Women With Handcuffs

by Sacchi Green

  This time I couldn’t afford to give in. “I’d get in serious trouble if the Chief found out. Besides, they’ll have officers doing security detail. I don’t want any confusion, especially if, god forbid, there actually is a problem.” Not that I expected problems. The kink community may lead edgy sex lives, but we tend to be wellbehaved in public, if only to avoid anyone asking if dressing your lover up in a pony harness violates some obscure local ordinance. Whenever you get a few thousand people together, though, there’s a potential for weirdness—especially at a downtown convention center, where someone who thinks they’re on a mission from god to get rid of pervs could pay their $20 and walk right in to cause trouble.

  “How about your dress uniform? No one would get confused then.”

  I winced.

  I’d just met Lisette the last time I had to haul out the dress uniform. I hadn’t known the officer who’d been killed. He’d been from a different precinct, and we’d never run into each other on a detail or a Police Benevolent Association benefit. But that doesn’t matter when one of your own buys it. You go to the funeral in your dress uniform, you’re part of a strong wall of blue for the poor bastard’s family and you hope you don’t have to put on that uniform again for a long, long time—and that no one ever has to put it on for you until you die of old age.

  Joe Morrissey had died less than four months ago. It was way too soon to put that uniform on for anything less than the President coming to our town and needing a police escort. Certainly not to gratify the whim of a lover. A uniform that still had a mass card in the pocket from a fellow officer’s funeral wasn’t sexy.

  I didn’t say a word, but I’m not as tough as I like to pretend I am, because my eyes got misty at the memory. Within a second, Lisette dropped her cutesy face and was holding me. “Sorry, Barb. I wasn’t thinking. That was a bad idea.”

  I let her distract me with a kiss, because at that point I could use the distraction. As I’d hoped, Lisette’s lips on mine and her curvy little body pressed up against me wiped away memories of a sea of blue in a packed church and a dead cop in his own dress uniform.

  In fact, Lisette managed to wipe away all thoughts except getting us both naked as quickly as possible. We didn’t even bother heading for the bedroom, just took advantage of the big, comfy couch. She laid me down and kissed her way down my body, leaving smeary trails of red lipstick, until she was between my legs, half-sprawled off the couch.

  She looked up at me and smiled like a mischievous little girl. Then she began to lick.

  Lisette and I liked spanking and rope bondage and toys. I loved seeing her dressed up like the anime characters she resembles—and fucking her in those outfits. We’re both a little addicted to leather. But sometimes it’s good to get back to basics.

  And there was nothing more basic than a beautiful woman licking your pussy.

  Lisette’s tongue teased my labia. She traced the outer lips until I was squirming and gasping. She then turned her attention to the inner ones, suckling first one then the other while taking care to just miss my clit.

  My breath came in short gasps. My lower body rippled involuntarily. She ran her tongue down and up my slit, over and over again, lapping up my juices, which only flowed faster. I tangled my fingers in her short, wine-red hair and tugged. Her breath quickened at the small gesture of dominance, and that was what I wanted to hear. I could have moved her face then, directed her so she was focused on my clit, but that wasn’t the point right now. The point was Lisette got hot from hair-pulling. Since the more sensitive parts of her were out of easy reach, I figured it was the least I could do.

  She showed her appreciation by finally applying that talented tongue to my clit.

  It wasn’t the Fourth of July, but nevertheless fireworks exploded inside me. I shouted loudly enough that it might have scared the neighbors into calling the cops if I hadn’t been one.

  Naturally, once I regained motor coordination, I reciprocated.

  Nothing like some spontaneous nookie to shake you out of melancholy. By the time I’d licked the last drop of Lisette’s juices from my lips and we were cuddled together on the couch, idly rummaging through the coffee-table stash of take-out menus in search of dinner inspiration, I’d almost forgotten the whole uniform conversation.

  So of course Lisette had to bring it up.

  She’s stubborn and bratty like that sometimes. That’s probably why we’re good for each other. Her brattiness shakes me out of my own head, which is where I’d otherwise end up stuck after a long day of dealing with society’s less charming elements.

  But sometimes it was aggravating.

  This was one of those times. When she said, “Okay, so I understand about the uniform and the Fetish Fair. But how come you’ll never leave your uniform on when we fool around? It would be so hot to be spanked by a cop,” I lost it.

  I made a habit of not blowing up at people I love. There’s a stereotype that either cops aren’t there for loved ones at all or they’re grouchy bastards (and probably drunks) because of stress and the knowledge that one of the occupational hazards of your job is violent death. Unfortunately the stereotype has a lot of truth behind it. Made me determined not to do the same.

  So when I lost it, I did so in a very polite, controlled way.

  I took a deep breath, counted to ten and then to twenty. Then I added another ten for good measure before I actually spoke.

  I still ended up snarling.

  “I’m not a fetish, Lisette. My uniform isn’t a cos-play outfit or a vest and leather pants. Every time I’ve spanked you, you’ve been spanked by a cop. By me. By a woman you say you care about. And if that’s not good enough for you, if you need the fucking uniform, I don’t know what to do, because I can’t treat it like fetish gear.”

  Lisette’s big eyes got even bigger. For a second I thought she might cry and it scared the hell out of me, because that meant either she was manipulating me or I was being a complete asshole despite my efforts to keep my anger under control. Neither option was good.

  Then she looked away. “I have a uniform fetish,” she muttered, so quietly I wasn’t sure I heard her right.

  “What?”

  She repeated, more clearly this time, but still looking away, “I have a uniform fetish. It’s why you caught my eye in the first place. You looked so strong and delicious in uniform that I just had to get to know you better. I couldn’t help imagining you spanking me or doing a take-down scene or…well, anything, really…wearing that uniform. But you always take your uniform off as soon as you get home. I know I’ve never said it was a kink of mine in so many words, but I’ve asked about it before and you look at me like I’ve grown another head. I’ve always been willing to dress up for you because I know you like it. It gets frustrating.”

  She breathed in like she wanted to say more, but I cut her off. “I’m going out for a while. I need to think.”

  “Don’t be angry.”

  I wanted to scream at her: Don’t be angry? You just told me we’re together because you’re kinky for my uniform. Then I realized it wouldn’t be fair, since my initial impressions of her had been equally shallow. I saw her then-pink hair and her nose ring and her funky, alternative look—goth meets anime girl meets old-school punk—and decided that she was insanely hot. But when she got a better job that meant she had to hide the nose ring and wear mainstream clothes and dye her hair a slightly more natural color, I hadn’t complained.

  Had I? All right, maybe a little, but I’d gotten over it quickly.

  And if she’d told me up front that she was so into uniforms, like I’d told her about my fascination with little anime girls, we might have been able to work something out. Something that did not involve my working clothes.

  “I’m not angry,” I said. “All right, I’m angry, but I’m pretty sure I’m over-reacting. That’s why I need to go out for a while. I’ll be back, though.”

  My dramatic exit was spoiled by the need to put my clothes back on.
>
  But maybe the pause was good. It forced me to think.

  Instead of just storming randomly into the night, I got into the car and headed to a neighborhood where Lisette and I sometimes partied. I parked illegally and entered a narrow brownstone converted into a shop.

  I came out half an hour later with a red and black shopping bag in my hand and laughed when I saw the ticket tucked under my windshield wiper. I should have known it would happen.

  I considered ripping it up but thought better of it. I could pull the ticket from the system, but I needed all the good karma I could collect. After all, I had a dangerous job—and even more dangerous, a girlfriend who was probably wondering if she should go home, block my emails and delete my number from her phone.

  To my amazement, she was still at the apartment when I returned. She’d put on a set of my old sweats and was halfasleep on the couch, jumping awake when I opened the door. “Barb,” she said, scrambling to her feet, “I’m so glad you came back.”

  “Had to,” I said, angling my body so she wouldn’t see the bag. “I live here. But seriously,” I added as her pretty face fell, “I’m glad you’re still here. I didn’t want to leave things the way we did.”

  “Hug?”

  I nodded and almost before I finished, her arms were around me. “I’m so sorry, Barb. What I tried to say earlier came out all wrong.”

  I hoped not all wrong, because I’d just made a very expensive impulse purchase based on what she’d said.

  I dropped the bag behind the coatrack, where she might not see it right away, and returned the hug.

  Damn, she felt right in my arms. Sure, we happened to fit each other’s fantasy look, but a lot of relationships started based on nothing more substantial than having an eye for curvy African-American women or redheads or tanned blonde athletes or whatever. Just because we each had a fetish for what the other wore didn’t mean we didn’t connect on other levels. We’d work this out somehow.

  And with any luck, the contents of the bag would help.

  “I don’t want you to think,” Lisette said, “that I’m only seeing you because of the uniform. The hot woman in uniform caught my eye, but I figured out quickly I just plain like you. And I like that you got all excited about my thing for cosplay, but whenever I said you look great in uniform, you’d just say thanks and not get that I really think you look great in uniform. I thought maybe the Fetish Fair would help me start the conversation.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry I pushed it.”

  I hugged her again. “I’m sorry I barked at you. It took me by surprise, even though I guess you’ve dropped plenty of hints, because uniform kink isn’t on my radar. My grandfather was a cop. My dad and aunt are cops. I’m a cop and so is my brother. Uniforms are what you wear to work, like a suit or one of those stupid Burger King shirts. I can’t play in my real uniform, because it represents my job. We haven’t been together all that long, but you know I take my work seriously. Too seriously, maybe…”

  Lisette nodded. “But I can see why. There are jobs you can leave at work, and then there are jobs where there’s too much at stake. At least you’re not totally wrapped up in a job whose only purpose is to make money for someone else. That would piss me off. Your job matters.”

  I thought about that dress uniform, about the last time I’d worn it. It must have showed on my face, because she added, “Life-or-death-level matters. I wouldn’t expect a doctor to get hot and bothered by putting on her white coat and latex gloves, so I shouldn’t expect it of you.”

  I thought for a minute. “But the doctor might like putting on a fake police uniform, or a nun’s habit, or whatever, and a cop might like one of those crazy latex nurse uniforms.”

  Lisette laughed. “I hope that’s not your secret fantasy! I mean, I’m willing to try anything once, but those don’t do it for me.”

  I patted the sofa. “Wait here,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I waved the bag teasingly at Lisette and headed into the bedroom.

  Ten minutes later, I emerged in something that approximated my real-life uniform in the same way a short, shiny, latex Nurse Goodbody outfit approximated something you’d see at a doctor’s office.

  It was blue and gray. It had a generic badge in the right place. Unlike the faux nurse outfit, it covered most of the places a real uniform would, but, made of latex, it fit like a second skin and accented the breasts and butt that a real uniform downplayed. The “nightstick” would deliver a sweet thud on your favorite “criminal’s” cute butt and could double as a dildo. I’d opted not to buy the cleverly molded but creepy gun-shaped dildo that was an option with the set. Only the polished black boots and black-leather search gloves were my own.

  Well, and the handcuffs, but those were our fur-lined leather play cuffs, not the chintzy ones that came with the outfit and certainly not my real ones. Real cuffs hurt if you struggle, and Lisette likes to squirm.

  I felt like a member of the Village People (only with cleavage) in the shiny, tight outfit, and my credit card was really, really annoyed with me.

  But Lisette’s face lit up. “Barb, that’s…that’s…oh, my god, thank you.”

  I might never understand her uniform fetish, but wearing a ridiculous outfit was a small price to pay for that look on her face, the wide, unfocused eyes and soft smile that told me, more surely than words, that she was getting wet.

  “Strip,” I ordered, brandishing my kinky nightstick. It didn’t brandish well, being made of silicone rather than hard plastic, but it got the point across.

  “You can’t make me!” she exclaimed, gesturing melodramatically. “I want my lawyer!”

  “Actually, I can make you.” I did my best to sound menacing but started chuckling by the time I got to can. It didn’t keep me from grabbing Lisette and ripping her clothes off—with her enthusiastic help.

  I was still laughing when I pulled her down onto my vinylclad lap and cuffed her hands together behind her back.

  Then I looked at her gleaming, slick pussy and her sweetly curved ass, straining up as she offered herself to me. I stopped laughing. I might feel like a complete fool in the outfit, but her reaction was worth it.

  “It doesn’t feel like your real uniform,” she whispered. “It actually feels better.”

  “Polyester isn’t very sexy. But what I’m wearing certainly is my uniform. I have the receipts to prove it.” No point in role-playing, which was good because I could never keep it up for long.

  And then I began to smack my lovely naked criminal with the faux nightstick in a way you’re definitely not supposed to do in real life.

  Though if you could, it would either reduce crime or encourage it.

  Lisette let out a shocked gasp. She always does the first time, even if she knows exactly what’s coming. Then she shuddered and whispered, “More, officer. It’s got to be illegal the way I lust after this hot cop I know.”

  “Nothing illegal in knowing what you like.” I punctuated the remark with a smack for each word, leaving delicious red marks on her fair skin.

  But appropriate as the nightstick might be, it wasn’t intimate enough.

  My leather-clad hand was.

  I brought it down on Lisette’s hot ass again and again, making her writhe and cry out, beg for mercy and beg for more. Her heat poured into me through the leather glove and the vinyl clothing. She was flooding the leg of the pants with her smoky juices, and I was flooding the crotch—good thing the clerk at the store had thrown in some cleaner and maintenance instructions, because I was already sticky and we were just getting started.

  With my free hand, I gripped her hair, pulling her head back hard so I could see her face. It was mottled, and she looked like she might have been crying, but she wore a blissed-out smile. I took a second’s break to kiss her. The angle meant it was short and superficial, but it still jolted me even higher.

  “Beautiful,” I murmured. Then I let her lower her head.

  And picked up the dildo.

  Li
sette raised her hips to give me better access, and her molten pussy welcomed the penetration. It took me a few strokes to get the rhythm down, but soon I got it. Smack. Fuck. Smack. Fuck. As I watched the beautiful girl going crazy across my lap, I couldn’t help thinking that this moment belonged in an adult version of one of those credit card commercials. “Fetish outfit: $300. Sex toy: $75. Incredibly aroused woman moaning and writhing on your lap: priceless.”

  I even considered sharing the thought with her. We often joked around in bed, and it was a funny image.

  But Lisette started to come, and all thought left me except how wonderful it was to watch orgasm overtake her, to know I’d caused it.

  Well, me and a pervy fashion designer and the nice guy at the fetish store who’d helped me pick out just the right outfit. But I was willing to take the credit.

  Lisette came more than I’d ever seen her come—and she was always multi-orgasmic, so that was saying something. When she finally collapsed limp and spent across my knees, I uncuffed her and snuggled her on my lap, her head leaning against the plastic badge. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming. “That may be even better than the real deal. Uniform fetish meets cosplay.”

  “Lucky guess. Okay, not just luck. I know you like how latex feels, and I know I like how it looks on you, so it seemed like a plan.”

  “Do you get the uniform thing any better now?”

  “I get that you really, really like it, and that’s what matters. I can’t imagine ever wanting to play in my real uniform—but I can in this, because it’s made to be sexy. And if this is a compromise you can live with, I’ll be glad to dress up for you. Just not as a real police officer.”

  She nodded. “Your real uniforms are special. Serious. I can understand why you don’t want to play in them. But it’ll always make me hot to see you dressed for work. Hot and proud.”

  Once she said that, I couldn’t resist kissing her.

  Which just got us started again—this time with a cat-girl teasing a poor, hapless cop.