The Law is a Mistress

Author's note:

The inspiration for this should be fairly obvious. I wanted to play with that idea, and see where it lead if we assume the exception-al (an interesting word, that, if you consider the root word) to be everyday.

And I also wanted to say that no matter what your perversion, fetishists are people too.

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The policewoman's stare bored into him.

He felt his initial cockiness whither and dropped his gaze.

"No, miss," he mumbled at his feet.

"I can't hear you," she said acidly.

"No, I don't think I deserve special rules, miss," he said even more miserably, in the face of her violet-wand glare.

"I'm glad to hear it," she snapped. "You've been selfish, little boy. Spread your legs and bend over."

By now quite a crowd had gathered, and he felt his cheeks burning with shame as he unbuckled his belt, pushed his pants and his shorts down his legs and bent forwards, grabbing his ankles.

He did his best to shut out the ribald comments from the crowd as the policewoman, her underbust corset creaking, moved around to his side.

He saw her black, stiletto-heel thigh boots come into his vision and settle into a stable position.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

*THWACK*

She had a strong arm, and the first blow of the truncheon made him jump, but he managed to bite his lip to avoid crying out.

*THWACK*

*THWACK*

Ten strikes landed on his buttocks before she stopped, reached between his legs and seized his hard cock and his balls, her leather gloves cool against him.

"That was a warning," she hissed. "Don't let me catch you again."

Then she jerked and he came, splashing onto his upside-down face.

She stalked away, boots clicking on the pavement, to where her catcher squatted obediently with his leash between his teeth.

She took the leash and zipped up his mouth and stalked off down the street, her catcher padding after her in his running shoes, cycling shorts, chest harness and gimp mask.

Robert slumped to the side of the pavement dejectedly, his now shrivelled cock limp between his legs, as the crowd dissipated.

Suddenly a hand grabbed his chin. He got a glimpse of predatory dark eyes rimmed with black, nose and lip piercings and spiky hair before she licked his cum off his face, slowly and possessively.

Then she stood up, showing him a net body stocking, no bra over small and pert breasts, a leather g-string and even taller boots than the policewoman had worn.

"You're cumming home with me," she said, looking down at him. "Pull your pants up."

#

Officer Chris was tired and grumpy when she had finished the last of her paperwork and headed into the locker room at the end of her shift.

That little toe-rag of a jaywalker had been typical of her day, and the day had been typical of her week.

She took her belt off and hung it inside her locker, then her catcher loosened her corset before stripping off his own uniform to change into his almost identical street clothes.

Her torso ached with the corset off, which just meant she needed a good long soak in a hot bath. Or a good long something.

Her kid-leather catsuit zipped up the back, but she could get that herself.

She had peeled off her uniform bra (antibacterial and moisture-wicking) and was unscrewing the studs in her nipples when her boss entered and leaned against the lockers with his arms crossed.

She pulled out the first stud, began on the second, and just waited.

"Talk to me," he said.

"Grumpy, frustrated and tired," she said shortly.

"Need a holiday?"

"Need a case." She fished her normal piercings out of her jewelry box, pulled out her left nipple and carefully pushed it through.

Captain Collerton nodded. He hadn't forgotten the tedium of the beat.

"I think you deserve it," he said. "I'll bear you in mind. Go home, have a drink."

"Intend to, sir." She clipped up her second piercing and bent down to peel off her uniform panties.

She straightened up to give the captain a kiss, leaning her naked body into him, before he went back to his office.

Then she bent to replace the uniform stud in her clitoris.

"Afternoon, Chris."

She glanced up at the new arrival, who was peeling his latex shirt over his head. "Afternoon, Michael."

"Anything been happening?"

"Sweet fuck bugger all," she said as she pulled her leather panties out of her locker.

"I hear you," he said, stripping off his microshorts. "Hey, look what Richard got me!"

She looked up at the sudden enthusiasm in his voice. His prince Albert piercing had been replaced by a gleaming silver shaft with a ruby in the end.

"That's lovely!" she exclaimed, genuinely. "He hasn't..."

"Yes!" Michael almost squealed. "We're getting married!"

"Oh Michael, that's fabulous news, congratulations!" she embraced him tightly, then kissed him briefly but hard. "I'm so happy for you!"

Michael looked as though he wouldn't stop grinning for a week as he continued dressing for his shift.

#

In the absence of legal personal transport within the city, the police managed to bend the rules by running strictly informal shuttle runs with vehicles on the way to new beats or posts, so Chris and her catcher could get a lift almost all the way home and didn't have to put up with the public they had just been policing.

She felt bone-weary as she walked through her door, and began peeling her latex dress off as she walked straight to the bathroom.

"Undress," she said without turning around. "I need a wash."

Without his gimp mask, Chris' catcher had a strong and handsome face that matched his lean sprinter's body. He also had a worshipful look in his eyes as he followed the now naked Chris towards the shower.

She viciously yanked the shower's single handle on, twisting it towards hot.

It didn't need time to heat up and she stepped straight in, tugging off her hair band as she stood under the punishing spray, tossing it carelessly out onto the floor.

She stood facing into the corner of the shower recess, leaning in with her hands high on the wall and her feet spread wide.

Standing behind her, his cock helplessly erect, her catcher poured body wash onto a synthetic loofah and began vigorously rubbing her back.

It had taken her some time to bend her catcher's conditioning enough to get him to be properly vigorous, but it had been worth it. He didn't stop until her skin was pink from more than just the heat of the shower.

After her back he worked his way up and down her arms, then her legs, then stepped forwards until his cock was resting between her arse cheeks and, reaching around her, did first her belly then each breast, before moving down to her groin.

As he went on her arousal grew, and when he left her breasts her hands were curling into claws against the wall.

It only took a few passes before she came with a deep, long, shuddering groan in her throat.

When he stepped back and she turned the water off, his cock almost glowed red.

"Wall," she ordered.

Eagerly, he adopted the position she had been in while she quickly and efficiently strapped a dildo on, the water pooling about her feet.

She fucked him brutally, her fingers clawing into the skin of his hips, and it took less than a minute for him to violently spend himself on the tiled wall.

She left him to clean up with his tongue while she took off the dildo, tossed it into the clothes hamper, grabbed a bathrobe and headed out, letting warmth and the robe dry her off.

She went straight to the kitchen, a vague thought of a tajine growing in her head.

She unwrapped her precious knives, paying little attention as he came out of the bathroom and pulled the treadmill out of its niche in the wall.

The rhythmic thumping, whirring and breathing sounds of his exercise soon formed a comforting background to the flashing of her knives as she glided around her kitchen building what turned out, after she made it, to be a mango chicken tajine with saffron rice.

When it was on the stove she went and sat on the couch and watched the workout, sipping a glass of verdelho as she watched the sweat glisten on his lean body, the bouncing of his naked cock and the hypnotic rhythm of his apparently tireless legs.

She had set a timer - she knew what watching him did to her - and was off the couch before her brain had properly registered it going off.

She stirred the tajine, adjusted the heat minutely, and drifted back out of the kitchen, the tension and sore of the day relaxing to a warm buzz that made movement pleasurable again.

She glided over in front of her catcher on his treadmill, his unfocused gaze not missing her but not distracted by her either.

She rolled her head, working tension out of her shoulders, and raised her hands to the collar of her bathrobe, letting the movement of her neck travel down her torso and settle in her hips, turning into a swaying, figure 8 motion as her fingers slid down the hem of the robe, pulling it slowly apart, gradually revealing more cleavage until the two sides hung off her nipples, showing the inner halves of both firm breasts.

As her catcher ran seemingly impassive and oblivious on his treadmill, his cock slowly swelled, thickened, lengthened and grew.

Chris' hands kept on going down until they reached the belt, and as she began untying it she began slowly turning, shifting each foot a little as the sway of her hips flicked it off the ground.

She was side-on as the belt parted, and she let a flash of nipple cross his gaze as she pulled the robe apart, slipping it off her shoulders as she turned her back to him, dropping it entirely as she started turning back, giving him a full view of the dragonfly tattoo that spread across her back and down onto one cheek.

She brought her arms up in front of her, sliding them between her breasts and above her head, giving him a full profile view of lifted, hard-pointed globes before she swivelled back to face him with arms entwining above her head, hips still swinging.

For the first time she looked directly at him, at his groin, seeing his engorged and rigid cock, tip glistening slightly, bouncing with the motion of his running.

She flashed a predatory grin, transforming in an instant from the innocent coquette to the predator, and parted her knees, bending them, exposing herself as she lowered towards the floor sliding her arms down and over her breasts, onto the carpet and forwards, lowering her entire torso with arse thrust upwards, then sliding her nipples along the carpet until her pussy was pressed firmly against it and her torso was bowed upwards, presenting her breasts.

She crawled forwards until she was nearly at him then seamlessly twisted onto her back, grasping the bar over the front of the treadmill and effortlessly pulling herself upwards, head darting towards his groin and capturing his cock between her lips.

She pulled herself towards him, adjusting the angle until he was buried deep in her throat, his sweat dripping on her face, his tight balls hard against her nose and only the motion of his running fucking her throat on a very short stroke.

She stayed there, arms not even feeling the strain, as he neared orgasm with agonising slowness and finally, with a strangled grunt, came down her throat.

She didn't move, swallowing it all, until he had finished spurting. His legs didn't even falter.

The tajine was perfectly cooked.

She ate lounging naked on the couch, watching him run.

By the time she had finished and put her plate in the sink he had finished his session and was stretching. She leaned against the kitchen doorway and watched him, idly masturbating, until he had finished and walked into the bathroom.

For his shower his hands were shackled to the ceiling as she washed him very, very thoroughly, not missing a square inch of skin, tenderly scrubbing him, lingering around his pierced nipples and straying a long time on his groin until he was throbbingly hard again.

She continued on down his legs and finished with his feet, but he did not lose any hardness.

She turned around and lifted herself onto the balls of her feet, spreading her arse with her hands and slowly working herself down onto him until she had taken him all.

Then she began to ride him, furiously masturbating with one hand, the other grabbing at the rings in her nipples, pulling each one in turn to stretch her nipples and distend her breasts until she came explosively, screaming, the sound echoing around the tiled bathroom.

#

The next day when she woke up, she felt better about the world.

That even lasted past the morning's briefings, when she drew what was derisively known as "cluster crawling". Police computers had identified a statistically relevant cluster of reports, complaints and reported behaviour in a small warehouse district, and so an officer was detailed to do a sweep with their eyes open.

It wasn't always unproductive and it had borne fruit often enough to still be procedure, but it was generally regarded as being about as exciting as flannel.

The district was a muddle of residences, factory outlet shops and repair centres jostling together in an organically unplanned mess.

She stalked along the streets with every sense alert, her catcher padding along beside her with the alert and charged energy of a disciplined hunting dog, trying to sense anything unusual in the air.

Mid-morning in this neighbourhood there were only the people there on business and those working indoors. Where, exactly, did the reports come from?

She turned a corner and saw a block of four shops, all unoccupied. Well, that was unusual. Empty buildings and unused resources were as rare as Christians. Chris wondered briefly if the mere presence was spooking people.

She strolled along the front, looking for things out of place, and saw enough signs to suggest that decent-sized renovations were required on the entire building. Fair enough, but why hadn't they happened? It looked unoccupied for at least six months, maybe more.

She reached the end, and turned up the alleyway between building and fence. Halfway along, a furtive movement caught her eye, a face appearing briefly around the corner, retreating with a startled expression.

Ah. Right, then.

She almost slipped her catcher off, but she didn't know enough yet.

She strode towards the corner, slipping her thumb over the release button on the handle of her catcher's leash and drawing her truncheon.

Raising it to block a blow from above, she looked cautiously around the corner. Halfway along, a door stood ajar.

For a few seconds, she hesitated. This could easily be a group of homeless, mentally ill or criminals, all of whom needed attention from the police, followed by any of several other departments, and all of whom posed different levels of threat to an officer without backup.

On the other hand, she could hear nothing and the face had seemed young and startled, not threatened.

She approached the door cautiously, raised her truncheon as if to shield her eyes from the sun, and peered through the crack.

Inside was dark - the only light was what was coming through the door. She holstered her truncheon and replaced it with her torch, flipped it up to her shoulder pointing inside, clicked it on and called out "Hello, police!"

There was no answer. Frowning, she pushed the door further open. "This is the police!"

Still no answer. Gesturing to her catcher in the quick police finger language, she unclipped his leash and stowed it, then slipped her truncheon into her dominant hand and slid carefully and very nearly noiselessly inside.

Her catcher slid at her back, covering her, as she swung inside and swept it with her torch.

She immediately registered that the space was a lot wider than it should have been, and automatically tapped the call button on her earpiece.

There was no answer, not even the click of a connection.

That shouldn't be possible. All buildings were required by law to be transparent to emergency frequencies.

Chris was already moving for the door when it slammed shut, lights burst on and her catcher's head exploded in a gout of blood, bone and ripped leather and a sound so loud in the confined space Chris was nearly stunned by the shockwave.

#

There were four of them. The extremely illegal gun was carried by a man with an ugly face and an ugly personality who looked like a dishonourably discharged soldier turned enforcer, the ear protectors all three had been wearing still nestled on his head. A second man dressed in workmanlike black and with the bearing of a man big by muscle not frame was watching her closely and with more intelligence.

But they were all clearly subservient to the figure Chris had followed, a short, slender and girlish woman with predatory, black-rimmed eyes, nose and lip piercings, spiky hair and a black mesh body stocking worn over a leather g-string and no bra.

"Fuck yeah!" the woman said delightedly. "A policewoman!"

Chris didn't bother saying anything. It was well past time for anything she said to make a difference. Instead she stood very still and swivelled her eyes around what she could see.

It was clearly a film studio, equipped with the sort of standard bondage gear that could be purchased flat packed at any hardware store.

Very little was illegal. All that was left was children, animals, rape and snuff. She couldn't hear or smell anything except stale sex.

The woman was grinning at her. "Come on," she said, "tell us what you think."

"You're making rape films," Chris said evenly.

"Among other things," the woman said with a smirk, uncrossing legs covered almost to her crotch by leather boots and hopping off the wooden horse she was sitting on.

"Drop the torch and the stick, officer."

Chris' brain was struggling with the trauma of her catcher's death, but training and the temperament that had suited her to a career in the police were ruthlessly squashing it down, suppressing her shock and her grief under layers of discipline and logic.

She knew the rules, and she knew the chances of expecting any mercy from the man holding the gun.

She could also see that one of the cameras was pointing at her, and had a small red light steadily blinking on it, and knew exactly what it meant.

She would stay alive as long as she was useful to them, and that meant doing what they said, whatever they said, and hope someone had spotted her dropping off the grid.

She held her hands out to her sides and opened them, letting the items fall, the torch still shining brightly as it bounced.

"Now the belt."

Slowly, she unbuckled the belt holding almost all her tools and let it drop with a clunk at her feet.

"And the earwig."

While it wasn't working in this building, it wasn't a great loss or asset, but it may yet play its part and so as Chris slowly pulled it out of her ear the seemingly natural movements of her fingers pressed the button combination which locked it into emergency mode, broadcasting a sporadic emergency pulse until the battery died in a week's time, even when apparently turned off.

She dropped the small unit on the ground with the rest of her equipment. It could take much worse punishment than that.

"Now move sideways, away from them."

She did so, placing each foot carefully.

The woman, meanwhile, was unzipping and pulling off her boots, wriggling out of her mesh and then pulling her boots back on, followed by a mask which left her mouth free.

Small and firm tits barely bouncing, she strode briskly over to the dropped gear, collected it into two hands and flung it towards the man in black, who, out of camera shot, collected it and dumped it together in a box.

Neither of them seemed to pay her earwig any attention at all.

The woman, hands on hips, faced her in a pose obviously calculated for the camera.