I have been in and out of bars and clubs and hole-in-the-wall dives since I was 17. 

 I was probably kicked out of, or more or less politely asked to leave, more places than the average 21 year old has even walked in before I was of the legal age to consume liquor.

  I’ve partied on 6^th and 5^th Streets in Austin and on the River Walk in San Antonio.  I’ve been out dancing drunk at Up & Downs and La Macarena and Cowboys in Cuidad Acuna, Coahuila, Mexico and at Dos Amigos on N.  Golder in Odessa as well as all the 8^th street clubs on the “Graham” strip, all before I was legal.  I seriously doubt there’s any bar in San Angelo or Midland or Lubbock I haven’t wandered into at some point and the same for Del Rio and all the little towns in between. 

 I’ve drunk beer in a hot tub with Willie Nelson in Brownwood, danced with George Strait at the World Championship Goat Roping Contest in Ozona and I made out with Ty Murray long before he was the World Champion Bull Rider and dating Jewell.

 Which is to say, my life has been full of strange and odd experiences.  And a few of them have even taken place in gay bars.

 But I’ve never seen anything quite like this. 

 Cher is thumping out of the sound system so overwhelmingly loud that the wine glasses hung above the little lighted islands of bars are humming audibly when you stand beneath them.  There are Go Go Dancers in variations of Sylvie’s preferred mode of apparel writhing on elevated stages or grinding up against the bars of cages like wild animals in thigh high boots, mini skirts and shock wigs.  The far back wall is constructed of a screen of  white paper with a shadow dancing booth behind it; constantly flashing lights silhouette yet more dancers who, if they aren’t naked back there and actually having sex, are doing a reasonably convincing job of it. There’s an open loft area over the entrance wall with the familiar long rectangular lights illuminating pool tables and everywhere I look there are women dancing, leaning against one another, kissing, holding hands, laughing and huddled in little groups with their heads together trying to hear one another over the music.  The G-Spot is packed on a Saturday night. 

 The bouncer is female but I definitely wouldn’t take her on.  I worry for a moment as they stamp my hand that they’ll frisk me but then, this isn’t Texas where it’s simply assumed everyone is armed and this is an upscale place in a relatively upscale end of town.  The Glock stays safely snuggled under my arm beneath my black leather jacket.  Just in case it’s necessary I have my badge & ID as well but the door people don’t even give me a second look, merely wave me through. 

 I can’t help but pause inside and wonder if that’s good or bad. 

 I’d had no idea what to wear and spinning slowly in a circle in Sylvie’s bedroom of a closet hadn’t helped me out any.  I’d finally settled for a pair of jeans, soft and faded, along with a short sleeved black tee and the lace up boots that make me appear to be just under six foot; in reality I’m not even five five but am constantly guessed at five seven or eight even without the boots. It’s all in the ‘tude.  I love being taller than people.  It instinctively makes a violator or suspect uneasy and causes them to step backwards to compensate.  It’s a vertical intrusion of space and it takes no effort other than simply unfolding one’s legs. 

 It’s a very odd thing to be a straight woman in a lesbian bar.  I’d decided exactly how I would handle it though; I was on a job.  My cover was some sort of sexually confused person perhaps interested in a walk on the wild side because there was no way I could pull off being an actual flesh and blood lesbian, but little doubt I could deal out Sexual Confusion in spades.   I had very little to go on for dressing or preparing myself for it but once inside and looking around I decide I’ve done well enough.  There are plenty of women dressed much wilder but there are just as many as casual and the important thing is I don’t stick out either way.

 I move towards the nearest bar keeping myself immersed in little groups and knots and scanning as unobtrusively as possible for Jinny.  I smile politely and try to keep the blushes to a minimum as I go; while I am quite used to having my T&A checked by males of every age I find it rather unnerving to see the same thing happening with women.  I feel like I have “FRESH MEAT” stamped on my forehead. 

 The bartender is wearing a white strip of cloth across her breasts and what looks like a Barbie doll size skirt constructed of black electrical tape.  Interesting.  But I am thrilled to see they have Shiner Bock on tap and I tip her nicely and get a wink and an agile belly slide over the bar top where she plants a mocha tasting kiss on my lips. 

 What is there to do but take the beer and grin? 

 I go slow, trying to look as if I am looking for someone but not anyone in particular.  Jase taught me this.  Stick as close to the walls as possible and find a spot in a corner towards the rear and then just lean like there’s all the time in the world and all you came here for was to get drunk and get laid.

  Except maybe I don’t really want that to be what I’m projecting here.  I’m already having some ladies attempting to take me up on it.   I can’t fathom how to smile and lean and get drunk without the getting laid part factoring in though so I decide it’s just something I’ll have to deal with.  I’ve deflected a thousand unwanted males.  How hard and how different can it be to gently dissuade a few females?

 I have consumed another 24 ounces of Shiner Bock and on top of the two beers at the penthouse and no dinner I’m beginning to feel distinctly relaxed and rather uncomfortably full in the bladder area.  I maneuver casually about the place keeping to the walls, not even trying to keep the stunned “Jesus Christ!” look off my face at the goings on in the shadow box, or the embarrassed grin every time I am approached and asked to dance.  I’ve plastered my ass against each of the four walls in the club in turn before I finally spot her.

 She, being a cop, has chosen a choice spot in a rear corner herself.  She’s at a sort of rounded corner booth and just to the right of the table is a hallway with a neon sign over it advising the world in glowing purple “Lounge” and then below that “The Ladies Room”.  I wonder briefly if that means something different than in Texas and ruefully wonder how I am going to get past her to the john.  But I’ve seen her, at least.  She is definitely here and she is most definitely on a date. 

 I cozy myself into the corner opposite them with two very distracting Go Go dancers in cages suspended between and a constantly shifting, milling crowd and feel fairly inconspicuous.  She would never dream I’d do this and so she won’t be looking for me and while she may have planted herself in a corner with visual access to the room at large it is obvious watching her that she is by no means on duty or being cautious or feeling stalked.   Except of course by the women at her table but she doesn’t appear to find that threatening.

 I’m ridiculously curious about which of the women is her date but it’s difficult to tell because it’s a large oval shaped booth and Exstead appears to be quite a popular girl.  She’s dragged out by the hand several times to dance, which means I lose sight of her since I’m not willing to give up my choice position here to saunter around the perimeter of the dance floor and just hope she doesn’t look up at the wrong time and spot me.  Now and then I can catch a glimpse of her dark head or a shoulder out amongst the packed gyrating crowd but for the most part I’m merely given a fairly unobstructed view of the table without her. 

 But this is good because it gives me a chance to order another Shiner (I tip the waitress just as good as I tipped the bartender but only get a smile this time) and study the other occupants of the table which I’m not able to do when Exstead is among them.  When she is there I somehow become intensely focused on nothing but her.  It wouldn’t matter what type situation or atmosphere I was in or who it was causing this; it’s a serious mistake to make in any investigation, zeroing in on one subject to the exclusion of the rest or to the surroundings either one. 

 She’s there with a group of six.  Two are blonde, four brunette.  One of them is in a mini skirt and a very slinky, shimmery top, the rest in jeans and more casual.  There is a lot of laughter and hair flipping at that table and what appears to be a great deal of mutual flirtation going on but I eventually hesitantly separate them out into couples although I can’t decide if any of them are there “with” Exstead; I begin to think not when I add up the partnering going on between them and the fact that she makes seven and the others appear to be a bit more chummy with one another than with her but then she’s been the recipient of more than one kiss just since I’ve spotted them.

  It’s all quite confusing.  I decide another Shiner will help but I have to make a visit to that Ladies Room first and to do that I have to get past Exstead. 

 It’s not difficult since she’s such a popular girl on the dance floor.  I wait until the mini skirt and halter combo snags her and then I stroll nonchalantly behind the cages and past their table.  The top of it is littered with ash trays and glasses and it’s difficult to be certain but I think the one directly in front of where Exstead has been seated could be water with lime.  Or it could be some straight shot of clear liquor over ice.  Not that it really matters to me or is even pertinent to the investigation as far as I’m concerned. 

 I’m overwhelmingly relieved to find that the meaning of “Ladies Room” in Friscan is the same as in Texan.  I’m not quite as thrilled to discover that “The Lounge” is rather occupied and the actual lounging being done appears to be optional.  I manage to get through it without tripping over anyone’s legs in the dark and when I shove the door open to the restroom itself I pause and look back to see if I’d somehow hallucinated the various bodies in an assortment of positions mostly centered around reclining and if my recently fevered imagination was playing tricks on me about what the couple in the far corner are actually doing to one another. 

 Nope.  I’m right on target there.  Or she is. 

 Okay.  I can handle this.  I’ve seen females having fairly explicit sex in movies; I can handle them merely making out, however graphically, right in front of me.  I’ll just pee and maybe splash some cold water on my face and then I’ll walk right out through them and it’ll be fine.  I don’t have a problem with lesbian couples displaying public affection; Jase and I have some great friends in Austin, a lesbian couple, Dianne and Michelle.  I’ve been out with them and seen them kiss and teased them about getting a room or making me jealous and we’d all laughed.  These women are just taking it a bit further than I’ve ever seen two women do in the flesh but hey~~  This is San Francisco, right?  Technically this isn’t any different than Di and Michi except of course I’ve never seen those particular body parts displayed openly or fingers in them but-- 

 Something has gone funky with my head now and I can’t get that goddamn photograph out of it or keep Exstead in her proper place as a fellow cop who’s being set up by a dickhead.  I lean against the sink and run cold water over my wrists and try to sober up slightly.  I should have eaten.  I really should have eaten. 

 Is it possible to be nauseous and horny at the same time?

 I look up at myself in the mirror over the sink and meet my own eyes and try not to flinch. 

 Apparently so. 

 When I exit I keep my head down.  Enough is enough.  I can kid myself all I want but the truth is something has changed and I’m not dealing well with this particular situation and I’ll have to sit myself down sometime and see if I can fathom out why the sight of two women and finger penetration is fucking with me, but right now I just need to cut myself some slack.  I don’t know what I’m doing here anyway.  What difference does it make who Exstead is out with, who the date is, what she does and with whom?  It may have something to do with this whole mess but if it does I am obviously not going to be able to focus enough to sort it out anyway and all I am succeeding in doing is getting drunk and aroused and unless I want to confront some major life issues head on I had better get the fuck out of here. 

 I duck out of the hallway to the left, keeping my head turned from the Exstead corner party.  I don’t glance at the dance floor either in case she’s still out there but once I’m safely at the front left corner of the building I decide I’ll have one more beer before I step outside and get a taxi back to the penthouse.  There’s a little table tucked away in the dark to the left of the front bar and I can sit there and drink my beer and calm down. 

 Ironically, I have just as good a line of sight to that booth at the back now as before.  Maybe even better because there are no undulating, nearly nude dancers in cages between me and there.  Other than milling chatting groups which are wandering between the dance floor and the entrance to the restroom and lounge area to my right, it’s fairly unobstructed although it is a lot further away. 

 Jinny isn’t at the table now and I can’t spot her on the dance floor either.  I start picking visually through the crowd and locate her at the rear of the building on a raised area with tables and a counter top running along the perimeter with stools and people seated at it watching the dancing.   There’s a door open to her left and the shadow dance box is dark now; apparently they’ve exhausted themselves back there and are taking a break.

  She’s standing just outside the doorway, leaning on the jamb and it looks like she’s speaking to someone who is still in the hallway where it’s too dark for me to see.  She isn’t looking into the hall but is facing forward staring at the dance floor apparently, but it’s obvious to me she’s having a conversation with someone and that she’s not particularly thrilled about whatever is being said; I can’t make out the scowl but her shoulders are hunched and her head is down and she’s got her hands tucked under her arms and crossed defiantly.  She’s antsy too, restless, bumping herself back up against the door jamb over and over as if she’s listening to something that’s pissing her off. 

 Now I’m glad I stayed.  Even if it’s got nothing to do with Massey I’m at least entertained by the sight of Jinny Pissed Off.  And not even at me. 

 She half turns towards the open door way and some rather tall women move into my vision and I half lift myself on the stool rungs so I can see over them.  She’s still there but definitely turned looking in and the body language has changed.  She’s dropped her hands and is using them to talk, gesturing, the motions emphatic.  It’s a conversation about something she feels very strongly about then.  Not just a, “Seen any good finger penetration in the lounge lately?” dialogue. 

 The waitress demands my attention asking if I’d like another beer and I tell her no, then decide, “fuck it” and change it to yes.  When I look back I’ve lost her.  I stand up on the stool rungs scanning the whole back area and have just reached the conclusion that she has gone into the hallway herself when a familiar dark head moves into sight between the dance floor and the wall, maybe thirty feet from me. 

 She’s angry.  She’s stomping.  It’s a full Exstead temper tantrum and it’s leading her straight towards me because it’s obvious she’s leaving in a rage.  I shrink down onto my stool in anticipation of her veering right past me but she’s stopped in her tracks and spun violently around, dark hair flying. 

 The cop in me demands I run over and do something and then it clicks and I sink back down realizing that this is the person who had been in the shadow box.  This is who she came here to see.  This is what I came here to see. 

 Exstead’s taller and blocking my view because she’s planted her hands on her hips and has her feet wide apart in a defiant “bring it on” stance.  I can’t see whoever is behind her but I can tell from the set of her shoulders that they are letting her have it, verbally.  And it’s not what she wants to hear. 

 She tries to spin around again but a hand flashes out and winds itself into the dark hair and I watch fascinated as Jinny Exstead is literally drug to the side of the room and has her head bounced off the wall just to the side of the entrance into the Lounge and Ladies Room less than ten feet from me.

 And who is it doing the bouncing of Jinny Exstead?  Some enormous muscle bound human? 

 No.  

 She’s tiny.  The white arms are thin and bare because she’s shrugged into a halter top after coming out of the shadow box.  She’s terribly thin in the way I associate with heroin or meth freaks but I can see muscles standing out in the arm she is using to keep Jinny’s head shoved back against the wall.   There’s a quick turn of that face towards me and I glimpse a small heart shaped face with full lips and big eyes and framing it, long straight silver blonde hair. For just the briefest of seconds Sylvie Chandler and I stare directly into one another’s eyes before she turns back and curls a black leathered leg around Jinny’s waist and fists that small white hand in the dark hair and tugs Jinny’s head back.

 I don’t watch the kiss.  I don’t want to see it.  My heart is pounding and I don’t need to look to see the two of them together.  I‘ve had it in my head for days.

 I’m sliding out from beneath the table when I realize that the blur of human which just raced past me was Sylvie.  I freeze and then slide my eyes to the right.  Exstead is still up against the wall with her head back and her hands half raised in front of her as if they have been recently groping to hold someone.  She isn’t looking in this direction; she isn’t looking at anything.  She’s staring straight ahead blindly and as I watch her shoulder sag and slide down the wall.  Her knees are buckling.  She stops herself about halfway down and turns, staggering into the doorway and disappearing. 

 Fuck.  I’ve just seen the mysterious Sylvie Chandler in the flesh.  The person in whose penthouse I am existing, the human in whose bed I sleep.  I want to go after her because I want answers. 

 But then it’s Exstead who is somehow the key to all this.  And it’s Exstead I decide to follow.

 I assume she’s ducked into the restroom so I stride through the lounge area too quick for even my eyes to adjust to the dimness there and once inside the better lighted restroom area I stop, unsure. 

 No weeping.  No Jinny standing morosely at the sinks.  I lean and peer beneath the fuschia colored stall doors much to the delight of several patrons and don’t recognize any feet bearing even the slightest resemblance to the boots I remember. 

 Shit.  Did she duck in and then slide back out in the time it took me to get out of my table and decide which of them to follow? 

 I’ve walked down the length of the room and at the end of the line of stalls I stop and let myself fall back against the pink tiles.  God, I’m suddenly drunk.  I should have eaten.  I glance at myself in the long mirror over the sinks and see wild strawberry blonde hair sticking out what looks like everywhere on my head; apparently I’ve grabbed my head in frustration and sunk my fists into it recently.  My cheeks are flushed a deep pink and my eyes look positively terrified. 

 But not nearly as much as they do when I realize my space has been invaded. 

 I look up to find a complete stranger evidently deciding to make herself very familiar with me.  She’s very tall and there’s a thigh gently wedging itself between mine.  When I glance down, my eyes widening, she laughs and two arms come up on either side of me and lay themselves palm down against the tiles. 

 “Hey, little one.”

 Wait.  Little one?  Me?  I may not be seven foot eight but there is no fucking way I am “little”.  I can feel my eyebrows crashing down over my nose in a frown and I furiously shove myself back upright, albeit rather drunkenly. 

 “Back off.”

 At first I think I’ve said it, because it sounds exactly like I would say it were I not so fucking drunk and pinned against the wall by a female version of Goliath.  But when the giant’s head turns slightly I let mine do the same and there in the mirror I see, thank you God, Jinny Exstead. 

 The Cavalry has arrived. 

 Goliath eyes Jinny and then smiles ruefully and removes both hands from either side of my head and steps back with a last little wink at me. 

 “Sorry.” She says to Jinny and Jinny nods and grabs one of my wrists and I am tugged after her, half stumbling at the ferocity with which she jerks me. 

  She tosses back over her shoulder to the Giantess, “No problem.”

 Okay.  If this were Jase we would be in a bar playing the “Miffed Lover Scene.” 

 I can do this one.  If this were just Jase tugging me and yanking me out of a restroom and then slamming me up against a carpeted wall in the darkness of the lounge area.

 “What the fuck are you doing here?” she demands and when I don’t answer immediately she grabs me by the upper arms and whams me again as if I might not have got that she is sober and I am drunk and she is in control the first time. 

 “Answer me.” She grits out.

 “Investigating?” I venture. 

 “Don’t fuck with me right now, alright?  I’ve had all the fucking around tonight I can take.”

 My eyes are adjusting to the darkness.  She is very white and her eyes are suspiciously shiny as if she has only recently stopped crying.

 I sigh.  It must be a very beery sigh but she doesn’t flinch. 

 “I traced your call.  I followed you here.”

 “Why?” she asks, genuinely puzzled. 

 I let my head roll back and forth against the carpeted wall behind me and lift my shoulders in a shrug. 

 “I don’t fucking know.  I think this is a question better left unanswered right now.”

 The dark brows pucker and lift and she stills briefly when the restroom door behind her opens and a slant of light falls out.  It’s the way a cop stills and it comforts me.  It means, to me, “I’m here.  I guard.  I protect.  I see.”  It means Jase to me.  It means the best parts of me when I am not drunk and stupid.

 “Are you going to tell me how Sylvie can afford a penthouse when she dances in a bar?” I ask and this would have been an excellent question were my voice not so tired and drained sounding. 

 She freezes for an instant and then she laughs, a little rush of it that I can feel along the skin of my neck and makes me shiver. 

 “You’re pretty good at this Sgt. Finn.” 

 I nod.  It’s weary though. 

 “You’ve only had beer, right?” she asks and I am totally humiliated to realize she is sniffing my breath. 

 “Yes,” I say indignantly.

 She finds this amusing.  One corner of her mouth lifts in a smile.   The dark head tips towards me slowly and she deliberately sniffs and then puts it to the side and gazes at me.

 “Some kind of dark beer.  A Bock, I would think.”

 I begin to feel distinctly uneasy.  She is invading my space.  She is too close.

 I try to shove myself up taller to put her in her place but damn her, she’s got the freaking motorcycle boots on and tops me at least two inches and is too close anyway.  The only way I can shove myself up any straighter would be to bump my body against her.  And I don’t trust myself enough to let this happen.

 What the fuck is she smiling about?

 “You look rather… annoyed, Sgt. Finn.”

 Annoyed?  Is this annoyed? 

 “Wait—No. “ she says and somehow takes a step closer, eyeing me.  “Maybe it isn’t annoyed after all.  Maybe it’s… terrified.”

 I try to laugh but she’s too close and in more ways than physically. 

 “Okay,” I say.  “Now, back off and let me get out of here.”

 “Why?” she asks.

 I don’t like that look.  It brings to mind words like “predatory”. 

 “C’mon.” I whisper. 

 “Where?” she leans in to ask it and every inch of me goes some version of heated and chilled.  I am frozen against the wall and her face, her lips are less than an inch from the side of my neck.  I want to grab her head and pull her there and the urge is so strong for a moment I think I have already and the sound I make is low and throaty. 

 In front of me she stiffens, hearing it and presses closer, letting her head fall forward, forehead against the wall behind me.  We’re not touching but I’m shaking and both her hands come up on either side of me.  I see them tremble and she deliberately lays them palm down against the wall behind me on either side of my shoulders.  

 “Jesus,” she whispers into the wall and shudders. 

 I close my eyes.  I can feel her trembling even though she isn’t touching me anywhere.  I can hear her breathing and trying to get under control and I can hear the sound of her fingers rasping on the carpeted wall as she knots and flexes them. 

 To my right I hear a deep guttural moan and my eyes jerk open and I swivel my head to look. 

Beside me I can feel Jinny’s head turn a second later. 

 They are oblivious.  Neither have any idea anyone is there watching or if they do we matter so little in their pleasure that they can’t take the time to be distracted.  There’s some sort of bench there or a low chair and one of them is in it, with the other curled into her lap.  The dress or skirt was short to begin with but has been drug up now and the ass exposed is heart shaped and white and the arm curved around it a deep chocolate brown.  They are moving together rhythmically and every thrust only puts the fist deeper and she whimpers and sighs, lifting the leg higher and curling herself around her lover more tightly. 

 I moan.  I can’t look away.  I know I’m panting because I can hear it but then I realize my hips have started rolling themselves, bucking gently between the wall and Jinny and I turn my head away from them fast and swallow and try to push her away when she stops me.

 “No,” her voice is low and hoarse.  “No running this time.”

 I shudder against her and let her turn my face with her hand so I am watching the two lovers again.  I try to jerk back around when I feel her boots softly bumping my feet apart and my legs with them but she shakes her head and if the fingers lying across my face are trembling they are also strong. 

 I give up.  I let her nudge my legs apart and as if she has sensed my mental surrender she pauses and pushes her face into the side of my neck and groans and takes in a deep shuddering breath.  I can feel her shaking but when I try to move she presses herself against me and I am suddenly spun around and shoved roughly face first into the wall.  I feel my legs kicked apart and she is pressed tight against me from behind and in my ear I hear a hoarse voice ask, “Do you know this part, Sgt. Finn?”

 “Up against the wall and spread ‘em,” I whisper and behind me she shoves herself close and I let her take my wrist in her fingers and guide it behind my back and I only gasp a little when I realize it’s really cold steel I am feeling and there’s more than a mild sense of disbelief that I am allowing myself to be cuffed by Jinny Exstead in the lounge of a lesbian bar.

 “Oh fuck,” I whisper into the wall and behind me she laughs and pushes herself into me. 

 She turns my face so I am looking at the couple to my left and I can feel the heat of her behind me and the hand which is sliding slowly down over my shoulder and upper arm and along my rib cage before it cups my right breast.  I can feel the nipple tingling erect into her palm and she holds it and lets her face fall onto my shoulder, breathing deeply and rubs herself against my cuffed hands and ass.

 “Oh Jesus,” I say and she laughs again and the hand starts moving slowly downwards. 

 To my left the woman with her lover’s fist inside her is bucking and thrusting upwards and making sounds I have not heard in almost a year.  My backbone has become a slippery thing and when I feel the first scrape of Jinny’s fingernail along the right edge of my jean’s crotch seam I gasp and cry out. 

 “There?” she asks and I can’t do anything but whimper and pant and try to rub myself against her hand, my hips rocking frantically. 

 “Shh,” she tells me, somehow stepping closer, steadying me, the nails scraping confidently just to the right of the seam.  When my knees threaten to buckle she holds me up with her left arm crossed in front of me and that hand between my legs never hesitates. 

 I have to see.  I lean my forehead against the wall and look down and it’s real, it’s happening.  I am fucking my hips into her fingers and she is doing nothing more than letting me rub my engorged clitoris inside my jeans against her short nails and I have never felt anything so exquisite in my life. 

 I come, shaking and crying out and she holds me up with her arms and thighs.  It‘s so good I could chew a hole through the wall in front of me and I try to muffle some of my moans in it.  Behind me she lays her head into the side of my neck and exhales deeply and when I am done quivering and groaning I realize she is gently rocking herself into my cuffed hands and sighing.

 “Please,” she says, mouth against my ear and something I did not even know I possess is suddenly attentive and quite pleased with itself.  I obediently curl my fingers nails up in the cuffs behind me and I feel her straddle them with a moan and begin slowly rubbing herself back and forth on them.  She groans and leans into me and lays her forearms against the wall on either side of my head and with delirious wonder I know she is there behind me, eyes closed, fucking herself on my fingers, raking and bumping herself on my imprisoned hands.  I can feel her breasts pressed against my back and it is a revelation to me.  They feel amazing and my shocked brain flashes through a thousand images and sensations as I marvel and grin and stand with my legs spread and my hands cuffed and let Jinny Exstead fuck herself on them.  

 When she orgasms I cannot believe the internal reaction I have.  I am suddenly alert and awake and sober and amazingly pleased with myself.   I hear the tell tale deep stuttering whine and the sudden drop of her into my hand and when she pushes in close, panting and moaning I press upwards, conforming my hand to hold her there and she grinds into it, rocking and I have never felt so powerful, so sexually omnipotent.  I cup her, heavy and damp and shudder with pleasure when she sighs into the side of my neck and slides a hand around to do the same for me. 

 We stand for a moment just holding one another in that intimate embrace, breathing hard and then I feel her lift her head slightly and know she’s gazing at me, waiting for me to turn my face and look at her.

 “Are you all right?” she asks finally, her voice low and I nod, face still turned forward. 

 “Look at me,” she orders and obediently I turn and meet her eyes. 

 “Are you all right?” she asks again and I nod and am amazed I can actually look at her without flinching. 

 “Then say something,” she says and I blink and feel a corner of my mouth lift in a half-smile.

 “I think I have rug burns on my forehead.” 

 Her eyes go round and then she’s laughing, falling against me and when her arms go up around me I move into them and lay my head there on her shoulder.  She smells of sex and sweat and warm girl flesh and I breathe it in, deep. 

 “You’ve never done anything like this,” she says, making it a statement and not a question and I shake my head no and feel her sigh, holding me.  I close my eyes as she sways, rocking me and I am perilously close to tears for a moment because I have not felt this safe in so long and it is as terrifying as it is extraordinary and I am overwhelmed.

 I try to keep my face down but she insistently pushes me slightly away and lifts it, fingers under my chin and I’m helpless to hide the tears, can’t even brush them off or hide them with my hands which are still trapped behind me. 

 Green eyes search my face silently then dip half closed and when she leans towards me I shudder in anticipation.  I know I am about to be kissed and that somehow, in so many ways, it is going to be the first kiss of my life.  I feel the delicate slide of her tongue over my mouth and I gasp audibly and feel the hand tangle in my hair, gently, tilting my head and holding me steady at the same time as she bends and I feel the first warm thrust of her between my lips.  It’s a question I’m being asked, tentatively, tenderly and I answer the same, closing my eyes and opening myself to her willingly. 

 What’s it like to kiss a girl when all you have known is kissing men? 

 My head is spinning but even in the torrent of sensation I am awed at the softness of her, the amazing feel of lips soft as mine and a face as smooth as it moves against me.  No razor stubble, nothing burning or scraping, she is just soft heat and warmth and tongue that slides and thrusts and sucks with such astonishing passionate gentleness. 

 I come undone and melt against her, sighing and she takes the weight of me and I feel her hands slide around behind me, cupping my ass and pulling me close before she suddenly hesitates and lifts her mouth from mine, laughing.

 “You’re still cuffed, for fuck’s sake.”

 And then, with a rakish eyebrow tilt, “Want loose?”

 “Please,” I whisper and she turns me and clicks them open swiftly, then waits with them dangling from one hand until I turn and face her. 

 She’s not going to give it up now that I’m free.  I see and understand I am going to have to make some move on my own to show her this is what I want to happen.  She eyes me as I stand rubbing my wrists and her chin is ducked in that protective gesture I have come to recognize and the stare is flat and unyielding. 

 I take both sides of the leather jacket in my fingers and I tug her towards me in one swift movement so that in one step she has gone from almost a foot away to bumping me against the wall and then I look up the scant inches between us and wait. 

 Her head droops towards me and I can feel her body sagging into me with desire and the heat of it, the sheer heat flashing between us is blinding; it dances along my skin and my nerve endings like wild fire and makes me shiver.  I am so wet I can smell myself and I sigh and gently bump against her and her head droops lower as she silently offers me a thigh to wedge myself against.  I straddle it and rock myself there until she moans, a low noise that pulls and tugs at a side of me I never knew existed. 

 I reach for her left hand and lift it slowly to my mouth and grin wickedly at her when she gasps knowing what I am going to do and I take the forefinger between my lips, running my tongue along it’s length inside my mouth, then withdraw it before sucking it back in and gently scraping it with my teeth.  I hold that hand in both of mine and I guide that finger in and out fucking the warm wetness of my mouth and she leans against me, head drooping and eyes closed and grits out, “You bitch…” which makes me laugh and when she groans and pushes against me rhythmically with her hips I nudge her feet apart and brace myself against the wall and offer up my thigh to her.

 She sinks down the few inches and rocks herself against it, staring at me and I let her fuck my lips and mouth and tongue with her finger.  Her head falls into the wall behind me and she’s grunting as she rubs herself on my leg and I drop my hands to her waist, holding her there and when this orgasm takes her I push my thigh up into her and press into her and rock her against me.  I feel every short sharp sob of breath down my backbone and I push my face into her neck and taste her skin for the first time. 

 I hold her as she shudders and without volition my hand slides down to cup her there and she sighs and shoves herself into me.  I feel the heat and the wetness and it is suddenly inconceivable to me that I have witnessed and perpetrated two orgasms and my hands, my fingers have yet to be inside her. 

 I want to know that.  I want to know what it is like to be inside her when she comes.  I want to feel that tug and shudder around my fingers, I have to know that heat. 

 The next time she lifts her head from where it is buried into my neck I tell her.  And when she pulls back to stare at me with the question unasked but clearly spoken anyway, I nod and grin. 

 She seems on the verging of asking me something more and she stands there silent, searching my face intently and then she heaves a huge shaky breath and mutters something I don’t quite catch but which contains the words, “idiot” and “chickenshit”. 

 Not exactly the pick up lines I’m used to but I’ll give her points for originality.  And as long as she says it with her face flushed and swollen with passion.

 She takes my hand and I let her pull me along behind her, weaving our way in and out of the packed and now rather drunkenly rowdy crowd.  I’m relieved she isn’t dragging me to the back to tell the group she was with that we’re leaving together; I’m not ready for that and I’m not ready to deal with whatever that says about me either.  I’m just giddy with relief that she isn’t going to demand that from me.

 We’re less than twenty feet from the exit when I see her.  Her hair is down and curled into ringlets which must have taken hours and which dip in the back to the waist of her black leather pants, but the too-thick mascara is the same and the immense pile of 80’s style crunchy bangs.  I duck my face into Exstead’s shoulder as we swing past and we might have gotten by with me not recognized if only I was able to resist the temptation to look back. 

 But I can’t.  And when I do Officer Andrea Peyton is staring at me between deep lavender and indigo swoops of recently reapplied Cleopatra eye liner.

 Oh fuck.

END OF PART THIRTEEN

{~> Crossroads  Next Story, Please <~}

Author note:  You might be a cop if…  You use the words “perpetrated two orgasms” in a sex scene.