Hot Cop Boxed Set

by Paige, Laurelin

  “I’m scared,” I admit. “Devi, being with you bare, with no barriers and no cameras…I’m scared. Whatever is between us, it’s so real that it hurts.”

  “I’m scared too,” she says. “But I’m with you. If we fall, we fall together.”

  If we fall, we fall together.

  My heart pounds with both relief and terror at the same time, and I dive back down to capture her mouth in a searing kiss. “God, I love you,” I say fiercely. “So fucking much.”

  “Do it, Logan,” she breathes. “Please. Need it. Need you.”

  I inch just a tiny bit lower, and—with our eyes locked on each other’s the entire time—I reach down and take myself in my hand and guide the swollen crown to her wet entrance. I only push inside to the flared edge of my helmet and then I stop. I take another deep breath, almost unable to bear how tight her pussy is around my crest. It squeezes me, it fists my crown better than any real fist ever could, and I almost want to stay like this forever, with her wet and begging, and me rendering both of us practically insensate and nonverbal with just the barest penetration.

  And then I slide in deeper.

  Her thighs tremble and her hands dig into my back, and I feel my cock stretching her so tight, forcing its girth deeper into her wet, soft warmth, until I’m nestled all the way. I’m in between her legs, our pelvises flush together, our stomachs touching and my chest brushing against her stiff, dark nipples. I lower myself to my forearms and I kiss her again, not moving inside of her yet, letting her adjust and letting myself cool down before I embarrass myself and explode like a teenage boy before making Devi come.

  We kiss long and slow, and she moves soft and sighing underneath me, until she’s practically glowing with happiness, until she’s moving herself against me and wearing the kind of open, warm expression that radiates pure love.

  She’s rubbing her clit as she undulates under me, and I see a dark flush rising up her chest and cheeks and I know it will be any second now, and sure enough—despite the fact that I’m not moving at all—she’s grinding herself to orgasm underneath me, the balls of her feet moving against the sheet as she searches out friction and depth.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur to her, watching her face blush as she works herself on my thickness, watching those fleeting sex smiles chase themselves on and off her lips as she approaches the edge. It occurs to me that I haven’t fucked a woman in missionary position in I don’t know how long, because it’s not a great position to film with. I prefer the positions where the viewers can see my dick and the pretty, pink pussy it’s fucking, and missionary hides so much of the good stuff.

  Except it feels fucking incredible—for me and for her—and there’s something else. I forgot how intimate it is. Our skin is touching everywhere, everywhere, our thighs sliding together, our stomachs, our arms and our lips. I’m so close to her and I can see her every expression, her every unspoken thought, and I know she can see mine. There is nothing between us—no condom, no camera, no invisible walls of denial or fear. There’s only us moving together as one, an intimacy so deep and feverish that I almost feel outside of myself, like my soul really is leaving my body to search out Devi’s.

  It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to any woman, ever.

  But right as she begins to peak, I have this uncomfortable thought, this thought out of nowhere, that this is the best it’s ever going to be. That I’m going to look back at this moment one day and realize that it was when we were the closest, the most uncomplicated, the most in love. And I realize I think that because there’s no camera on us right now, no camera to capture this moment forever. It makes the moment feel so fragile, like it could vanish at any moment, and how do people bear this? This feeling like love and ecstasy are slipping through their fingers? With a camera, I could hold on to it, freeze it in time. But without one, there’s nothing protecting this moment from being swept into oblivion.

  And then a dawning realization of oblivion comes as she shatters around me, as she cries out and flexes and shudders with waves of release.

  I want all these moments. I want only these moments. Because the only way to hold on to them is to hold on to her, and the way I want to hold on to her is something like I’ve never felt before. I want to give her all of me, all the time, always, and what the fuck does that mean? Does that mean I don’t want to fuck other women? That’s ridiculous, of course, but the answer is right underneath me, coming down from her orgasm glassy-eyed and breathless.

  I think I might only want Devi.

  I think I love her in a way I’ve never loved anyone else before.

  I think I want to give her all of me. All of me. Meaning I don’t give myself to anyone else.

  Because that’s one thing that the economics of porn can’t erase—you are sharing yourself, endlessly, over and over again. Private slices of yourself, and I want Devi to have all my slices, all the parts of me that I have to share.

  A ball of panic clenches in my stomach, because I don’t know how to digest any of this. I try to push it all aside, but as I start rolling my hips into hers, I catch sight of my camera on my bedside table. It’s dark and unseeing now, but its presence soothes me and worries me all at once. Who is Logan O’Toole, really? And what does he want?

  I bury my face in Devi’s neck, smelling her skin and my body wash and the slightest note of cinnamon, and I may not know all of the answers to those questions yet, but I know that all those answers start with the same woman.

  “Did it feel good to come on my dick, baby?” I ask her, still rolling in and out, nice and easy.

  “Yes,” she says dazedly. “So good.”

  I move up onto my hands, nudging her legs open wider. I watch her as she watches me, her eyes on where we’re joined as I start pumping in and out, the thick ridges and veins of my cock glistening from her pussy. Her gaze transforms from contented to hungry, and I look down too, loving the sight of my cock stretching out her hole, of her legs open for me and just for me.

  But no, that thought brings back the unanswerable questions, and so I instead focus on the fucking, picking up the pace and jabbing into her faster and faster, until I’m grunting and she’s gasping. Color is high in her cheeks, and I feel my balls tighten at the thought of coming in her like this, but I’m not ready, not ready at all. I want this moment to last forever.

  So I slow down and change my strokes from short stabs to long, deep thrusts. I go so deep that I feel her cervix, and she lets out a half gasp, half moan.

  “You like that?”

  She closes her eyes and nods. “You’re so big,” she says in a tight whisper. “Even after I came. I thought it might be less tight, but I feel so full…”

  “Such a brave girl,” I reassure Devi in a low, deep purr. “Such a brave girl to take such a big cock.”

  She flushes under the praise, looking so bashfully proud and young that I have to duck my head and bite her shoulder to keep from looking at her face, because I’ll come in an instant if she keeps wearing that look.

  “It’s the biggest cock you’ve ever felt inside you, isn’t it? Tell me how big it is. Tell me how big I feel inside you.” To punctuate my words, I thrust in deep, loving how tight her cunt feels around me, like a slick, hot vise.

  Her eyelashes flutter when I hit that deep spot, and she moans. “It feels like you’re splitting me in half,” she says in a strangled voice. “I can feel you everywhere.”

  I guide her legs up so that her ankles are hooked past my shoulders, and then I lean forward on my arms, driving down into her cunt. I can get so deep in this position, and I use it to my advantage, stroking and rubbing that special spot.

  “Fuck,” she groans, turning her head from side to side. “Logan, oh my God.”

  “I’m gonna make you come so hard, Cass.”

  “Logan, I—I don’t think I can—oh God, oh God, oh God--”

  “Look at me, baby. Just keep watching me, okay?”

  She’s trembling hard, and I ca
n feel the hard tip of my cock massaging her cervix, kissing up against it over and over again, and I pull out just enough to drag the wide, crest against her g-spot before I push back in to press against her cervix. Her head is tossing, her thighs shaking against me, and I can tell she’s fighting it off because it feels too big, too intense.

  “Devi, look at me,” I urge, and she finally does, her eyes wide and desperate looking. “That’s it,” I coax her. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.”

  “I don’t think I can,” she says, a little wildly, but I keep going, crooning words of encouragement to her, you’re gonna feel so good and such a good, brave girl and I’m so deep, baby, so fucking deep and then I see her hands clawing at the sheets and the cords in her neck strain.

  And then it happens. Devi’s stomach starts visibly tensing and every muscle in her body tremors and her back arches clear off the bed, her face contorted in the throes of ecstasy. She can’t speak, can barely make any noise other than the soft keening that comes from somewhere in her throat, and she’s on another plane, in another world, her body convulsing in long, deep, slow contractions that consume her, swallow her, transform her.

  Cervical orgasms, ladies. They’re a thing, and they are intense. Devi has completely fallen apart underneath me, oblivious to everything but the deep waves of release rolling out from her womb to the tips of her fingers and the soles of her feet. And unlike her clitoral orgasms, this lasts an eternity. Seconds and minutes and what feels like hours that I get to watch (and feel) the most beautiful woman in the world quiver and fracture into billions of glowing pieces. No man can last feeling that around his cock, watching that happen underneath him, and I’m no exception, because it’s never been this good, it’s never felt this good, and God fucking damn it if I haven’t completely lost myself in her.

  “Do it,” she pants. “Come inside me.”

  “I’m gonna,” I grunt, letting her legs fall back to the bed and driving into her fast and hard. “Gonna come so good for you, Cass.”

  Her hands find my ass, her fingers digging into my cheeks and urging me to go harder, faster, and she feels so good and she looks so good, all soft and sated underneath me. Her cunt is so fucking tight, squeezing me and squeezing me, and holy fuck, I want to marry this woman, and then with a juddering groan, my balls contract and I explode.

  I rut into her hard, pumping hot jets of cum deep inside her, our eyes locked and the air heavy with magic. My whole torso is spasming, my entire pelvis a fiery, burning sun of release, unleashing waves and waves of deep, roiling pleasure. I pump and thrust and fuck my way through the climax, feeling high and drunk and dizzy, intoxicated by Devi, empowered by her, totally alive and exhilarated because of her. I feel the wet heat of my orgasm inside of her, I see the dark points of her erect nipples and the scorching lust on her face, and it draws it out. And the pulses keeping coming, again and again and again, and I empty myself inside of her, drain my balls until she’s filled with me. Until she’s dripping around us both.

  When the pulses finally subside, the room smells of earthy sex and cinnamon, and we are messy everywhere. Sweat on our stomachs, and cum and arousal smearing our thighs. Devi’s long hair is tangled as fuck, my bed looks like a hurricane tore it apart, and I can feel scratches blooming into light, teasing pain on my back and ass cheeks.

  I’m so fucking in love.

  I lean down to kiss her, a deep, soul-felt kiss, without the urgency of earlier. I take my time exploring her mouth, lavishing attention onto every crease of her lips, every silky slide of her tongue. She’s making a humming noise in her chest, a happy, contented noise, and I pull back with a smile.

  “Are you…purring?”

  She giggles. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  My chest puffs a little. I’ve given many women many orgasms, but I think this is the first time that I’ve actually made a woman purr with satisfaction.

  “Let’s see how long I can make that purring last, kitten. Flip over.”

  * * *

  After Round Two, dinner, and a shower (which turned into Round Three), we are back in bed. It’s nighttime now, and we’re cuddling, Devi’s back pressed against my chest and my arms around her. We’re both drowsy, even my cock, which is content to be semi-hard and nestled against Devi’s luscious ass. I think she’s finally drifted off when she asks, “Do you have an Epipen in here?”

  “Yeah, somewhere,” I say sleepily. “There’s one in my medicine cabinet, I think.”

  “Oh. Shouldn’t you have it with you at all times?”

  “I’m allergic to bees, Cass. It’s not something I worry about happening in my bedroom.”

  “But do you carry one on set? Shouldn’t you have had one in the desert the night we went out there?”

  More awake now, I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at her. She doesn’t turn to look at me. “I was planning on eating you out, not foraging for honey. At least not that kind of honey,” I say with a smirk.

  She doesn’t smile.

  “Why are you asking me this?” I poke her shoulder gently. “Are you planning to introduce bees into our sex play? Do you secretly keep bees in your pussy?”

  Still no smile.

  I sigh. “If it really worries you, I always keep one in my glove box. And why did this come up, anyway? Did I mention the bee thing to you?” Because it’s not something I normally talk about, not because it’s some sort of painful secret, but because it’s really not a big deal. Honestly, sometimes even I forget about it.

  She doesn’t answer right away, and when she does, her voice is measured. “Raven mentioned it today on the set.”

  Her name drops like an anvil, thudding and lifeless.

  Raven.

  Ugh.

  And the moment my personal distaste fades, a sense of protective anger flares up. How dare she talk to Devi? How dare she bring me up to Devi, in what I can only assume amounted to a sick sort of power play?

  “What else did she say to you?” I ask, not bothering to hide my anger. “Did she upset you?”

  Devi starts to shake her head but then stops. Then she gives a little nod. “Yeah,” she admits. “I guess it did upset me. And she didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, Logan, That was the hard part. She said that I was doing het porn to make you jealous, and that it would never make you jealous, it would just make you feel better about fucking other people.” A pause. “And that you were always fucking other people.”

  I have to close my eyes against the white-hot anger that boils inside me. I know, cerebrally, that Raven’s not evil, that she’s just honest and probably hurting right now. But I don’t feel that way. Instead, I feel like I want to build the highest, thickest wall around me and Devi and hold her tight and protect her from all the fears and insecurities that Raven forced her to look at.

  And if I’m being totally honest with myself, Raven wasn’t entirely wrong. I was using Devi doing even lesbian porn as an excuse not to feel bad for continuing to shoot scenes. And more—as an excuse not to feel guilty for enjoying shooting them. It’s our lifestyle, right? And as long as it’s our lifestyle, not just mine, then there’s no need for guilt or jealousy.

  Except.

  Except I am fucking jealous. I was jealous when Kendi licked her to orgasm this morning and jealous a few hours ago when she told me that she went to a set planning to fuck Bruce Madden. I’m jealous of every minute she spends writhing under somebody else’s touch.

  And I am guilty. Whenever I fuck someone else, I think of Devi. But it’s almost like my guilt makes me hornier, fiercer, and I use it as fuel for my fucking, each pump and jab of my cock layered with lust and longing and the kind of shame that burns under my skin and makes me restless for release. Since that shame only rears its head while I’m balls-deep in another girl, it’s so easy to give in to its restlessness and try to fuck it out.

  And all of this is just bringing up those questions from before and I can’t answer them. I can’t, because if I actually
answer them, I might have to face that my entire life has to change, and suddenly I remember Madam Psuka’s tarot card still shoved in an unwashed pair of jeans. The Hanged Man, the card of suffering and sacrifice.

  But what do I have to sacrifice?

  And what do I have to suffer for?

  I push those questions to the side and lean down to kiss Devi’s cheek. “She’s wrong, Devi. I’m not always fucking other people, and I’m not happy to see you fucking other people. But I respect our jobs, and I respect your right to make decisions about your body and who you fuck.”

  Devi looks uncertain, sad. I tug on her shoulder until she rolls onto her back and I can cup her face with one hand.

  “We need to make some boundaries, Cass. What are we okay with and what are we not okay with? What will we keep special just for each other?”

  She gives a small, fragile shrug and she looks so young and defenseless right now. My heart aches. “I’ve never done this before, Logan,” she says. “I’ve never been with a porn star. And I’ve certainly never been with one of the most famous porn stars in the world.”

  “You don’t have to decide right now,” I reassure her, stroking her hair back from her face. “We have so much time, Devi. We’ll get it figured out.”

  “Yeah,” she says, but her voice is full of doubt.

  “Want to hear a joke?” I ask, trying to cheer her up, cajole her back to her normal sunny self.

  “I guess.”

  “Why does Santa Claus have such a big sack?”

  She shrugs again.

  I grin. “He only comes once a year!”

  No reaction.

  “Okay, okay, not my best work. How about this: what’s the difference between a lentil and a chick pea?”

  “What?”

  I wait a beat to let the punch line fall with maximum effect. “I wouldn’t pay a hundred dollars to have a lentil on my chest.”

  Devi’s eyes widen and then she starts snort-laughing, slapping my bare chest hard. “You’re disgusting!”

  But she’s smiling again. I resist the urge to preen.