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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are 18 years or older when in sexual situations.
It was the same interview room I’d used hundreds of times with suspects and witnesses. Room 3. It had three post-WW II heavy oak chairs, the kind you’d see in a school library, and a gray rectangular Steelcase table that sported dozens of dents and scratches. The table was bolted to the floor. The light above was buzzing. It was a fluorescent fixture from the 60’s, and it was drawing its last breaths. The linoleum floor was from that era as well.
I looked around and wondered if I had wasted the last ten years of my life on a shit marriage and a job I was learning to hate. I took the crumpled coffee cup the last occupant left on the table and banked it off the back wall and into the waste basket. That was about as thrilling as it got, and now this bullshit interview regarding my recent performance.
I looked to my left. There was a large “window” in the room, which was really a one-way mirror, and ahead of me was a steel door with a small window in the upper half that allowed persons to peek inside. It was the first time I sat in one of the interviewee chairs. I didn’t like the perspective at all.
I suspected what this was about, but wasn’t certain. Whatever was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be good. My supervisor told me to wait in here. He didn’t tell me why. I took another sip of my tepid coffee and checked my phone again. No messages. Fuck.
I could hear muffled voices outside the room. A face briefly appeared in the observation window of the door, though I didn’t recognize who it was. My bra strap was digging into my shoulder so I reached inside my uniform and adjusted it. I’d already been in there for fifteen minutes and decided in five more minutes I was going to leave the room and would let them find me. I was about three minutes into my five minute countdown when the door swung open and two uniformed officers I didn’t know took the two seats on the opposite side of the table. It was my guess that my supervisor was observing through the one-way glass panel. The officer on the left, a male in his 40’s, was impeccably groomed and all business. His fellow officer, a female in her mid 20’s, was in the seat next to him and appeared to be there to observe.
“Your name is Maxine Pemberton, rank Sergeant, is that right?” he said crisply.
I thought a little charm wouldn’t hurt. “That’s right. Though my friends call me Max. You’re welcome to call me Max if you like.” I hated myself for it, but I shifted in my seat and let me tits wiggle underneath my uniform. I could have sworn that he sucked in his breath before he began to talk again.
“Thank you Ms. Pemberton. I’m Lieutenant Brandon Beshears, and this is my colleague Corporal Francine Tompkins. We’re with internal affairs.”
“Please to meet you.” I really wasn’t pleased to meet them. Fucking internal affairs. What had I gotten myself into?
I noticed how perfectly Brandon’s shirt was ironed. And not a hair out of place. “Do you know why you’re here Max?” He said it as if I could read his mind. Fuck him.
“No. Why should I?”
“You know. Your relationship with Addie Russell.”
“What. Is it illegal for me to date a woman?” And fuck you very much asshole.
“No. But it’s illegal to beat up her boyfriend.” Addie’s ex-boyfriend must have filed a complaint with the department. Asshole.
“Swore out a complaint against you.” Brendan shuffled through his neat stack of papers. “Here’s a copy for you. He alleges you assaulted him.” That’s not good, but …
“After he pointed my gun at me,” I shot back. That was a material fact I bet wasn’t in his stupid fucking complaint.
Brendan was unimpressed by my excuse. “Well, that will be for us to sort out. Until then, you’re on paid administrative leave. Leave your badge and gun here … please.” He pointed to the table in front of him.
I slipped off my badge and unholstered my Beretta. I made sure the safety was on and that the firing chamber was empty. I ejected the ammo magazine and put the gun down in front of him with a resounding “fuck you” thud.
“For fuck’s sake, make the investigation quick. I’ve got work to do.” I wanted to appear indignant, not apologetic. I was going to go down swinging.
Beshears was waiting until I was done. He was unmoved by my display of righteous indignation. “Officer Tompkins will handle the investigation …”
Officer Tompkins looked like she just graduated from the academy. She could have been my much younger sister. My much better looking sister. I suspected she was still in diapers when I was at the academy. “You mean her?” I said, pointing at her like an imbecile.
It slipped out of my mouth before I could casino siteleri stop myself and of course didn’t come out quite right. It never did. Tompkins glared at me as if I was a perp. Strike one, and maybe strike two as well.
“I’m sorry … ” as I began to mutter an apology. I’d seen that look before on Francine’s face. It was on mine every time someone impugned my gender or my age. I admonished myself for the millionth time. Couldn’t I ever learn to think before I spoke?
Predictably, Beshears jumped to her defense before Tompkins could upbraid me. “I’ll have you know Officer Tompkins finished top of her class at the academy. I have every confidence in her abilities and so should you.” He was using his best “I’m going to skull fuck you” look when he delivered his eloquent endorsement of a very comely cadet.
Francine was an attractive brunette with a freshly scrubbed face . Her hair was pulled back and braided into a French plait. She was much too good looking to be on the police force. I would have believed you if you told me she was a professional actress. I smiled at her to break the ice. She forced a smile, though daggers were still coming at me from her ice blue eyes. She squinted like an inscrutable cat.
I was fucked.
* * *
Maxine was my great aunt’s name. I was the eldest daughter in a family of five, born and raised in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I’d just turned thirty-five, and was residing at a Super 8 motel located in one of the grittier parts of Cincinnati. You know, where tattoo parlors and check cashing stores abound and where there’s a price on whatever you want. It’s definitely a place you wanted to be “from.”
I was officially divorced after ten years of a rocky marriage. I fucked it up like I’d fucked up a lot of stuff in my life. I’d been living in this budget motel room for the past month and had “celebrated” receipt of the final divorce papers with a handle of vodka and a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. Pathetic, and I knew it. The real problem was that I didn’t care. I was emotionally numb and past the point of caring.
My phone alarm went off at 6 a.m., jarring me awake from a restless night of sleep. I was hung over and bleary eyed, staring at three empty vodka bottles, two empty pizza boxes, and a stack of dirty paper plates, all crowded on the top of a shabby dresser. My throat parched, I emptied the dregs of the three vodka bottles into a used paper cup and drank it. I not only hit bottom, I went through it. I was a hot mess and everyone around me knew it.
I certainly didn’t start out like this. I was an easy going, fun loving girl, who partied a lot in high school and then pulled herself together to attend a police academy and graduate with honors. There were only two women in a class of twenty, so I felt a strong sense of accomplishment when I graduated, and had enough confidence to not only work, but thrive in a male dominated environment. I was no beauty queen but I didn’t obsess over some of my physical imperfections like many of my friends did. I wanted to think of myself as a Suzanne Pleshette type, with dark hair and dark, smoky eyes, but I wouldn’t say my face was anywhere close to as beautiful as hers. My build was much more buxom, something the men never let me forget. I spent a lot of time working out. I had a hard body, made for police work.
I married my high school sweetheart Ron, and thought we’d be together forever. He was the only guy that I had ever dated and the only person I’d ever had sex with. He was generally a good guy. He had a steady job as a foreman at a local foundry, and was always respectful of my overbearing job with the County police department. I spent most of the years of our marriage at work, and my husband learned what it was like to be a police “widower.”
In the beginning, Ron generally amused himself with the woodshop he built in the garage and going to the bar with his high school buddies. The sex? It was “fine.” By fine, I meant that he was satisfied. We would always have sex in the missionary position and he would come inside me and collapse, but I was always left high and dry. Most of the time I’d push him off me and bring myself off with my vibrator.
The passion was never there, but I just chalked it up to being either asexual or unable to feel sexual pleasure like a normal person. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t properly equipped. I had large breasts (which believe me, can be a liability on a male dominated police force — I mean how many different terms are there for breasts? — I think I’ve heard them all), and could orgasm with my fingers or my vibrator. But conventional sex? It wasn’t happening for me and wasn’t a priority.
After eight years of police overtime and unimaginative sex our marriage devolved into a living relationship between virtual strangers in the same house. I started drinking, heavily, and he started coming home late, every night. I suspected he was having an affair, and accused him of such one night when I was drunk, and he not only denied it but shoved canlı casino me out of the bedroom, accusing me of being the whore. I walled myself off from him, and started sleeping in the guest bedroom.
Every now and again I’d have to blow off some steam, and belatedly discovered internet porn, which opened up a vast horizon for me. I was able to watch people having sex in every imaginable situation, and soon discovered the pleasures of lesbian sex. The sight of a naked woman’s body excited me in ways that I hadn’t felt before, and soon I was massaging my clit to images of women writhing on the bed, sating their lust with fingers, tongues and toys, the electricity of their onscreen love and sex fueling immensely satisfying orgasms. I started looking at women in a different light, imagining them without any clothes, or what it would be like to be in bed with them. I knew someday I’d act on these impulses, but didn’t have any idea how to do so. For me, it was my dark little secret. Everyone has one, don’t they?
During that time I became friends with Maureen, a recent divorcee who rented the house next door. She was a flaming redhead with a personality to match. When I worked nights, I spent many a day at our kitchen table shooting the shit with Maureen and lamenting our generally miserable existences. In Maureen’s case, her ex-husband ran the family business she inherited into the ground, and bankruptcy, which left her with precious little money and a lot of regrets.
The real trouble started one weekend when Ron announced he was going on a fishing trip with his buddies for the next three days. He was off early Saturday morning, so I called Maureen to come over and have breakfast with me. She came over in her pajamas and a housecoat and her curly red hair was more disheveled than usual. She took a seat at the kitchen table and slouched with her slippered feet extending far under the table.
“Rough night?” I asked her. It was an easy question to let her warm things up.
I put a Bloody Mary in a tall glass in front of her and she took a long draw on it before replying. “No different than any other night. Ate dinner by myself, had a couple drinks, watched a bit of television and fell asleep on the sofa. Pretty sad huh?”
That was a good icebreaker, but I could top her story. “Hey, you’re talking to the champion of sad. I worked until 11 p.m. last night. Ron was already asleep when I got home. Reheated some leftovers and didn’t even have the energy to watch television.” I took a sip of my drink and a bite out of the celery stalk. “It sucks to be me,” I said gratuitously. The Bloody Mary I drank before Maureen showed up was starting to give me a warm feeling.
Maureen started droning on about the latest with her ex-husband, and how he was trying to screw her out of her alimony payments, while I made scrambled eggs and toast. I also refreshed our drinks, adding an extra shot of vodka for good measure. The bright morning sunshine and the vodka induced glow was making the morning a good one. I sat down with her to enjoy the breakfast and our drinks. She continued to blabber about her divorce attorney or something like that, but somewhere between my third and fourth drink her chatter faded to the background and I became obsessed with her pajama top. Every time she gestured with her hands her top opened in a way that gave me a clear view of her white freckled breasts and the edge of her large, chocolate brown areola. The lustful urges I felt when watching porn bubbled to the surface, and the sight of her breasts made me tingle down below, and before long my panties were sticking to my crotch.
“… and then the fucker hung up on me! Was he being an asshole or what?” Maureen eyes looked for mine, searching for a reply.
“I … uhh …”. I broke eye contact with her breasts. I did not have a fucking clue what she was talking about. She could no doubt see the bewilderment in my eyes, and had a glint in hers.
“You haven’t heard a word I was saying, have you?”
Her accusatory tone made me dip my eyes.
“You’ve been staring at my breasts.” She reached across the table and used her hand to lift up my chin so I couldn’t avoid eye contact with her. “Haven’t you?”
She was killing my buzz. My throat constricted and no words came out when I attempted to talk. I shook my head.”
“You fucking pervert. Doesn’t your hunky husband Ron fuck your brains out every night?”
Ron was a big guy, and well endowed, but fucking my brains out wasn’t on the program. I shook my head. I was embarrassed. I was busted staring at her breasts, and I didn’t even realize that I was doing it.
There was that glint again in her eye. The drinks lowered her inhibitions as well. She clearly had a naughty streak and her next action shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. She unbuttoned her pajama top and pulled it to the side, along with the robe, revealing her impressive breasts in all of their glory. She had even larger breasts than mine, pale white with freckles galore and erect kaçak casino nipples the size of gumdrops. Her tits were porn worthy.
“Like what you see Max?” There was a huge lump in my throat. Max, the hard ass police officer, was brought to heel by the sight of a woman’s breasts. My panties were sopping wet.
“Yes,” I finally croaked.
“Let’s finish up our drinks first, shall we?” She used her celery stalk to stir her drink, and then finished the last of the tomato juice by sucking it off the stalk. The way she pulled the stalk out of her mouth was sexy, and she must have known what it was doing to me. I gulped down the rest of my drink, hoping to find the courage to see where this was headed. I was going to have sex with a thirty something sassy big-titted redhead. This clearly wasn’t her first rodeo with a woman, though it was for me. I felt flush, like I was going to faint, and my heart was hammering in my chest. I was scared shitless.
It was my place, but she walked through it like she owned it, and went inside the master bedroom and sat on the unmade bed. She tested the firmness of the mattress with her hands, and then slipped off her pajama bottoms and then casually shed her unbuttoned top and robe. I could see a thicket of curly red hair between her legs, already matted with moisture. This was already more exciting than any sex that I had with Ron.
“Here,” she said. She patted the place next to her in bed. I felt like a teenager again, raging hormones and excitement I hadn’t felt in years.
I walked slowly over to her. I was only slightly better dressed than her, wearing a sweatshirt and a baggy pair of jeans. She pressed down on the top of my head so I was kneeling in front of her. I drank in the vision of her pendulous breasts, sagging on her chest. She pulled my head towards her until it was planted firmly in the middle of her chest, her breasts smothering every inch of my face.
“Suckle them, sweetheart,” she cooed. The smell of vodka was heavy on her breath. I loved the smell of vodka.
I turned my head to the side and kissed the side of her breast. Her breast was soft, giving, and had the scent of yesterday’s perfume mixed with the musty, sweet smell of sweat. I let my lips leave a trail of saliva on the silky dotted white skin. There was a sticky, wet dampness between my legs that desperately needed attention. She let out a sigh of satisfaction and moved my head so it was above her elongated nipple. There was no mistaking what she wanted. I licked her nipple the same way I liked mine licked, sucking it entirely into my mouth and swirling my tongue around it and savoring the finely dimpled skin. Her reactions were more subtle, and more erotic, than a man’s, and her moans and sighs cued me as to what she found pleasurable. I found that exploring a woman’s body was an exhilarating experience.
“Enjoying yourself sweetheart?” She was clearly enjoying herself. She was running her fingers through my hair as I suckled on her tits. My scalp tingled and there was a raging fire building between my legs.
I didn’t want to stop to answer her question. I went to the other nipple and laved it carefully, this time taking the time to use my hands to feel the weight of her breast. I hefted it in my hand and drew all of the nipple and part of her breast into my mouth, sucking the tender flesh between my lips.
“Ahhhh,” she sighed again. “Ron doesn’t do it for you then?”
I finally surrendered to her questions and stopped. It was my turn to gaze into her emerald green eyes, catlike and mysteriously sexy. “Ron never did it for me, and yes, this is my first time with a woman.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t go down on you, does he?” She said it with the certainty of personal experience.
“No.” Ron hated going down on me. He only did it a couple times, and only because I begged him. No matter how many not so subtle hints I dropped he just wasn’t interested. It was straight missionary sex, and that was about it.
I realized we were approaching, if not already beyond, the point of no return. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” I asked, belatedly. It was a stupid fucking question and my timing was awful.
Fortunately, my redheaded flame laughed heartily. “Honey, what I’ve found out is that you take what’s given to you and not to complain. It’s you and me, and we’re drunk and horny … aren’t we?”
What a sweetheart. She let me off the hook and propositioned me at the same time. “You’ve got me there. I haven’t had a lot of happy moments the past few years,” I lamented, which made me sad. I was also drunk and horny, which made me happy. I wanted her in the worst way.
Maureen’s eyes brightened. “Well then, let’s fuck.”
She had a point there.
I was nervous. My bed was a mess. She didn’t care. She flung herself carelessly on the bed. “Come here sweetheart. Let me show you the proper way to make love to a woman.”
I was wondering why she was so confident. She must have been reading my mind. “I swing both ways. I think that might have been a source of friction between my ex and me. He never knew who to worry about because I’m … highly sexed shall we say so whenever we met another couple he was jealous of both of them.”
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