Women With Handcuffs

by Sacchi Green

  “You’ve got a lot to learn, sweetie.” Quickly, efficiently, I pat down her flanks from behind as I read Vixen her rights. It’s just a cursory search. That costume is so damn skimpy there’s nowhere to hide anything without it being immediately obvious. Still, this all has to be done, even if only to scare her off trying anything so idiotic in the future.

  My hands brush over her boobs, even though I’ve already established there’s nothing in the pocket there but her ID and a couple of folded bills, her fee for tonight’s performance. As I feel her nipples, jutting out to meet my touch, any pretense I have that this is simply a routine search fades away. Before she can say a word, I pop open the buttons on her shirt and her bare tits fall out into my hand.

  She doesn’t protest as I lovingly knead the firm, creamy flesh, even though she’d be perfectly at liberty to yell blue murder till Hawkes came dashing out to catch me fondling her. What I’m doing is so inappropriate, but it feels so right. A squall of rain catches me in the face as the wind changes direction, but it doesn’t cool me down or bring me to my senses. All I can think about is the way Vixen’s nipples are pushing against my palms, almost seeking to bore their way through my skin.

  She wants this just as badly as I do, that much is evident. Her ass is pushing back against me, the metal cuffs rattling rhythmically against the wooden railing as she gyrates. My pussy is heating up, pressing against the seam of my uniform pants and setting up the most delicious friction as I move.

  “I’m in trouble, aren’t I, officer?” Vixen’s voice is huskily insolent, goading me on.

  No, you are trouble, I want to reply, but my hand is already flipping up the hem of her skirt in my impatience to strip her further. The thong back of her panties is so thin it barely conceals her asshole, and her shaven lips bulge out around it, demanding to be stroked. I push the cheap scarlet lace to one side, skating a fingertip over her wet folds.

  Somewhere close by, a car engine starts up. I freeze, wondering if we’re about to be spotlighted on the porch, caught in the act, but the driver passes by without bothering to switch on his headlamps. Any other time, any other place, my first instinct would be to follow him and dish out a ticket, but I’m too busy breathing a sigh of relief to bother about that now.

  “Where were we?” I murmur. “Oh, yeah…” I return to my gentle exploration of Vixen’s pussy lips. “So, if I put my fingers in you, are they going to come away all sticky with Bachelor Boy’s come?”

  She shakes her head vigorously. “I used a condom, Officer. Spare me the safe-sex lecture. I’m not stupid.”

  “Really? You try to steal a guy’s wallet when he’s got a houseful of buddies to catch you as you leave. Sounds pretty stupid to me. And now you’ve let yourself get chained up and stripped half-naked…”

  “But I’m being punished, aren’t I, Officer?” Again that submissive tone to her voice, sending another little gush of juice into the crotch of my sensible cotton underwear. She’s almost taunting me to spank her ass. If it weren’t for the fact that I can hear a hubbub of voices and laughter from inside the house, telling me the boys might have been a little more helpful than Hawkes or I expected, I’d punish her till those sweet little cheeks of hers bore the red marks of my palm. As it is, I settle for a swift, hard swat to each one, bringing a noise from her that’s somewhere between a yelp and a satisfied moan.

  Then my fingers push up into her wetness, into the cunt that’s already welcomed the groom-to-be’s cock tonight. When he entered her, did she sigh the way she’s sighing now? Did she thrust her rump at him and beg for more, like she’s asking—pleading—for me to touch her clit? She looks back over her shoulder at me, mascara-streaked eyes full of desperation and horniness. For a moment, I make her think I’m going to do what she wants, but I can’t let her forget who’s in control here. My thumb settles on her asshole instead, rubbing in little back-and-forth motions that make her jerk like she’s wired up to the mains.

  “You like that, do you?”

  She tries to shape a reply, but when I switch my attention to her clit, circling it relentlessly, her words turn into incoherent gasps and gulps. The brattiness, the defiance is gone; she’s just a soft, pliant mess of girl-flesh, completely in my thrall.

  I’ve got her pinned against the railing, my thigh over hers so that as she bucks against me, the pressure is stimulating me in just the right place. What I could really use is Vixen’s wet little tongue working away between my legs, but that’s not going to happen, so I settle for subtly rubbing against her leg.

  She’s close, so very close now, and my fingers are slipping and sliding in the wetness that pours like rain from her. The open front of her slutty cop outfit flaps in the night air. Her little whimpers are driving me crazy. “Come for me,” I order her, fighting to keep the authority in my voice till the end. Her cunt convulses around my fingers, at the same time as a sweet, sharp orgasm ripples through my belly. I know I’ll replay this moment over in my head once I’m off shift, turning myself on all over again with the sight and sound of Vixen coming on my command.

  A door slams in the house, bringing me back to full awareness of where I am. By the time Hawkes and the party boys spill out of the house, I’ve got Vixen all buttoned up and respectable once more. Surfer Dude fishes the handcuff keys out of his shorts pockets and, finally, she’s released.

  “All sorted?” I ask Hawkes.

  “Yeah. Joel here’s decided not to press charges, seeing as how no real harm’s been done.” He’s making it clear this whole incident has been a waste of our time, just as he predicted when we answered the call. His time, maybe. Not mine.

  “Great, saves us the paperwork.” I look out at the steadily falling rain, then back to Vixen in her insubstantial outfit. Her face glows with satisfaction and more, as though I’ve helped her come to a realization about who she is and what she needs to make her whole. “I was thinking, we should give Ms. Molloy a lift home. Make sure she can’t get into any more trouble tonight.”

  “Sure, whatever,” Hawkes replies without enthusiasm. I can tell he’d prefer this not to be his problem, already starting to look forward to the end of our shift and whatever his wife’s preparing for his breakfast.

  As we’re walking back to the patrol car, I say to Vixen, “Well, I hope you learned your lesson tonight. But don’t let me catch you prancing around pretending to be a policewoman again.” Bending close to her ear, speaking so low that Hawkes won’t be able to hear, I add, “On the other hand, if you ever feel the need to dress up as a slutty nurse, maybe we can work something out.”

  OFFICER BIRCH

  J. N. Gallagher

  I can’t believe you made me wait twelve years, Officer Birch. No, I’m not going to call you Melissa, or Mel. I don’t care what your friends call you. We are not friends anymore. Whatever we are, whatever this is, is not a friendship.

  Yes, I will always be thankful for what you did. You were the first person, ever, who stood up for me. It doesn’t change anything, but if I never said the words, I should have. Thank you.

  I’ll bet Rachel Winston still regrets choosing your first day on the job to bash my head against the hallway lockers. I don’t remember much, but I do have a reliable report of what happened. Here’s part of a note my friend Amy wrote me the next day:

  You crumpled and people started walking around you. Rachel was laughing and walking away, and all of a sudden the new resource cop chick came running down the hall. Everyone scattered, and when the cop got to Rachel, she took that fucking bitch down hard! She had her in handcuffs in two seconds. Rachel started crying, but the cop (who looks like a major lesbian and I’ll bet is into some really hard-core dyke sex shit) dragged Rachel down the hallway, and another cop came and took her. They brought you to the nurse’s office, and the cop asked if Rachel had hurt you before. I snorted because Principal Dickface was in there, and he knows about all the shit Rachel’s done, but then Dickface made me leave.

  Later that day, you called me
into your office for a meeting. I didn’t know what we were supposed to talk about. I remember that, as you formally introduced yourself, I was staring at your boots, all shiny and black and tap-tap-tapping the floor.

  You asked if Officer Rackers had done anything about Rachel’s bullying. Of course he didn’t. No one did. They sent her to detention a couple of times, but that was it. Her dad was president of the school board. The principal was scared of her.

  “Why does she bully you?” you said. “From what I’ve gathered, she doesn’t act violently toward anyone else.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Does there have to be a reason? Sometimes people here just get singled out, and we have to deal with it.”

  You were silent until I lifted my head and looked at you. Did you know that I fell in love with you right then, Officer Birch? Could you tell?

  It might have been your uniform, immaculate and wrinklefree. It might have been the necktie and cap, which no cops in town wore until you showed up and made them look like slobs.

  It might have been your face. You looked so young, almost my age. Let’s be honest—you weren’t pretty. You weren’t cute, either, not like the few girls I had managed to fool around with. They had long hair, beautiful breasts, curves to their figures. You had sharp angles, small breasts, a strong jaw. I didn’t know if you had hair on your head. I couldn’t see any peeking out from under your cap.

  I had seen butch women before. Our midwestern county was closeted back then but not totally straight. The difference was that none of them were anything like you. So handsome, so powerful in your uniform, even while sitting down and doing nothing. Masculine in every way yet nothing like a man. I got moist right there, and I didn’t even know I was attracted to butches.

  You rambled on about handling bullies. I wasn’t listening; I was thinking. What would it be like to kiss your lips? What was underneath your cap? How would you teach me about hard-core dyke sex shit?

  Then you put your hand on my knee. That got my attention.

  “Rachel is not going to bother you anymore,” you said. “Do you understand? This is 1998. We’re almost at a new century, and we’re not going to let the same crap keep happening. If it does, she’s not going to be here. I’m going to watch out for you.”

  I nodded. Your eyes showed genuine compassion, and I believed you.

  I only volunteered as a D.A.R.E. speaker to be around you. I admit that. However, I think I deserve some credit in that I never flirted with you or said anything inappropriate. I know I mentioned I had turned eighteen the summer before senior year a thousand times, but that was just to let you know I was a legal adult, and it was okay to be attracted to me. You sure talked to me a lot, more than any of the other volunteers. I hoped the reason was because you liked tall, awkward, sort-of-pretty brunettes with medium-sized breasts, though I figured it was because I was totally clean and the other volunteers weren’t. They were lying to little kids to pad their scholarship applications.

  Honestly, I did enjoy talking to younger students. I also enjoyed watching you on the job. You didn’t try to be cool or everybody’s friend. You just wanted to help people and uphold the law. That’s cool all by itself, and it made me want to fuck you even more.

  I had to be ready for you. The other girls had been gentle, but you didn’t seem like a gentle person. I needed an idea of what was waiting for me. I could have hooked up with someone on the Internet, but that seemed dangerous. I couldn’t find anything good online because we only had one computer, in the living room, with a porn filter I never did crack.

  I’m still surprised I gathered enough courage to visit one adult video store, let alone two or three. Nobody had what I needed. They had plenty of bleached-blondes eating each other out, but the ecstasy on the box covers was so fake, I laughed out loud.

  One cashier, a guy in his late thirties, noticed I had been wandering around. He politely offered assistance. I described what I was looking for, and he said there was a lesbian bookstore about five hours away, across the state line, that carried smut. He called the owner, asked what she had in stock, and told me, “She’ll ship some stuff here, or you can drive up there if you’d like.”

  I wasn’t going to wait. I told my parents I was staying with Amy and needed to borrow our VCR because hers was broken. I reserved a room at a Super 8 near the bookstore. I wasn’t going to make a ten-hour round trip, and I didn’t know when I’d be home alone to watch the stuff.

  Close your eyes and imagine: me, lying on a king-size bed at a Super 8, lights off, curtains closed and a remote control in my left hand.

  I know you’ve seen the tapes and don’t need me to rehash them, but I wonder what you felt the first time you saw them. Were you as moved as I was, Officer Birch? I didn’t know two femmes would ever spank each other hard enough to leave large welts on their asses for fun. I felt warm when a thin woman wearing a realistic dildo with balls made romantic love to a beautiful red-headed babe. I watched a supposed real-life couple have sex and then kiss and cuddle for fifteen minutes. And I almost ruined one tape rewinding to the scene where a dyke with messy hair named Al was gagged, tied naked to a barber’s chair, and forced to endure a vibrator as her butch barber barked “Sit still!” while giving Al a precise flattop.

  These tapes weren’t meant to be bestsellers. They were labors of love. They didn’t have porn stars in them, just regular women with regular bodies expressing their sexual selves. When I say they moved me, I mean in the same way we can be moved by a painting or a poem or a piece of music. Am I comparing porn to Mozart? Yes, I am.

  My parents started attending church stuff at night, so I rubbed myself raw that first week. I even wrote a story about Al with the flattop and an unnamed, stocky butch from another tape who I called Joey. I wrote it down in a journal with a lock. Prior to this story, the journal made no mention of my being a lesbian, because I was afraid my parents might pick the lock. Here’s an excerpt (remember, I was eighteen):

  Joey, stocky with shaggy hair, grabbed Al, baby-faced with a flattop, and pushed her to the ground. Joey unzipped her jeans and pulled out her dick, which in reality was a dildo. It looked very much like a penis except that it was blue.

  “Suck it,” Joey said, commandingly.

  Al sucked it good. Joey ran her fingers through Al’s hair, or lack thereof. Al’s head was shaved totally bald on the sides and had but a small, boxy sculpture on top. Al took the dildo into her mouth as far as she could, but it was not far enough for Joey. Not nearly enough.

  “Deeper. I want to hear you gag.”

  Al did take it deeper, which made her gag for almost four seconds, and then Joey mercifully pulled the dildo out of Al’s mouth. Al had drool and spit coming off of her lips. Then Joey ordered Al to take off her pants. Al did and stood there in boxers. Joey wasn’t satisfied. Al removed the boxers to reveal her dildo and harness.

  “Take off your dick, too,” Joey stated.

  “No,” Al said.

  “You’re my boy if I want you to be, and you’re my girl if I want you to be,” Joey implored.

  Al sighed, then did as she had been told to do. Joey forced her to the ground. They were in an automobile repair shop. Al was on the cold concrete floor, and she spread her legs, grudgingly, so that Joey could get a good look at her pussy.

  “Get ready,” Joey said.

  She climbed on top of Al and started fucking her pussy. Al moaned with pleasure. Her moans were quizzical, like she was not expecting to enjoy being fucked.

  “Oh?” Al exclaimed. “Oh, god!”

  “Yeah, baby,” Joey said while she kept thrusting and grinding deeper and deeper into Al’s pussy. The dildo moved in and out seemingly hundreds of times.

  Suddenly, Joey pulled out the dildo and told Al to flip over. Joey reached her hand down into the wetness of Al’s slit, and then spread a glob of that into Al’s asshole. Then, the dildo slid inside Al’s asshole. Al gasped as it went all the way in.

  “Oh!” Al said.

&n
bsp; “Take it, baby,” Joey said. “Take the whole damn thing.”

  I wrote that story in honor of the videos, where some butches were stone, some liked to be touched and some liked to be fucked. I also realized that watching pornography wasn’t enough to learn about you or about myself. I spent hours hiding in corners at the public library, which had a surprising number of gay and lesbian books. Our Internet filter might have stopped porn, but it didn’t block nonexplicit literature on lesbian sexuality. I didn’t just jerk off, Officer Birch. I did my homework, too.

  I went straight to your house after my graduation ceremony, one of only a few students who didn’t attend the all-night lock-in. I knew you would be home. After our last D.A.R.E. presentation, you told me on the ride back that you were staying in. The reason you had been assigned to the school was because no one else would do it, and you hadn’t anticipated how much stress there would be. You were burned out.

  I didn’t know if that was a coded invitation. I didn’t really care. I was going to show up at your house at some point. Why not make it a night when I was dolled up? When I was wearing a tight black dress (covered by a gown for most of the evening) and a pair of my mom’s heels.

  I remember ringing your doorbell, trying desperately to fix my graduation-cap hair. You opened the door wearing cut-off jeans, a Chicago Cubs T-shirt and a Cubs hat. You looked so delicious, I was ready for anything you might want to do to me.

  But you just stood in the doorway and asked if something was wrong.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. I attempted to look smoldering, but I’m sure my smile was crooked and my come-hither expression was laughable.

  “Did something happen between you and Amy? Did you guys have a fight?”

  “What?”