Fast Car

Oya Calor
9 mins read
Published about 3 years ago

slam his door as I leave, and turn the key in the ignition before I even close the car door or fasten my seatbelt. I know it’s over this time. For good. Gary is a fucking asshole, and I’m pretty sure that’s why his mother named him Garrett in the first place. An idiotic name for an idiotic man. Boy, I mean. Definitely boy, not man. 

Yup, it was pretty much like the cliché movie scene where the woman walks into her boyfriend’s apartment, suspicious, but still careful. She’s not sure yet if she’s batshit crazy or if she’s fully in-tune. She turns her copy of his key in the lock, she calls 'hello,' and slowly creeps up to his bedroom and swings the door open. And then of course, there he is, balls deep in a little nymph—blonde, younger than you wanna hear about, and without a trace of body hair or imperfection anywhere. The kind you watch on “tiny teen” porn sites when you’re seeing your own sexuality from a particularly skewed vantage point. 

I take off fast down the highway, into the July afternoon heat. Arizona is intense this time of year. It must be close to 100 degrees out. My red crotch-short cut-off jean shorts riding high as I drive. Thighs spilling out. I’m not sure where I’m going anymore because I just got evicted from my own place for having that pot plant, and was supposed to be moving in with Mr. Loverman. Yup, that was the plan. I mean, I had boxes packed in my car and everything. Ready to go. My bigger stuff’s in storage, so no worries there. 

With a car full of boxes and a heart full of rage, I speed down the highway, looking for something other than answers. Because I know that I knew all along and I let myself get into this bullshit, and maybe, just maybe, I don’t love myself like I should. I am nauseated. I have the next week off from my shitty office job for the move, so I am truly feeling like a free-floating agent. My foot is heavy on the pedal.

I should know better than to speed down the highway at 115 miles an hour. I should, shouldn’t I? I’m 30 years old, for goddess’ sake. The police officer who chases me down, lights and sounds a-whirlin’ looks like he eats brown girls like me for breakfast. My head falls onto the steering wheel as he approaches the car. I can’t afford this right now. I pull my tight white tank top down a little lower on my chest. Not that I’m big enough to have cleavage or anything, but skin is skin, right? And my shorts are doing the trick all on their own. I roll down my window. 

“How fast was I going officer?” I peer up at him sheepishly.
“License and registration, please, ma’am.” I hand ‘em over. “Ma’am, are you aware you were driving 40 miles over the speed limit?” 
“Was I really?” I do my best to sound appalled. I’m actually a pretty great actress. “I’m so sorry, sir. I realize that is unacceptable. It’s just—” 

For a split second I think over what kind of lie would best suit the occasion. What would most effectively get this tall, white, blonde, green-eyed police officer to empathize with me? I quickly scan the man: he is well built. Good-looking for a cop. Damn. No wedding ring. He does the goatee thing well. Buzz cut, side burns. Over 6 feet, which always makes me feel like a child at 5 foot 6. He’s probably 38, 39. His badge says Donovan. The truth. The truth is all it’ll take here. 

“Officer Donovan, as you can see, I have a car full of boxes here.”

Calling him by name snaps him out of his writing my ticket for all of 3 seconds. He looks down at me, a subtle smirk on his tanned face. 

I continue. “I was on my way over to my boyfriend’s place. I was about to move in with him. We were gonna get married and everything,” I lie. “And I walked in to find him sleeping with another woman.” In spite of himself, he looks me over in more detail now. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I will myself to cry. I’m one of those people that can cry on command. A bit scary, I know. “So officer, I know it’s no excuse, but I was just so upset, and I didn’t know where to go, and I—” My fake tears have turned to real ones now, as I realize that Gary carved a hole in my heart and fucked it. He did. 

“If you could just please, sir. Please don’t fine me the full amount. I really can’t afford it right now, and this is my first-ever speeding ticket. I promise it won’t happen again.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands and look up at him for the first time since the tears began. He has stopped writing, and is staring at me, very intently. He slowly pulls a packet of Kleenex out of his pocket and hands it to me. 

“Ma’am,” he says softly. “I’m very sorry to hear all that. I truly am. I went through something similar myself once, so I can sympathize.”

He stands there, hesitating. The sun is beating down. Not another soul in site on this desert highway. 

“Ok, look, I’ve never done this before, because I don’t believe in exceptions. But I can see you’re hurting, and contrary to popular belief, some of us do have hearts.” He smiles. Damn, he really is sexy. I suddenly find myself wanting to get back at Gary. Wanting much more than a reduced fine.

“So, look, consider this day just a little bit luckier than it was before, alright? I’m going to waive the ticket this time around, ok, darlin’? But don’t you ever let me catch you speeding down these roads again, or there’ll be hell to pay, y’got it?” The corners of his mouth are resisting a real smile, but I can see it.

I am shocked, in spite of my confident acting skills. “Oh my god! Really? Thank you so, so much, officer. I cannot thank you enough. I truly cannot.” I sigh real relief, and dab at the remainder of my real tears with his Kleenex, handing him back the packet.

“You’re welcome.” He takes the Kleenex, shoves it back in his pants pocket, and looks at me: my messed up hair: shoulder-length, straight, black, tucked behind my ears. My white top, low enough to expose the top of my small tits. I don’t wear a bra. I’m small enough to get away with it. I can feel his eyes resting there. And then down to my shorts, which, I’ll admit, are more like underwear, and no wonder. I bought them for Carnival last year. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. 
“Um, uh, Georgia,” I stammer, taken aback. It was true, my West Indian parents had named me Georgia, after the Willie Nelson song. Weirder things have happened in this world.
“Georgia, right. I guess I have that information right here on your license,” he chuckles, handing it back to me. “Beautiful name.”
“Thank you, sir.” I am sweating. So is he. A bird overhead makes some sort of magical cawing sound.
“Georgia, I realize this is sort of unheard of, unprofessional even, but, uh, can I take you to dinner sometime?”


Later that night, after drowning some of my sorrows in a bottle of rum, and then sobering up, I find myself on officer Shane Donovan’s doorstep. I managed to shower at my friend Erika’s house, and am wearing a flattering little floral dress that buttons all the way up the front—tight on top, loose around the bottom area, and short, like mid-thigh—which happened to be among my most accessible items in the top layer of boxes. He is cooking me dinner, and I find myself quite amused by the whole turn of events. 

As I sit there watching him put the finishing touches on two mouth-watering steaks and a gorgeous Greek salad, we make small talk. Nothing soul-expanding. His wife left him for another man two years earlier. His twelve-year old daughter lived with the mother full-time. But what was soul-expanding was his ass in those perfect khakis. My god, I watched that thing move back and forth around the kitchen like there was nothing else going on in the world. Never saw myself as an ass-gal before, but one has to be open to change. How else do we grow? 

I find myself creeping up behind him, and sort of hugging him around his ass. Call me possessed. He drops his knife and takes a deep breath, taking in the moment, throwing his head back. Good reaction.

“How about… an appetizer? Before we eat?” I say naughtily. 
“Mmm. Yeah… I think that—that’s a fine idea,” he says. 

He turns around and scoops me up like nothing, so my legs are wrapped around his waist. Surprising and delightful, really. My flip-flops fall from my feet. Holding me up with both hands cupping my ass, he leans in, and we’re kissing. The man is an incredible kisser. Funny, I always thought that one of the prerequisites for being a policeman was being a bad kisser. Not so. So sue me, I’m not exactly a fan of cops, as a rule. I stick up for my own kind; I stick up for black people. I don’t know how to handle myself when I hear of another unarmed teenager getting shot down in cold blood without consequences. Yet I find myself thinking “he seems like a good cop.” Slightly disgusted with this thought, I tell myself that I’m simply taking the power back. And then, suddenly, there is some truth to it. 

We kiss. We kiss more. He bites my lower lip in a way that sends shivers down my spine and into my pussy. He walks into the bedroom and drops me onto the bed. He’s panting. He leaves the room and comes back with handcuffs. My heart leaps. 

“Is this ok?” he asks with a smirk. “I mean, I did kinda let you get away with speeding like a demon down that road. It would make me feel better about the whole thing if I could punish you in a different way.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes.” I’ve never admitted it to my friends, but it’s always been a fantasy of mine to be fucked by a cop. 

“Good girl,” he grumbles softly, half lying on top of me to cuff my wrists to his bedposts. The metal is cold against my burning skin. Then, to my surprise, kneeling over me, he takes hold of my dress from the top and tears it fucking open. Not kidding, buttons flying everywhere. Our eyes lock. Heat.

He stands up and takes off his own clothes. All of them. Six feet of alpha male stand before me, hairy and unexpected. And I’ll be damned if his cock is not very, very large. And hard. And ready. I lay there, wrists fastened, and dress torn open to reveal my tiny naked tits and simply white cotton underwear. The underwear seem to drive him particularly nuts. He inhales sharply as he pulls them off and tosses them aside. He pulls out two hidden restraints from under the mattress to hold my ankles in place: legs open wide. Now I am fully at his mercy, and loving every moment of it. The steak smells great from the other room, but my mouth is watering for something else. 

He leaves the room again and this time comes back with his baton: black, hard, and I’d never fully noticed before, but deeply phallic. 

He runs it gently over my mouth, my lips, until I open up and start to suck it. Softly at first and then harder, as he slowly pushes the baton deeper into my mouth until I am deepthroating the thing. Who ever knew that sucking an inanimate object could feel so right? Who ever imagined that Shane Donovan, the naked cop, could bring me so close to climax simply by tying me down and forcing me to suck his baton? I am wetter than wet can be.

“You like that, Georgia?” he asks, taking it out of my mouth.
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Good.”

And then, he slides the baton down the centre of my chest, stops to tap first one and then my other tit, rotating the end of the thing into each of my nipples to cause a faint burning sensation.

“Ohhh…You know how to use that thing, don’t you?”

He smiles, and holds his fingers up to his lips. “Shhh.” He continues to run the baton down my writhing, restrained body, circling around my navel lightly, and then finally coming to rest on my pussy. He massages the outside of my wet pussy with his baton for several minutes, just works it all around, parting my lips slightly with it only to pull out again and work it to make me swell up. Wanting.

And then, he slowly he inserts his baton, with its now-glistening tip, inside of me. Just a couple of inches, but still. Oh my god. It is so hard that I am forced to relax all my muscles and not resist it at all. He pulls it out, pushes it in, and massages ever so slightly upward to hit my point. My back arches of its own volition. I have never been so aroused in all my life. He keeps it going, grunting as though it was his own lovely cock fucking me right, and before I know what’s happening, my hips shoot upward, my head burying itself in the pillows, and I explode all over that baton, screaming out loud. He pulls it out and softly strokes and kisses my pussy. 

“Mmmm. That was a delicious appetizer. Ready for some steak?” he asks, laughing, cock still hard and pointing straight out in front of him.
“Why don’t you come over here first?” I say, catching my breath, and laughing too. 
“Let’s save that for dessert,” he says. “This meal has many courses.”
“Ok then,” I say. 

Maybe my luck is changing, along with my stupid taste in men. 

At the very least, I think I’m ready to tell my friends about my cop fantasy now.