Creatures of the Night by Thomas S. Roche
She wore a tight pink skirt, garter belt, black fishnet stockings, knee-high boots and a tight electric blue vinyl bustier. Her hair was ratted out and bleached blonde, and her makeup was caked on thick and heavy. She had a neon green purse slung at her side.
The cop stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her, and they would have locked eyes if his hadn’t been behind the mirrored sunglasses. The whore’s eyes flickered from the guy’s chiseled, clean-shaven face down his muscled physique in the tight tan uniform, to the knee-high black leather boots polished to a flawless sheen.
A wry look passed the whore’s face and her full, pouty lips, painted cocksucker red, twisted in a smile. She took a drag of her cigarette and put her wrists out, holding them together.
“I think you’d better put the cuffs on me, officer,” she said. “I think you’d better take me in.”
The cop blushed. His friend, wrapped head to toe in white bandages except for a pair of swim goggles, laughed hysterically. The whore’s two friends, who were both wearing plaid skirts and had their hair in pigtails and their hairy, muscled legs swathed in ill-fitting white stockings, shared a high-five while the cop swallowed nervously.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, pointing to the CHP nameplate on his chest. “I only prosecute traffic violations.”
“Oh, let me jaywalk, then,” she said, running out into the crosswalk before the light could change. The two schoolgirls shrieked and grasped each other. A yellow cab slammed to a halt and honked. The whore giggled and danced out of the way. The cab driver flipped her off, but by that time the light had turned green and the crowd was gushing across Castro Street. The cop looked longingly after the prostitute as she and her schoolgirl friends hurried into the night. All three were swaying unsteadily and tittering every few steps.
The mummy tsked as he and his friend crossed and headed up 18th Street.
“Nice going, Erik Estrada. You find the only straight girl in the Castro begging you to handcuff you, and you let her get away. What kind of a cop are you?”
“Mike, she has to be a dude.”
“Oh, don’t give me that shit. She’s like four foot eight.”
They walked up 18th Street with the crowd, heading toward the apartment where Mike’s old roommate was having what Mike had promised would be the wildest Halloween party of all time. “She is not four foot eight. She’s like five two. And what kind of a girl is that aggressive?”
“Oh, gee, I don’t know, a drunk one in the Castro on Halloween, maybe? She’s a girl, Terry. Trust me on this one.”
“How would you know?”
“Hello! Eight years living in the Castro, I think I can tell the difference. Besides, even if she isn’t, a proper blowjob would do you good. Not that I’m suggesting anything, but didn’t you say you were like a Kinsey 1.3 or something?” Terry opened his mouth to respond, but Mike blurted out “Hey, look, there’s Steve! I’ll catch up with you on the next block!”
“Hey, Mike, wait a minute,” Terry called after him feebly. Mike vanished into the crowd and Terry sighed and followed the tide of people up 18th Street.
The streets throbbed with the rhythm of dance music blasting out of the bars. The crowd swirled around them: vampires, witches, cheerleaders, prom queens, ballerinas, army men, big-time wrestlers. And lots and lots of cops. Terry’s wasn’t even the only full-on CHP outfit. In fact, he’d spotted two or three of them, but he was the only one actually wearing the shades, which seemed to make a big difference.
He felt a hand on his wrist, grabbing and pulling at him. He turned and stared, then began following. It took him a few seconds to realize what had happened, and another few to believe it.
By that time the whore had dragged him over to the edge of a little Victorian and pushed him into the little alcove that held the garbage cans. She pushed him up against the wall; with his sunglasses on he couldn’t see at all.
Her purse hit the ground next to them. She kissed him once, hard, her tongue tasting of vodka and cigarettes, the scent of cheap perfume, hair bleach and drunk sweat filling his nostrils and mingling with the garbage smell of the access corridor. He felt her hand on his crotch.
“My name’s Terry,” he said stupidly when her lips left his.
She whispered harshly, “Shhhhh. I have a name, too, and I’m not usually a whore,” she told him. “But tonight I get to pretend.”
She had slipped his handcuffs out of his belt pouch and pressed them into his palm.
“You do have the key, don’t you?”
He nodded and told himself he shouldn’t be doing this, even as he slipped the cuffs on her and ratcheted them closed. She kissed him again and he put his arms around her, let his fingers find her ass in that tight skirt. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
He wanted to touch her, kiss her, take those tight clothes off, but this wasn’t about that. She was a namelss whore for the moment, his nameless whore, and whatever kind of crazy game she was playing, Terry shut his eyes and let her pull him along.
She dropped to her knees.
Even with her hands cuffed, it was easy enough to get the big CHP belt open, even easier to get his zipper down. Terry leaned against the wall as she took out his cock, full and hard.
“Shouldn’t you use a…” he stopped as she took him in her mouth, and his own mouth went wide, and he let his hands wriggle into her brittle-bleached hair as she went to work. Her head bobbed up and down, her lips clamped tight around his shaft as she clutched her cuffed hands together at her throat. Terry closed his eyes and let himself melt into the feeling of the whore’s warm mouth on his cock, her lips sliding halfway down his shaft, then three-quarters, then all the way as he felt his head pressing into her throat. He wondered again if she was a guy dressed up, or if Mike had been right and she was just a very drunk and very horny girl on Halloween. He heard her whimpering, felt her tongue swirling around his head as she came up for air, and he realized all in a rush that he didn’t really care as much as he thought he did.
Then she let his cock hover between her parted lips, looked up at him, smiling all mischevious and open-mouthed, as if she’d guessed his thoughts. Then she took his cock in her mouth again and started sucking him off in earnest.
He had never been done so quickly, so businesslike, but with so much enthusiasm. He had never vanished into pleasure with such rapidity, without wondering what he should do to reciprocate. He just leaned there against the wall, smelling garbage and perfume, running his fingers through the blonde whore’s hair and feeling himself mount toward orgasm.
When he was about to come she pulled his cock out and took his balls in her mouth, then stroked him, her hands one atop the other around his shaft so that she could feel the hot spurt of his come on her palms. It ran down her arms and dribbled onto the floor between her stockinged legs. Terry realized that he’d shouted when he came, maybe for the first time ever.
“Of course she was a girl,” Mike would later tell him when he recounted the story. “A guy would have swallowed.” Terry thought that was probably bullshit, but at the moment he didn’t care. The whore just looked up at him, smiling, her lipstick smeared everywhere and her lips glistening with spittle. She slipped her hands off his cock.
“Let me go, officer,” she said with a smile.
Without thinking, he got out his keychain and unlocked the handcuffs. They were covered in his come. She got a pack of tissues out of her purse and wiped off her hands, offering him a couple to dab his cock off and wipe the handcuffs. Then she stood up.
“Can I…” he began, but she cut him off.
“Nope,” she said, and kissed him once. “Thanks, officer.” She turned and hurried around the garbage cans, out of the cramped little access corridor, back onto 18th Street.
Terry zipped up and without even buckling, he ran after her. He caught one last glimpse of the girl high-fiving her two schoolgirl friends — and then the three of them disappeared into the crowd.
“Terry! I’ve been looking all over for you! Where’d you go?”
“I’m not sure yet,” said Terry, buckling his belt. “Let’s get a drink.”
About the author:
More than 300 of Thomas Roche‘s articles and stories have appeared in books, in magazines, and on the web. He edits the Noirotica series of crime-noir erotica anthologies and is at work on a series of crime novels