothing to lose.'

That was even worse. To just suck him off without thinking of bargaining sex for freedom—to do it just for the pleasure and degradation of it—was stupid, perverted, sick, stupid …

They were driving through the Tenderloin when Mike abruptly swung the wheel over and pulled up by a parking meter. The patrolman was backing his cycle into the space behind them. Now she was being hustled over to the side door of a fairly large hotel that had seen much better days. The service elevator was waiting, its doors open.

“What is this?” she demanded, ashamed that she was so scared the question came out in a tremor. “This is no police station!”

“Course not,” Mike scoffed.

Joe smiled. “You might say it's the annex.”

The elevator hoisted itself clumsily, making a grinding noise, as if it had to dig its own shaft up through old rock. The stop was so abrupt that they didn't so much leave as get thrown out. The hallway smelled terrible, and she did not look around to find out why. They stopped at a door painted smeary white. The fancy woodwork of the door frame was a chipped beige, the design almost obscured by too many layers of paint. The number was painted on with red nail polish. She risked a quick glance down the hall. Shreds of old wallpaper hung here and there. The painted-over pattern had seeped through enough to resemble evenly spaced splotches of grease. Somebody had tried to start a fire at the end of the hallway, under a window. A scrabbling noise that seemed to come from inside the wall made her jump, and she kicked a hypodermic syringe, which rolled away and hit another door.

“This is our room, boys,” the tall patrolman said. “We can question our suspect here and take down her statement without annoying interruptions. The Pussy Posse won't be needing it until they have to clear all the ladies of the evening off the streets when the next big convention hits town. And the poker tournament isn't until next week.” He unlocked the door, escorted them in, and locked it behind them. The key went on his belt. Unless she could get past all three of them, there was no way she was going to get to those keys.

“Welcome to Precint 13,” somebody said, and the other two snickered. “Home of the city's oldest, unbusted, floating crap game and emergency room for the treatment of blue flu.”

“Look around. This is your new home,” the highway patrolman said. That was ominous. It implied permanence. “Your arms are probably sore. Not to mention your jaw,” he added, and motioned for Joe to unlock the handcuffs. She rubbed her wrists and flexed her arms, then—since she had been told to look around and nobody stopped her—she explored the room.

Its walls and ceiling were painted a glaring white. She felt like she was trapped inside a refrigerator. The overhead light, a bare bulb, was in a wire cage to prevent unruly occupants from breaking it. There were a couple of dusty, overstuffed armchairs and a coffee table. But there was something weird—a small cell in the corner, not big enough to lie down in—a cage, actually. On the other side of the room was a double bed covered with a white sheet. Hospital restraints hung from the iron head-and-foot boards. The bathroom door was just past the bed. The bright light and sterile, ice-box walls made her jailers seem very colorful, intense, and interesting. She was crushable, disposable, like a little carton of leftovers waiting to be thrown out.