I stared into her as I struggled to restrain my instincts.

“They always caught mine,” she continued, “whenever I saw you patrolling Adams at night. I wondered whether you might be the one to catch me engaging in my forbidden pleasures.” She chuckled. “And sure enough, you were.” She brushed a curl behind my ear; her touch made me shiver— ((She’s going to defile my sacred flesh—but…)) “But not until after they took away your badge. And your cuffs, which is a pity, because I find cuffs very entertaining.” She laid her hands on my shoulders and kissed me, and I responded pretty much the way I expected to respond—by immediately wrapping my arms around her and reciprocating with such aggression that I just about took the lead from her. Not far into our kissing, she asked, “What was it like, having it taken away?”

I did my best to concentrate on the conversation. “It was—(mwa)—the worst thing to ever—(mwa)—happen to me.” But I removed my lips only long enough to answer, then it was straight back to tongue fencing and fighting the urge to tear off her pants and ravish every square inch of her body. ((She’s going to defile my sacred flesh—but ‘sacred’ according to who? It’s my flesh, not God’s, I have a right to do whatever the hell I want with it. Tattoos, drugs, prostitution—it’s mine to ‘defile’ in whichever fashions tickle me, whether planned or on impulse, be it for profit or pleasure or love.))

She moved her hand to my waist, brushing my tit on the way down; I wanted her to squeeze them both and bite my nipples. “‘The worst’? So you’ve never lost a friend or family member?”

“I lost my mother when I was 21, right after Peter Falk,” I said absentmindedly, preoccupied with her lips and hands and body; my knee-jerk moralistic thoughts on sex work screamed silently beneath all this, buried and suffocating beneath a majestic mountain of lust that made Everest look like a dung hill that had been smooshed flat under someone’s boot.

She pulled her head away to get a look at me, frustrating my desire. Curiosity twinkled in her eyes. “And losing your badge was worse than losing your mother?”

And then I realized how perversely skewed my priorities were. ((She was everything to me. Or… was… she?)) I ceased kissing Captain Somers as my brain seized like the Tin Man after an acid rain. “(Um.)” I would have been mortified had my mother been in the room to overhear this revelation. (Among other reasons.)

“Oh, my God. You are being serious. Was she not a loving mother?” Morbid curiosity and a hint of not-quite-judgment crept into her voice and face.

I was so overwhelmed by this self-revelation and my reproductive urges that I couldn’t think of a lie. All I could speak was the truth, and only with great effort. “Being… a homicide detective… was my lifelong dream.”

“Was your dream more important to you than friends or family?”

“I haven’t had either for the past decade,” I informed her. ((Please stop asking humiliating questions and get back to passionately kissing me. Or fucking me. Preferably fucking.))

“I see. After you lost your mother, your job was the only thing you had left. After you lost that, you had nothing left at all. Is that an accurate summary?”

“Um. Yeah,” I admitted with token shame, rather less than she might have expected. It’s hard to feel shame when the only thought your brain is allowing you to think is ‘rail me hard and fast with your giant cock’ despite your sexual partner being a woman.

“So here you are, with absolutely nothing, no friends or family, no dream job, no reason to live—but living nonetheless, living a miserable, meaningless existence.” There was no pity or disgust or contempt in her voice or face, though neither was there much of anything else I could read, except a hint, a spark of intrigue within her eyes.

((I have Judith, I’m not a meter maid anymore, I’ve started a career almost as desirable as my dream job, I’ve never been happier than I am now—by a wide margin.)) But I took notice of the gently glowing coals of excitement I had somehow kindled within her eyes. I had a hunch, and without explaining itself that hunch took control of my voice. “I’ve…” I began timidly, before finding some melodramatic vigor, “I’ve never been more miserable than I am right now. And I’m terrified that it’ll only get worse. I’m doomed to be the most laughably pathetic person alive, a lonely virgin too incompetent to do the easiest job in the world, too poor to… drink or drug or whore away my sorrows.” ((‘Virgin’… there’s no way she’s actually gonna believe that claim after I kissed her like that.))

A sharp-fanged smile slowly took over her face as she gently rolled me onto my back, mounted my stomach, grabbed my breasts, and squeezed them together. “You are desperate for money.”

I rested my hands on her hips, dared to stroke them. “I want… money.”

“Lots of money.”

I gently pulled her face down to mine. “Acquiring every penny within reach is all I can think about.” Kiss. “I crave the money that you’re dangling above my head just like a dog treat on my snout.” Her breathing quickened. “I need it so, so badly.” Kiss. “Not to spend. To have. To accumulate. To hoard, compulsively, like a feral dragon.” Kiss. “I want it.” Kiss. “More than anything.” Kiss. “I want your money so badly, I’ll do anything to persuade you to give me some of it.” She was panting like a rutting hound. “Getting paid is the only thing that matters anymore.” One more kiss, and I let go of her head.

“You would have let me fuck you for a Jackson.” She dismounted me and aggressively pulled off my panties.

“I’d service you sexually 24/7 for a month straight—a 31-day month, no union breaks, taking bites of my meals between sucks of your clit—in exchange for the smaller, worthless half of a torn Lincoln.” ((Oh, but I’m getting a hell of a lot more than that when I’m finished with you.))

She took off her bra with crazed haste, then eagerly returned to my side and took my hands and placed them on her breasts; I gave them a squeeze and her nipples a rub, and she grunted in satisfaction. “You’d do it for the change under my couch cushions.”

“Oh, I’m worth a lot less than that. I’ll let you do whatever you want with my body, for a whole year, if you merely lend me, at a billion percent interest compounded by the second, an IOU for a one percent share in the ownership of a penny that’s been mutilated by one of those theme park souvenir machines.” ((I’ll let you shove your coins between my cleavage, as long as I get to keep them.))

She pinched my nipples, causing me to gasp. “You’d do it for crumbs.”

“I’d do it for free, for the rest of my life, if I thought you could get me my boring, menial, despicable, demeaning, terrible…” I was running out of adjectives. “…horrible old job back.”

She kissed me deeply, then whispered, “I could never send such a beautiful girl back to Parking.” She reached down and stroked my clit, forcing my pelvis to thrust into her hand to increase the friction; I moaned between kisses. ((Oh, I can’t wait to hold all that cash in my hands.)) “Pretty people belong in Vice. Would you like to work there?”

“I couldn’t…” I whispered as I dug my fingers into her ass cheeks and humped her hand, wishing her to go faster, rougher, and to pay me in singles so that the stack of cash she handed over would be absurdly thick. ((She might need a briefcase. That would be hot.)) My humping sped up. ((Fuck! Or a duffel bag so full it bursts when she zips it closed.)) I moaned like the whore I was at the thought of a big bag, bursting at the seams, huge gobs of money spilling out of it and onto the bed and getting all over the sheets. ((Stuff it in my bank account and overflow my purse!))

She stopped stroking me. “Why not?”

The unexpected suspension of stimulation left me momentarily disoriented. “What?”

“Why wouldn’t you like to work for me?”

I was still so caught up in unraveling my prejudices towards sex workers that I voiced my honest thoughts.

My honest thoughts.

On police/sex worker relations.

To the Vice Captain.

Sure, I was still experiencing very strong emotions over my increasingly complex metamorphosis into a decent human being, but I thoughtlessly spoke my mind rather than make up something that would satisfy a pig.

“Because… it doesn’t feel right to go after these people. Sex is the best way to make a living that these people have been able to find—which I kind of relate to, even if reluctantly writing parking tickets was nowhere near as challenging as pursuing a line of work where… where everyone… thinks you’re disgusting and immoral and a threat to society. Add in the fuzz prosecuting them or constantly shaking them down for free blowjobs and bribes—‍”

It was at that moment that I finally realized I was maybe saying a little too much.

“—Not that your squad is— I mean, it’s the Patrol Officers, not Vice Detectives, who do that stuff, Vice is fine, it’s a fine place to work, I’m not saying— They do good work— I mean, I am saying they do good work, when I said ‘I’m not saying’ I was about to say something else but changed my mind— Vice are good people, they do good work. Now that I think about it, I would maybe work there. I would definitely work for you, and I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t feel bad at all about—‍”

She placed a finger on my lips. “You are concerned about the unfortunate reality that sex workers often face persecution and maltreatment at the hands of the so-called ‘justice system’, and you wish to avoid inflicting upon them further harm. Your rationale for rejecting my hypothetical offer is compassionate, well-considered, and based in reality. I have no desire to offer you a counter-argument—because there are none that any well-informed person with a functioning moral compass would find persuasive or compassionate.”

((On the one hand, maybe being frank to a paying customer about my reasons for not wanting to work in her unit was idiotic. But having been frank, she has thrown me for a loop by surrendering to my assertions.)) “So… you… agree.”

“Your political beliefs would be at odds with those of your co-workers, possibly leading to hostility or retaliation; and working your assignments would cause you too much cognitive dissonance. You would be trapped in an unhealthy working environment, and you would suffer even more than you did while in Parking.”

Gingerly, I replied, “Um. Yes.”

“You really are one of u-them already.” I noticed but thought little of the half-spoken word she replaced with ‘them’. On the other hand, I noticed and thought very much of the lack of disdain in her tone, the lilt of wonder in her words, and the curl of curiosity in her smile. Alas, for all my thinking, I couldn’t make a lick of sense of her reaction.

“You lost all respect for the badge over the course of your time as an officer of the law. Do not regret your shame. Understand it. Appreciate it. Heed it.”

((What the fuck?)) She kissed me. Hard, harder than before, so hard that I became lost within the sensations overpowering the nerves of my lips and tongue, pulled from my confusion straight back into the action. And then she (gently) pulled on my clit, causing me to whimper and arch my back in appreciation. ((Finally, back to doing my job. You didn’t hire me to talk politics.))

She interrupted the kiss to whisper, casually and without malice, “(You are pathetic. Your dream of being a detective has turned to vapor. You have no ambition. You have no self-worth. You are empty inside. You are a husk. You… are nothing.)” By the time she had finished and resumed kissing me, my lips were aching for hers.

My hunch had fully ripened by the time she said these words. I concluded that the very obvious motive behind her insults, which would have made me absolutely perfect for her in the few hours between being fired and meeting Judith: she enjoyed demeaning her partners. I had Judith, who brought me more happiness than anything or anybody ever had, so Somers’s game was laughable and not the least bit painful—but this woman was paying me half of a thousand dollars for a good time, so I had to pretend that I wasn’t the happiest woman in the world. Not convincingly, but with conviction.

I parted our lips just enough to speak. “All I have left,” I whispered as melodramatically as my feelings would allow while greedily massaging her ass cheeks through her pants, “is the fleeting satisfaction of pleasing my customers with my body, and the bliss of earning a wrinkled, coke-stained buck for my dangerous, backbreaking, underappreciated, unfairly demonized work.” ‘As melodramatically as my feelings would allow’ is to say that my act came out a little more sincerely than I had intended. ((If I keep telling her such masterful lines, she might give me a tip…))

She kissed me, then grabbed my fingers and pinched them onto both of her nipples. I took her ‘subtle’ hint and with infinite eagerness did my best to please her. “It’s too bad that after so many—(ahh)—years at that job you hated, your—(hah)—eyes still have so much life in them. But it won’t—st-stay that way forever. I give you one—(hmm)—one more month at yet another job you h-(aaate) that doesn’t pay enough—(fffuck)—that gives you no opportunities to sate your lust for mystery-(eee)—until those eyes are dull and emp—ty.”

“I think you’re being optimistic,” I said with all the sensuality I could muster. “I give myself the weekend until I accept the fact that this is the only job I’ll ever be qualified for.” What I intended to be sensual ended up sounding more matter of fact than anything.

“Yes! And once you’ve arrived at the conclusion that sex for money is your only option, I’ll—(mhh)—hire you to be my sex slave.”

“I’ve already come to that conclusion, so if it means making more money, I’ll agree to your job offer without bothering to read the contract. I will gladly sell my body to you in exchange for a guaranteed source of money, the only thing I care about anymore.” I had ceased using my mind to gratify her, having switched to telling her what my heart told me to share, and my very satisfying reward for my effortless play was her ecstatic giggling. “Maybe I’ll do it in exchange for the scraps from your table and a place to sleep, sharing the doghouse with the dog. And to sweeten the deal and drive home just how desperate I am for the crumbs on your dining room floor, I would throw in my soul…” I licked her neck, causing her to gasp. “…if only I could figure out how to rip that out and put it on a silver platter with the nuanced presentation of a Michelin star chef.” These lines were particularly exciting to her—inspiring her to kiss me more aggressively and pant and grunt and dig her long nails into my back—and came very naturally to me.

I continued playing with her nips and kissing her mouth until she wrapped one leg around me. “Kiss my neck again,” she commanded.

I followed her order with gusto and she whimpered in delight, then I rolled her onto her back and laid my weight on top of her. “I would worship you, because I am nothing, and nothing desires beauty more than anything.” I gave her neck another lick and gave her nips a less-than-gentle twist.

“(Oh—fuck—)” Her legs wrapped around mine and she gasped to the rhythm of her bliss, “(Ha—ha—ha—ha…)” I continued playing with her nipples and kissing her neck to extend her orgasm when suddenly she… grabbed my head and shoulder.

Then bit the soft part of my neck.

Hard.

It hurt.

I tensed briefly, then relaxed. I let her do it. At first I thought it was the money that was encouraging me to accept her bite, but I eventually realized that it was doing something for me, deep down. It was calming… yet, somehow, at the same time, exciting. Intimate. I relaxed within the grip of her teeth, and my thoughts evaporated, leaving my mind blank except for my awareness of the pleasantness of the pressure.

Before I could be fully satisfied by the sensation of her teeth in my flesh, though, she pulled me away and exclaimed, “Oh, God! I am so sorry!”

“I enjoyed it.”

“Nonetheless, I… ought to have asked.”

“Really, I don’t mind. It was nice, actually. I wish you had kept going a little longer.”

“That does not change the fact that you did not consent.”

“Consider my consent retroactive.”

“Consent does not work that way.”

I shrugged. “All I can think to say is, ‘No harm, no foul.’ But I can’t stop you from beating yourself up.”

She sighed. “I knew this was an eventuality. From the moment I saw you in that dress…”

“Well, I’m glad you took the risk, because now I know that I’m into being bitten.”

“That does not matter. What matters is that—‍”

“I forgive you, okay? I don’t think that forgiving you should be necessary, but I’ll tell you it’s alright anyways; you made a little, tiny mistake, I wasn’t permanently injured, and it felt good. Very good. Don’t punish yourself. Just… let it go, and enjoy yourself. Can you do that?”

She nodded.

“Now, could you get back to biting me?”

“I would rather not.”

“Okay. That’s too bad. Are you at least enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” she said with more sobriety than I liked. “More than I have in a very long time.”

“What’s so enjoyable?”

“You are cute and sexy. I find myself… wishing that you were being serious when you said that you would…” She sighed. “…sell your soul to me.”

((Yep—I’m saving it for someone else. Unless…))

((If my body has a price, who’s to say I can’t put a price on my—my…))

((Well, that’s something to ponder when I’m not on the clock, maybe while I’m on the curb waiting for my next john to pull up.))

We laid there amid a pleasant silence that was interrupted only by the sounds of me kissing her face and neck and breasts and body and feeling her up and gasping in anticipation for the return of her libido and the eventual retrieval of her wallet from her pocket, wanting nothing more than to make her climax repeatedly, to witness her pleasure with my eyes and ears and hands, to tell awful lies about myself for her sexual gratification until her hour was up and it was finally time to receive my reward for all my hard work. Ten or so minutes of such kissing in anticipation of inflicting another petit mort upon her passed by the time she asked, “Why do you want to be a homicide detective?”

Kiss. “Justice.” Kiss.

“Even if it paid less than Parking did?”

Kiss. “I’d live out of a tent in the park and sponge bathe in the drinking fountain if it paid nothing and I was somehow unable to supplement my income with sex work.” Kiss.

“A vivid hyperbole.” She did not yet know me well enough to recognize when I was being hyperbolic—as opposed to when I was being perfectly bolic. “Would you also search for missing persons?”

Kiss. “Yes. And I think that everyone would agree that saving lives who still have a chance—‍” Kiss. “—is more important than avenging lives whose chances are gone.” Kiss. “So I would take that part of the job just as seriously.” Kiss.

“Would you rescue someone controversial, such as… and this is just off the top of my head… Alexander Brookvale?”

I couldn’t stop my muscles from tensing at the mention of his name, but I was able to relax and resume kissing her quickly enough that I figured she wouldn’t have noticed. “Yes.” Kiss. “Even somebody who would show me gratitude for saving his life by spitting in my eye then informing me, ‘All dogs go to heaven. All pigs go to hell.’” Kiss. “And then I would give him my smile and offer my hand for a shake as I replied, ‘Amen, brother, don’t you forget it.’” Kiss.

After a pause long enough to make me second-guess admitting that I would help a man who she—as a pig—had every reason to hate, she informed me, “Lovely. Assuming that working in Crimes Against Persons is still your dream… I can get you in.”

My heart skipped a beat. I stopped kissing her. I forgot what money was. I forgot what sex was. I remembered what my dream was.

“Detective. And if you are even halfway competent, I can have you promoted to Detective Sergeant early, six months in rank. Detective Lieutenant after six more.”

((Lieutenant Bachman, SVPD Homicide.))

((Just like Lieutenant Columbo.))

My lips threatened to reveal my happy teeth. “And… what… will you… be getting… from me?” I asked while trying, and failing, not to let my eagerness show.

The vulnerable sweet side she had shown post-nut dissolved, replaced by her erstwhile superiority. She played with a curl of my hair as she told me, “You are a very pretty girl. And you are gifted with a nearly insatiable libido. I will have you whenever the mood strikes me, and you will have your dream job the rest of the time. When I summon you, you will bring your tiny, deliciously plump body to me, for me to utilize towards whatever ends I desire.”

((She actually wants me to literally sell her my actual body… in exchange for my dream coming true.))

{Detective Bachman, on the scene of a murder picking out clues that CSI overlooked, gleaning motives and discrepancies in testimony from interviews with friends and coworkers and neighbors, building a case against the man she has a hunch is attempting to frame his stepson for the murder of his wife…

{A body turns up in the bay, waterlogged and next-to-impossible to identify. This wedding ring, though… a little research reveals that it isn’t a wedding ring—it’s the ring of a member of a secret society. Detective Bachman tracks them down to their meeting place and interviews the other members, and deduces that not one of them killed the vic… but every one of them did, Roman Senate style.

{A fatal car collision takes four lives. One of the deceased drivers is found to be at fault for the deaths in the other car… but a follow-up with their psychiatrist reveals that their newest medication has a few rare but debilitating side effects, including narcolepsy. They had been taking it without issue for the past month, but it looks like this one symptom snuck up on them at exactly the wrong moment. Though the dead cannot be exonerated, knowing the truth nonetheless eases the consciences of their loved ones, whom the scrupulous detective reassures there was no negligence or malice behind the crash; this blemish on the deceased’s reputation is wiped clean.

{And between each case she performs her other duty of touching her, kissing her, pleasuring her, fulfilling her every desire, with unparalleled expertise and overflowing passion…}

The hair on my arms and neck stood up, my face burned, and my clitoris throbbed painfully, but amid the storm of fantasies assaulting my mind I failed to notice what the thought of belonging to her was doing to my body.

4 words and a half eagerly burst from my mouth. “We’ve got ourselves a dea—‍” Then the tiny voice repeating that four-letter acronym finally broke through to remind me that the police were not the good guys. If I accepted her offer, I’d be back to square one in the lifelong process of redeeming myself as a former law enforcement officer, falling off the wagon for the first time in a way I hadn’t been expecting. On the other hand, I didn’t want to risk being uncivil by rejecting her non-hypothetical offer outright. I forced myself to tell her, “I—will—have—to—think—ab—out—it.” Or obsess. An obsession is nothing more than a thought taken a little more seriously than normal, when you think about it.

“I ought to clarify that I would not expect you to submit yourself unwillingly,” she explained, not at all offended by my diplomatic rejection, but rather intrigued. “If at any point in time you find our arrangement not to your liking, you may end it verbally or in writing—though in doing so you will forfeit my gift to you. Is that not a fair deal?”

The salient truth was that, despite her offering me both my dream job as well as a guaranteed stream of regular and pleasurable sex, I had just enough of my wits in working order not to trust a cop (and one I barely knew at that) to actually give me all these wonderful things.

But I didn’t tell her the salient truth—instead, I gave her an unrelated truth. “They let me go for a reason. I have depression and as a result I couldn’t handle the easiest job at the department. How am I going to be able to handle one of the most grueling?”

“The answer to that question is favoritism, and it comes with a few perks, including the expectation that you may, at your pleasure, sit in your chair all day—playing Sweet Smasher on your phone, or driving around affluent neighborhoods in a black and white smashing mailboxes, or hiring sex workers to eat you out from under your desk, or pursuing any other whim that might please you at the moment—without a single soul asking you to so much as lift a finger to do your job. But if you are convinced your sails cannot handle such a gentle breeze, if you truly believe that such a cushy take on the career you desire above all else is not ‘accessible’ to someone with your disability…”

My pride, resurrected from its decade of slumber by something, perhaps the same strange force from within that had transformed me from a hopelessly asocial masturbation-addicted virgin into a sexually aggressive womanizer over the course of a few hours with Judith, got the better of me. “I can do it—I’m smart, I’m persistent, I’m charming…” ((Damn it, I’m persuading myself.)) And, thanks to the rapid rise in pressure of my self-esteem, I was coming dangerously close to explosively succeeding.

She held my cheek and reassured me, “Then you are perfect for the job.”

“Well, um, see…” I figured it unwise to try to half-lie again, so I gave her something that wasn’t really false… so much as it was misleading. “I’d like to get on sex workers’ and other marginalized people’s good sides, and all of them sort of—y’know—don’t like law enforcement.”

Her face darkened. “Yes. I am aware. That is why I do not allow any of them to know that I am a pi—police captain.” She was acting a little strangely; the confidence and authority in her voice and face had deflated slightly. “ACAB. You cannot argue with such a compelling four-letter acronym, nor with the people who swear by them.”

“I convinced one of them to talk to me.” She perked up. “Guide me, even.” I couldn’t figure out why my words affected her so.

“Really?” she asked in surprise.

“Really.”

“I will be damned.” Her face became pensive for several seconds, then grew a bittersweet smile. “You know what? I present my offer without deadline; and though I do hope that you accept it, I will not be crestfallen should you ultimately reject it. Good luck to you, whether you find greener pastures in sex work or have a change of heart and decide to give your dream another shot.”

“Thank you.” She reached into my lap and began rubbing me. “Ah!” I exclaimed, immediately locked in, moaning, humping her fingers in pursuit of that vital orgasm, second in importance only to one thing. I figured she was doing this because she wanted to watch me cum, so for the sake of giving her that performance all the sooner I thrust my middle finger up my pussy, feeling around for the spot Judith had tickled… and knew that I had found it when, pressing upwards and forwards, I felt the tingling throughout the lower half of my body double. My muscles contracted semi-voluntarily and I groaned; I stretched myself a little further with two fingers, then three. I grabbed a nipple with my other hand and tweaked it, forcing a gasp down my throat; she did the same with the other nipple, unleashing yet another stream of throaty sounds from me. I continued massaging my insides and tweaking my nipple as the captain played with my clitoris and the other nipple, the two of us ascending from the sandy valley to the stony mountain, higher, higher, towards the clouds; until my legs turned stiff as granite, muscles of my cunt contracted greedily around my fingers, and with one last stroke of my—