Lone Female
By Clarissa Fenton
Copyright Clarissa Fenton/Cavendish Velvet Publishing 2013. All rights reserved.
Cover image © Barone Rosso - Fotolia.com
1
I was about to give up for the night and go home when I clocked her. Early thirties, ash blonde hair, good figure in a well-fitting business suit. I could hear her kissing and saying her goodbyes to the people she was with, colleagues I guessed from the fact that they were all in suits. She swayed a bit as she walked out into the pub car park, nothing too obvious but enough for me to spot it. I finished my orange juice quickly and walked out of the pub, following her at a discreet distance. As usual I'd kept my car in a dark corner of the car park, out of sight of any cctv, and I quickly took out my false number plates from my bag and tacked them over the real ones, pretending I was just checking the tyres.
She got into her car, a nice shiny new BMW, and pulled out slowly and a bit too carefully. I got into my car and got behind her just as she drove out onto the main road and turned right. That was just what I wanted - if she'd gone left she would have gone into town and there would have been too many people about, even at this time of night. Pretty soon she was out onto the stretch of road that I'd used before and knew well. Going a bit too fast as well; up to 50 in a 40mph zone long before the derestriction signs.
I checked my mirrors and saw nothing behind; just as she passed the sign for the layby I realised it was now or never so I put on my cap. Section 163, Road Traffic Act 1988, a person driving a mechanically propelled vehicle on a road must stop on being required to do so by a constable in uniform - and that meant I had to have my hat on. I was doing everything by the book, just to make sure.
I flicked on the blue light and gave her a quick blast on the siren, just enough for her to hear but not enough to attract unwanted attention in case some copper was having a piss or a kip somewhere nearby. I then flicked the fog lights at her rapidly so that all she would see in her mirror was a blaze of blue and white light. At first I thought she wasn't going to stop but then I realised, of course, she'd seen the sign for the layby and was heading for it; sure enough she indicated left and pulled in. With a quick check in the mirror I reassured myself that nobody else was on the road for a long way back. I kept my lights on and slipped on my tie, stab vest, equipment belt and fluorescent vest with practiced ease; as usual I'd been wearing my uniform trousers and shirt in the pub so it didn't take long to complete the picture.
Quickly checking again for anything coming along the road, I got out and sauntered slowly to her car, talking into my radio while looking at her licence plate with exaggerated interest. I pulled the peak of my cap down to cover my eyes a little then took a deep breath; this was the bit where there was no going back and I felt the familiar adrenaline rush which then gave way to a feeling of calmness, almost like being on autopilot. Stage fright, the nerves that actors get just before they go on stage, is the same, so I'm told. I leant down to the passenger window as it whirred down.
I got my first good close up look at her; I'd made a good choice. She was a bit older than I'd thought in the pub; about 35 I guessed. I've noticed there's a sweet spot with women around that age. Before 30 or so most good looking women act like their shit doesn't stink and they're used to men falling at their feet. Come early thirties, and definitely by 35, they've still got their looks but they've noticed they're starting to go a bit and the attention from men isn't there so much, yet at the same time their appetite's reaching its peak. That's where I come in.
I saw the woman looking at me with slight disdain, pushing her hair back and pouting.
'What's this all about? Have I done something wrong?' Her voice was a bit posh, though I could tell she was putting it on a bit.
I kept quiet, letting the pressure on her nerves build a bit, while I pretended to look at her front licence plate.
She piped up again.
'I said what's this all about? I'm in a bit of a hurry.'
I hooked my fingers into my belt.
'Is this your vehicle?' I asked calmly.
'No, it's my husband's. Look, can you just tell me what I've done wrong?'
She was getting flustered now, and like a good martial arts fighter, I was going to use her own strength against her.
'Two things. I stopped you because back there you were doing 55 miles per hour in a 40 mile per hour zone. I've also got reason to believe you're driving under the influence of alcohol.'
Her face fell at this. Not so confident now, are you? I thought to myself. It was time to go in for the kill.
'Can I see your licence please?'
I knew she didn't have to carry it, but most people do nowadays and it added to the realism. She fumbled in her handbag for what seemed like ages, and while she wasn't looking I glanced round quickly, pleased to see that the road in both directions was dark and deserted. Eventually she passed the little plastic wallet to me, and beamed a smile.
'There you are.'
I realised why she'd been fumbling about: as I opened the wallet I saw a fifty pound note tucked in with the licence. Bingo. She'd just made everything so much easier.
I pretended not to see the note and handed the wallet back, looking her straight in the eye.
'I hope that's not what I think it is. Attempting to bribe a police officer is a very serious offence. Let's just forget that happened, shall we?'
She paused, pushing her hair back and smiling again, looking me up and down. 'Look, maybe we can...'
Fuck me, I thought. I'm not even going to have to suggest it to her. She's doing all the work while I just enjoy the show. I hadn't stopped any women who were this easy before.
'Maybe we can what?' She had to be the one to say it - I was careful to cover my back that way.
She laughed and looked me up and down again under hooded eyes, gathering her resolve, I guessed, and came out with it.
'Maybe we can have a bit of a good time and forget all about it?'
'Right.' I walked quickly to the passenger door and opened it, getting in and taking my cap off. I pulled the door to with a soft click and savoured the feel of the expensive leather upholstery. Her face fell a bit as she wondered if I wasn't falling for it and was going to run her in, but then I reached up and clicked off the light. If anybody passed they would think we were what used to be called a 'courting couple' and hopefully leave us alone.
It was time for the get out clause.
'You don't have to do anything you don't want to,' I said. 'We can sort this out at the station if you prefer. I guarantee you'll get let off with a caution.'
It might sound crazy to let her off the hook like that but I'm no rapist or pervert, I don't force women into anything. I reckon I just set up the scene for her own fantasy. OK, some hairy arsed feminist would say I'm still putting pressure on her, but then they don't understand female psychology the way I do. 'Anti-slut defence', it's called; I've read about it on the internet; women will do pretty much anything and enjoy it as well, if you give them the opportunity to convince themselves 'it just happened' and they didn't plan it.
There was a bit of a pause and I wondered if she was going to call my bluff. To be honest it wouldn't have worried me too much, as sex is just part of it, not the be all and end all, but then she was over the gear lever and straddling me, quicker than I expected - she was a live one, alright. Her mouth sought mine and I got a taste of cigarettes and wine as her tongue drove into my mouth. I was pretty sure she was a bit pissed so in a way, I might have done some good pulling her over. She arched her back and pulled off her jacket, chucking it onto the back seat, while she tossed her hair back and started unbuttoning her blouse, which was stretched nice and tight in all the right places. She pulled my hands up
to fondle her tits through her bra, and she sighed as my fingers groped for her nipples. She looked down at me with an expression of pure lust as she ran her hands over my stab vest and down to my trousers, unbuckling the belt and reaching in.
'Come on then Mr Policeman, I haven't got long...' she breathed.
I unzipped her skirt and it fell behind her somewhere, revealing hold up stockings and a lacy thong that formed a narrow v between her legs. She was in good shape and I wondered if she wasn't getting enough from her husband; probably some rich type too busy running his own business to give her a proper seeing to. Or maybe she just liked sex and wasn't too particular about who she did it with. Expertly I unclipped her bra and took in the sight of a good firm pair, not large but still perky and well shaped. She'd got my cock in her hand now, working the shaft up and down and stroking my balls with just the right pressure. She lifted herself up and peeled off her knickers, showing a neatly trimmed bush and glistening lips. Then she was on me, working my trousers down and sliding herself slowly down onto my cock while holding on to my shoulders. She gasped as it went all the way in.
'Oh that feels so good...' she moaned.
She started bucking up and down, working her hips back and forth so that I didn't have to do anything except sit there while she bounced on me. Her hair was draped across my head and I could smell cigarettes and wine again, mixed with her perfume and the hot, musky smell of her body. I felt suddenly extremely horny and thrust my hips forward to meet hers, our bodies bouncing together as we hurried towards climax. She leant back and balanced her arms behind her on the dashboard, grinding herself onto my cock and showing off those pert tits nicely in the dim light, the nipples erect and pointed. I reached forward and pressed her clit and started rubbing it, savouring the feel of the slick bud below the thin strip of crisp hair. She was making a rhythmic gasping now in the back of her throat and grabbed my hand, working it in harder, her other hand sliding and groping my balls.
'Come on, come on, do it faster....' she said, her thighs slapping into me now as I felt the familiar tingling rising up in my thighs. Then she arched her back again and gave out a long sighing groan as her body stiffened into orgasm. I raised myself up slightly to get a bit more pressure so that I could finish, ramming into her and exploding into her tight hole as the last shudders of her own orgasm died down.
She peeled herself off me and dressed quickly in the confined space of the car, wriggling into her skirt and blouse and leaving her underwear on the floor. She crawled over to the driver's seat as I got myself dressed. Gripping the steering wheel she turned to me with a smile.
'Is there a problem, officer?'
I grinned back. 'No problem madam. Sorry to have bothered you.'
And with that I was out of the car. Five minutes later I was driving home, my uniform safely stowed under the back seat.
2
You've probably already guessed that I wasn't a real copper. My name's Carl Sanders, I'm 31 and I am, or was, a kitchen and bathroom salesman. I suppose what I did was some kind of compulsion, but it didn't feel like that. It just felt like something to get the adrenaline going. Some men drink to get it, some take drugs, some go dogging and some throw themselves out of aeroplanes or join the TA. With me it was the IPO game - Impersonating a Police Officer. An offence under section 90, Police Act, 1996. I’d learnt that bit of the law off by heart. Christ only knew why I was doing it, but the more I did it the deeper I got myself involved in it, and the more I had to do to get the same high.
I did things properly. Most IPO offenders are amateurs; one step up from gippos who charge old biddies thousands of pounds for building work they don't need doing. In most cases two blokes will fake a warrant card on a computer, knock on some old girl's door and one will distract her by asking questions while the other goes through her handbag. They're idiots, because the penalties for IPO are severe and they could do the job just as well with some other excuse. Then you've got the occasional fantasist who tries to get off paying his train fare or something by saying he's a copper and then gets caught out. They're just compulsive liars really, the kind of bloke who sits in the corner of the pub trying to convince people he worked for the Krays or was in the SAS.
With me it was different. I'd done my research, and planned things so that I always had a way out if they went wrong. Like I said before, I don't reckon I've ever forced a woman to have sex with me. As far as I can see most of them are up for a bit of no strings sex if they think they can get away with it and have someone to blame it on so's they can keep a clear conscience.
Anyway, the fun was over; it was the next day and I was driving to work,crawling along in the traffic to the retail park where I worked. I've got a decent car, a Skoda Octavia the same kind that they use for unmarked police cars round here. It cost me a bomb with painful monthly payments but I needed the right look for what I was doing. I'd had it kitted out with lights and a siren, hidden behind the radiator grill so nobody knew they were there until I used them. It was piss easy to find all that stuff on the internet though it took a while for me to get it rigged up properly. A few years ago you hardly ever saw an unmarked car flashing blue lights and using a siren but there were more of them about nowadays so that was fine for me.
Just before nine a.m. I arrived at Ultima Kitchens and Bathrooms where I'd been working for the last ten years or so, getting progressively more frustrated and bored with the place, but I needed the money and jobs had been thin on the ground since the recession started. I'd like to have told them to shove it, but my ex had left me with a big mortgage and I was in negative equity on the house; there was no way I could just give up and move on.
Derek Anderson, my arsehole of a boss and the man responsible for the day to day running of the showroom, frowned as I sauntered in, checking his watch to see if I was late, but I knew I still had a few minutes to spare. He knew I needed my job and he made sure I knew he knew.
'Morning Derek!' I said brightly, going through the showroom to the backroom to my desk and taking off my jacket.
'Nearly late, Carl. Staff should be here a few minutes before opening time. You know that.'
I looked at him and as usual his face made me sick. Pudgy and overweight and going bald, though he was only a couple of years older than me, with the sweaty, shifty look he always had about him. I was about to make a smart comeback but then he noticed a couple of pensioners coming in and smarmed over to them, probably trying to demonstrate his superior sales tactics while I could see them.
I'm not a bad salesman and I'd been doing alright at Ultima. The guy who owned it was someone called Clive Rowlings, a flashy, permatanned type who spent most of his time in his holiday home in Spain, coming back from time to time to keep an eye on a string of businesses he owned. He was a bit of a dodgy character, I reckoned, but decent enough, and it was him who'd given me the job. Things had gone well for a couple of years and I was making money for him, but then the recession had hit and he'd started spending more time running some of his other showrooms that weren't doing so well. That was when Derek got appointed as manager.
The thing was, Derek realised this and quite frankly, he was jealous. He just hated the idea of me chatting up the women customers and the fact that I was free and single, while he was chained down to an overweight wife, two kids and an even bigger mortgage than me. I used to work for a chain of dodgy electrical shops, now gone bust, but the bloke who trained me said if you're good at selling, you'll be good at getting women too, and that's been true enough for me.
One time when he caught me getting the mobile number of a busty blonde who'd been coming in and giving me the eye (though never buying anything) he made up some cock and bull story about how I was needed for admin work in the back room instead of front line sales. I tried talking to Rowlings about it but he didn't want to know, and said Derek had control of the day to day staffing rotas, and that was that. I wondered if Derek had sussed something about what Rowlings was up to and had some sort of hold over h
im. Anyway, so that was that. My job now consisted of going through invoices, answering the phone and emails, and trying to stop myself climbing the walls with boredom.
That day though there was a break in the boredom - a really welcome break. I was pretending to work, surfing some police chat forums that I look at, when Derek walked up to my desk with one of the prettiest girls I've seen in a long time.
Putting on a show of politeness, he ushered her forward to me.
'Carl, this is Mandy Evans, she's the work experience girl I told you about.'
I vaguely remembered some email about this but had forgotten about it. Derek had some connection with the local college or university or whatever it was, and sometimes got kids who were on business course in to do a couple of week's 'work experience' which was basically just a way of getting free labour to clear some of the admin backlog. I'd had to cope with a couple of them before - clueless wankers with silver spoons in their mouths and a massive sense of entitlement, but unable to do the most basic work without having to be shown how to do it three times. I knew right away this one was different though.
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