by V. P. Trick
The Break-in, Part III
“Go wait in the car,” the creep ordered his ugly partner.
Ugly mumbled something unintelligible.
“You can have the rest after,” Creep replied. More grumbling, more of Creep, “After. Leave him there. Let someone pick him up in the morning for breaking in.”
Ugly left on that cheerful note.
Think!
Creep turned to her as he locked the president’s office door, “Just me and you, pussy. Let’s have some fun.”
She tried to run, but his had fist had a death grip on her top. She tugged and struggled until her shirt ripped open and she slipped away to the other side of the desk. She was not crying. Nor yelling. Nor pleading. Focus. Think.
Creep rounded the desk; she followed. For each step he took, she jumped back, making sure to keep the desk between them. He toyed with her, yelled at her, laughing.
His craziness convinced her right then and there that she wasn’t a nutcase for compared to him, she was about as normal as could be. The salaud practically drooled as they danced around the presidential bureau. J must have majorly pissed off the creep for him to go wild over her like that. Dirty cops sure turned creepy when out for revenge.
The bastard never came full circle, hence never came far enough behind the desk to clear the path to the door. Wasn’t he tired of the game? Inevitably, considering his weight, he was heading straight to a stroke, wasn’t he? Preferably, in the next minute.
Unfortunately, he did not suffer a heart attack even though he was pumped. Excitement. Lust. Power. Revenge. She saw it all in his beady eyes. His breaths became laboured for after his last lunge, though. He took his gun out then. How original, salopard. She had foreseen it would come down to him and his gun in the end but had hoped for more time. Think of something, fillette. Anything. The creep grabbed a chair by its backrest, one of the two guest chairs facing the desk that the president probably offered to his employees before talking down to them, how appropriate.
The door, three steps of free space, the fat ugly creep and the chairs, another four paces of empty space, and the desk were now aligned in a neat row in front of her. The second guest chair, he threw at her. She dropped to the floor a fraction of a second before the chair crashed into the wall behind her.
Silence. Then, the wooden floor creaked, the door rattled, a chair squeaked indicating Creep had braced the chair against the door and settled his bulky frame into it.
“Come here, kitty. Time to play nice. I want you to be sweet, to me and my gun.”
She crouched lower down behind the desk. Think, she willed herself.
“Come here, pussy. I want you to come. Fast. I’m all ready for you. My gun’s waiting.”
She spied on him from under the desk. He made kissy noises as he licked his service piece once. His fat belly bulged in front of him, and he propped his right hand holding the gun on his round blob while his left hand cupped his crotch. How cosy. She gagged and almost threw up.
“Come on, cunt. Unless you want me to force your sleeping boyfriend to look.” Sicko creep laughed with evident glee at the idea. “Come here right now or I’ll kill him after I make him watch.”
In that instant, she believed him. What choice did she have then? She uncurled her stiff limbs, stood and walked around the desk. Slowly, her feet barely moving, she inched toward the ugly cop, her footsteps faltering a couple of steps short. For now, out of reach.
She heard him draw out a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring, as she froze in front of him in her pants and bra, hair shielding her face. Sicko shoved the barrel of the gun in his pants. How can there still be room? Her eyes widened, more in surprise than fear, as the thought bubbled up.
The nozzle now tucked in his pants, he scooted on his seat toward her and extended greedy hands. “Stay still, bitch,” he instructed her as he grabbed the elastic band of her black commando pants with both hands. He grunted as he pulled her pants down with a jerk.
Disgusted, she swatted his hands away. Reflex. Before she had time to blink, he fished his weapon out, and he hit her. A sharp blow to the stomach with the butt of the gun. Even if the punch had no swing in it, thankfully, she dropped to one knee nonetheless before she could brace herself. I am not kneeling in front of you, maudit salaud.
The fat ugly creepy cop sat in the chair as if it was a damn throne. Think, she cursed herself, think fast.
“Enough games, puss,” he snarled.
Yanking her by her hair, he drew her closer. The tip of the gun jabbed her thighs. It poked her belly. Stabbed her right breast. He lifted the weapon level in her face. Against her lips.
“Suck, bitch. Take a mouthful and suck it good. Do it right, and I’ll let you suck me. And then, we’ll both fuck you.”
She closed her eyes.
Excerpt from The J-man, by Trica C. Line
MacLaren’s
After their too-quick bout of lovemaking and the even-shorter conversation afterwards, after listening to her sleep for an hour, after setting up the team for the coming days and nights, Chris had finally fallen asleep, exhausted.
He didn’t plan on getting a lot of sleep during the following week; he’d be too busy tracking the creep and, hopefully, tying him to Lemieux’s murder, although the shit the sicko had done to Patricia didn’t mean he had anything to do with Lemieux’s death. Not that it mattered. Chris intended to make him the asshole pay either way.
She had sneaked out of bed without waking him, but he woke with a start when she turned on the shower. Half an hour later, when she strolled out of the bathroom fully dressed, hair in a full out mode, he took the cue: no morning sex. Tonight is going to be hell.
Although she was skilled at hiding her feelings, she seemed in good form this morning. She looked so damn beautiful, he wanted to drag her back under the covers and keep her there all day. Instead, he jumped in the shower before cooking breakfast with only a small towel wrapped around his waist. Since she didn’t pull the towel off, peeked (not that she needed too, his state was pretty obvious), nor comment, again he took the hint. No sex. Not all quite in tip-top shape then, Angel of mine.
They rode to the office together.
“You know what I’m going to ask you, don’t you, Princess?”
“A damn report.”
“Smart woman.” He suspected that statement was going to be even harder on her than Lemieux’s. “I’m sorry, Angel, but I need it to build my case.”
“I know.”
“You can leave out Joshua’s name for now but not Lemieux’s.”
“If you say so.”
“That story, you write at the office.” Where I can keep an eye on you. “This morning.” He needed her near enough to watch over her. Keep her safe.
“Whatever.”
“Hell, you can even use my laptop, my desk, my office,” he offered even though he knew she felt better with her back to him, so he wouldn’t see her face, see her eyes turning green if she was about to cry. I will know nonetheless, Angel, in the way you hold your head and square your shoulders.
“I have a damn desk and a damn computer, thank you very much.”
“My Pussycat’s all claws this morning.”
“Fuck you.”
“Glad to see you’re feeling better.” Strong enough to write the fucking thing without falling apart.
She spent the rest of the drive with her eyes glued to the side window.
He studied her as she settled at her desk; the sight made him sigh. Today was going to be one hell of a long day. The team stayed away from her, making do with a simple hello. Not that he had asked them to keep out of her way, they simply did. The quiet hush fell over the department.
Fredrick showed up around nine. He started to give Chris his work progress, but within the third sentence, when he noticed Patricia at her desk, he stopped mid-word and vanished from Chris’s office before Chris had time to stop him. The kid almost ran to her, but Bridget cut him short ten steps before he reached Patr
icia’s corner. Bridget must have told him off harshly because Fred froze, pivoted on one foot and left. He never completed his weekly report. This place is a fucking zoo.
Chris briefly recalled how things were before he had allowed her to come and do her damn filing. Were they more effective? No. More efficient? Probably. Happier? Hell, no, no way. At least, he wasn’t, and could name a few on his team that would readily agree with him. Life then for sure was simpler, but somewhat predictable and boring, lonely as hell too. He would never admit to that in front of her, though; he wouldn’t have any authority left, he barely had control over her on the cases as it was.
He had a brief meeting with the team, gave them a general overview without going into details. Details he privately presented after, first to Ham, in charge of the case, and some to Reid, thus enrolling feminine support for Patricia.
Before his suspension, Charles had given him the list of the clubs he had visited with Patricia. Last night (late last night), Chris had organised the investigation with Ham over the phone. They had divided Charles’s list between pairs. Frankke and Des, Shapiro and Ham, Le and Reid. Chris would tag with one pair or another. Or he might go alone; he was willing to cover each fucking club if he had to. He even thought of calling back the quartet’s leftovers, cursed himself and did not. Patricia, he had not invited to the meeting; he had not assigned her any club on the list either.
“You do half a day. Keep up on your current cases, then take the afternoon to rest,” he told his team. “We start tonight. Shapiro? I want you with Ham on this. You guys start with last night’s club. I’ve cleared it with Steve; you guys can meet him there. I want interviews with dancers, staff, johns, anyone who so much as walked past that place last night, got it?”
“Roger that, boss.”
He had considered assigning some of the strip joints to Lonzo and MacCarmick, his old-time buddies turned security muscles for-hire. The duo was open to any and all odd security jobs. Chris hired them on a regular basis; they already knew the team, and they patronised strip clubs on occasions. For now, though, he wanted a legit investigation. Hence, he had enrolled them for something else.
His late call to them had been brief. “I need you on her.”
“Again?”
“Again.” Yes, fucking again! “If Patricia gets another idea on Lemieux’s case, I want to be the first to know.”
“Won’t she tell you?” Lonz, the jerk, asked, knowing full well that when the damn woman had a crazy idea, she never told anyone anything.
“That’s why I’m paying you to shadow her.”
“Again,” Lonzo wheezed out with a laugh. “Man, I love that woman of yours.”
“Fuck off, Lonz.”
His old friends might have been more discreet in the clubs than some of his men; they were accustomed to the clientele and working ladies alike, but since no one on the team could tail Patricia without her spotting them, it was the best arrangement.
The possibility she discovered the two was ever present. The damn woman had a radar when it came to tails; she had detected them repeatedly in the past. Hopefully, Mac and Lonz had learned some of her tricks by now and wouldn’t get caught. If she did make them again, he was in for a fight of gigantic proportion but keeping her safe was worth any argument.
Patricia worked at her desk all morning, taking toilet breaks every hour or so; those pauses were not a good sign. Vitto brought her a coffee at ten-thirty. Did you call for it, Dollface, or did Vitto learn you were working from one of my guys? The old barista’s visit seemed to cheer her up some, so Chris let her be. He wished the Italian guy had brought him a coffee too, though. Maybe I’m the bad guy again.
Vitto’s ways of looking at things were simple. If a woman was sad, angry, tired or experienced any sort of negative emotion, her man was at fault. Which was fucking OK with Chris for he liked that everyone believed he was Patricia’s man. He considered her his woman. Simple. Another thought I’m not going to share with you, Darling of mine. Not yet. He smiled. He hadn’t tasted her earlier that morning, but he might this afternoon. Someone needs to take your mind off the creep, Princess, and that someone’s going to be me. He was good at distracting her, liked it a lot. Loved it even more when she liked it.
Her Afternoon
Christopher left right after supper.
“Police work,” he said by way of explanation.
He did not share anything else about his plan; she did not ask. She didn’t have to. No doubt, ‘police work’ meant a strip club tour.
Even if she had not completed her damn report on her encounters with the creep, the Big guy had given her the afternoon off. “You look tired, Princess.”
He was right. She was indeed exhausted, but so was he. She didn’t like seeing him so tensed. She had thought of the creep all morning, and now she yearned gentleness. She and Christopher could be gentle, so very tender to each other. She might start her afternoon off by offering him a back rub, she had thought then.
He had indeed been soft and thoughtful later that day, yet hard in a very, oh so very gentle way. And funny. And loving. He had not mentioned Lemieux, Joshua or the creep once, keeping the conversation on nonsense. She was usually the one to do the chitchat, not that she was a chatterbox, but she did enjoy teasing him, make him laugh or react. He had done all that. Perfect. He had his moments, and they were spectacular.
Earlier that afternoon, he had asked, an innocent look on his face, “What would you like to do now?”
They were sitting on a small terrace, enjoying their coffees after an overly copious lunch. The air was unseasonably warm, and a soft wind swirled around them, blowing her hair gently away from her face. Her right leg was propped on Christopher’s thigh, and his thumb drew lazy circles on her bare ankle.
Did he really think she didn’t know what he was up to? “I don’t know, Big guy. What do you want to do?” She enquired back, ignoring his thumb wrecking havoc on her composure. Just a thumb, on an ankle at that. Most infuriating.
He shrugged macho-like. “I don’t care. Although,” he paused briefly, “I should probably take a nap since I’m working tonight.” He managed to keep his noncommittal demeanour.
Like that, was he? She too could play. “OK. Let’s head to your place then. I’ll watch television while you lie down.”
“Sure.” He smiled sweetly at her.
Did the man truly wish to sleep?
Less than an hour later, he slid into the bed in his underwear. His damn briefs! Was he protecting her? She let his expectations simmer for a quarter of an hour. Fifteen minutes of silly television shows before she sneaked into the bedroom silently in case he had indeed dozed off.
After her first showdown with the creep, she had stopped giving blowjobs altogether. Her gag reflex had become uncontrollable. She had not given Joshua the details of that night, in a bitchy let-him-worry revenge type of thing perhaps. Joshua had not pressured her, though. Neither had Lemieux.
A touch of skin against her lips was enjoyable enough, as were teasing with her tongue, licking the crown, the slit but nothing more. She couldn’t make herself close her mouth around the shaft. Oral sex brought back too many flashes from that dreadful night. Simply put, she did not want to suck the gun.
The night of the second creepy encounter, Lemieux had let her play. Knowingly. Patiently. Until she could, once more, lap and taste and swallow and suck. She had almost thrown up on him her first tries, but Lemieux had not relented until she was over her aversion. Her nights with him may not have cured her, but they did help her move forward.
From the foot of Christopher’s bed, she crawled between his legs under the covers, kneeling at his crotch.
“Patricia,” he warned in a whisper. He didn’t stop her, though.
She lowered her mouth to his cock, feeling its heat through the fabric of the briefs. It was firm, long, warm. She softly tongued the head and nibbled it with her teeth.
“Fuck, Patricia,” Christopher cursed from somewhere outs
ide her coverlet cocoon. Still, he did not push her back.
Trying to sleep, was he? She smiled as she nuzzled his groin. He smelled of soap and something raw. She lavished the tip with her tongue until both her saliva and his precum soaked the fabric. He was so stiff already. How could he be so hard and not moved?
She wanted him to slam into her but knew he wouldn’t, even if she asked. He had been fussing over her since the club incident. She tugged his shorts down and sucked the head into her mouth once before releasing him with a playful pop.
Even now she had an overactive gag reflex but, thankfully, had learned her limits. She put her hands firmly on his inner thighs, her knuckles brushing his testicles. His flesh and muscles tensed under her hands; was he resisting?
Her palms imprinted his skin in an unconscious ready to push back if needed stance. She shielded her teeth with her lips and closed her mouth around him once more. She sucked gently and forcefully in turn. Up and down. Not deep but deep enough for him it seemed for he let out a low growl.
She teased the crown with her tongue, licking softly. Licking hard. How could he taste this good? Her sex was throbbing, its wetness soaking her panties. She wanted him to come in her mouth. She wanted him to come into her. How could he not rock into her mouth? She pressed her thighs together to alleviate the pressure.
She unshielded her teeth and brushed them against his shaft. Damn, she wanted to take a bite. He was at her mercy. Immobile. Her pants filled her ears, the bedding cutting out any sounds from the outer world. She gently slid her hands to the sides and pressed against his testicles. Her thumbs drifted over his balls, tracing small circles as he had done to her earlier. He had had her already wanting just with his damn thumbs! C’est mon tour maintenant, mon chéri.
Her tongue followed the sensitive slit, his pulse beating fast against her skin, or was it her own heartbeat? If he didn’t let go soon, she might climax before he did. She lifted her head back, his shaft slipping out little by little until her lips circled the thickness of the crown, the oh so soft skin of the corona. She held just the slit in her mouth, her tongue toying while her thumbs relentlessly drew circles.