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From: gw@grimwilliams.co.uk (Grim Williams)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 28 Jun 2002 23:12:56 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} The Cop Tease (MF)
Date: Sat, 29 Jun 2002 07:10:03 -0400
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Standard disclaimer: Over 18s only



The Cop Tease
by Grim Williams (gw@grimwilliams.co.uk)
Based upon an unfinished story by Joanna
And an original idea by Tony



Copyright 2002 Grim Williams 
 




An occasional serial...


Part One


I pulled down my white sheer panties and tossed them into the laundry
basket, stepping thoughtfully across to the shower. "So let me get
this straight," I said, scratching my smiling butt, my finger finally
coming to rest on my tiny scar. "You think that if a woman teases a
man, then that must mean she's asking for sex and so deserves
everything she gets?"

Roger sighed. "That's not what I said, Charlie." 

He was standing in the corridor, just out of sight, but I could hear
his voice clearly. I'd left the bathroom door open and there he was,
just where I'd known he'd be. So close and yet so far: wanting, but
without the courage to act.

It's this that makes provoking him such fun. I know what hell he goes
through. Right now he's out there tormenting himself, imagining me
without my clothes, trying to picture my bare boobs and my trimmed
brown snatch. He knows I have them but he's never seen them himself.
He's staring at the open door, wondering, lusting, knowing that if he
steps forward all his dreams will be answered. It would be so easy for
him to steal a leer.

But he won't, I'm quite safe. He won't peep. He doesn't have the guts.

I turned on the shower. "So what are you saying, Roger? That a rape
isn't rape unless the woman screams blue murder and is somehow heard
by a chance passerby? Is that it?"

I waited for his reply, letting the water run hot and then turning it
upon myself, letting the droplets splash across my athletic breasts,
my flat tummy and my hot tingling pussy. I touched the latter with my
fingers. He wasn't the only one feeling a little frisky tonight.

Nothing turns me on more than a risk. When I was younger I loved to
play strip poker, especially with a group of strangers. Knowing that
on the turn of a card I might lose my brassiere, or my panties, or
have to agree to some dare, it was magic.

I still play sometimes, just for fun, but I've also discovered other
games, games of danger and risk played out in the shadows for
uncertain reward.

For instance: I'm a cop, a pretty good cop if I'm allowed to say that,
and Roger is my partner. By day I have to rely upon his presence and
ingenuity. When I work undercover, he's my backup; when trouble
beckons, he's my bodyguard. You'd think I'd be good to him, play fair,
and in a way I do: I toss him small rewards. It keeps him loyal. But
I'm also incredibly cruel. A long time ago I discovered his Achilles
heel, and since then I've been exploiting it mercilessly.

Some day he'll crack. He's a man, he has to: that's the gamble. 

This is the game, my favorite vice: I have to push him to the brink,
the very edge, and yet never push him over. It drives me wild to
torture Roger, to torment him, to make him hot and flustered, to have
such power over a man I both fear and respect. Of course, I know the
odds, just as every gambler knows. Some day I'll go too far, I have
to, it's inevitable. On that day, God, what an explosion there'll be.
I fantasize about what will happen and how things will turn out, with
a weird morbid anticipation. I both yearn and quake.

In the meantime I push and I push. How close to the edge can I get?
The more brazen and shameless I act, the hotter I become, and the more
addicted to the game. It's become an obsession, this game; continually
driving him to lust but denying him release.

Step forward, Roger. Why don't you? What is it that stops you? The
door is open. You would see me, naked, aroused, playing with myself.
There is nothing I could do to stop you, nothing at all, if you
decided to look.

God, my poor aching pussy! 

I fell back against the wall of the shower cubicle, pushing my finger
deep inside, stroking my clit gently with a second little digit.

"Lucy Bowman was not raped," he said, invisible, totally ignorant of
what I was thinking and doing. "She didn't struggle, didn't protest,
didn't say no. She lay there and enjoyed it, how can that be rape?"

My finger darted across my rough soapy lips. "So what makes you think
that she enjoyed it?" I grunted, feeling my legs weaken. "Just because
he made her come?"

I placed the showerhead between my thighs and aimed the full force of
the water into my hole. With my free hand I could now play with my
titties, mauling the flesh and squeezing the base of each one. God. He
still didn't realize what I was doing.

"Oh, come on," he exclaimed, pacing the floor outside. "For fuck's
sake, Charlie."

Shit! I sank down onto the squirting showerhead. The water slew across
my clit, across my pussy lips and into that sensitive area just
inside. Somewhere in the corridor, Roger was still talking. What was
he saying? It was so difficult to concentrate. God. If he looked now,
what would he think? What would he do? Would he be able to resist?
Would he do to me what Jack Lawrence had done to Lucy Bowman?

"Lucy admitted coming not just once, but three times. Three times,
Charlie!"

My finger and thumb bit into my nipple, pinched it. My knees gave way.
"And you don't believe that a man can force a woman to an orgasm?" I
whimpered. I was almost crouching, down on my haunches, supported by
the solid beige tiles that pressed forcefully against my shoulders. I
pushed harder, faster with my index finger, stroked up towards my
anus. "You don't think he can make her come against her will?"

He didn't answer. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about
whether he was being propositioned. He was trying to decide. He was
mulling over the countless other so-called propositions I had made him
and wondering whether at last this was his moment, whether finally
after five years working together I was going to offer him my oily
cunt.

But somewhere deep inside he knew the answer: no chance, Buster. If
you want, then you're going to have to take.

And he'd considered it. He'd considered doing that very thing many
times. How often he'd been to the edge and tested it. Even now, right
at this very moment, he was considering it. I could feel his pain and
frustration. I know him. He's my partner. He was contemplating
stepping through that open door and pulling me from the shower,
pinning me to the cold ceramic floor, and then setting about me
methodically as Jack Lawrence had set about Lucy Bowman.

Shit.

He's strong enough to do it and he has his gun, mine is in the living
room. I'm sure he would have done it long ago except that he's a cop,
and I'm a cop: partners. We play games, but whatever games we play at
night; it all becomes work tomorrow, and although the lines between
the two are blurry, we have a job to do as a team.

My climax hit me. It came suddenly, explosively and without warning.
It's like that at times like these, when I'm stressed and full of
adrenaline, when I'm taking a risk. It rocked my body, leaving me
heaving and gasping, filling and fulfilling me.

I pushed the end of the showerhead inside and felt it penetrate, like
a glorious dick pumping my hot pussy. It filled my insides with a
force greater than the most copious ejaculation: in, out; in, out. I
was savoring every moment, every magical sensation.

God.

That was unreal, it really was. It was done. I rested for some
seconds, lazily running the shower across my front, enjoying the after
swell of my quick fix.

All was quiet outside. What was Roger doing? "Are you still there?" I
called, standing and reaching for a towel. Had he guessed? Did he
know? Had he heard my racing heart or the gasp of my release above the
constant gush of rushing water? Did he suspect?

"Yeah," he replied tersely, dourly. "Still here."

I smiled. He didn't know. He was out there pining, moping. "You
couldn't get me some fresh panties, could you?" I asked, looking
across at the clean pair opposite. "Sorry, but I forgot."

"Fuck, Charlie," he protested.

My smile broadened into a wide lascivious grin. I stepped carefully
onto the bath mat, examining myself in the long bronzed mirror behind
the washbasin, twisting and turning to get a better look. "In the
bedroom dresser, second drawer," I directed, dabbing the towel over my
wet skin. "But you know that, I guess."

"This isn't fair," he accused. "You forgot them on purpose."

"But, of course," I teased, posing provocatively for the benefit of
the mirror, lifting and cupping my breasts. "What did you expect? I
know how much it turns you on to play with my underwear."

I imagined I was a stripper, on stage, picked out by harsh blinding
lights. Roger was in the audience, sat in the darkness of his table,
sweating upon my every move.

"Bitch," he cried from outside. "Get them yourself."

I parted my legs, gently swaying to imaginary music. I turned my back
to the mirror.

"And I was thinking you were a gentleman," I bantered, checking my
behind and pleased to see it was as taut as ever. I bent forward,
knowing that nothing was hidden from my fantasy watcher, not even my
special red mark. Again I swayed. If he wanted, Roger could have seen
everything, even my mark. He would have known who I was, who I truly
was. He had only to step through the open bathroom door. "Tell you
what, I'll trade you a fresh pair for the ones I've been wearing
today. How's that?"

He was tempted. I knew it, but he was determined to haggle. He spoke
coyly. "Will you sign them to say that they're yours?"

I concealed my surprise. I tossed back my hair. "If you want me to."

"And a little message perhaps, a sexy one."

Interesting. What was he thinking? "If that's what you'd like."

There was a pause as he considered whether he should push me any
further. In the end he decided against. "Okay," he said. "It's a
deal."

A deal. What kind of a game was I playing? Sometimes I wonder how I'll
cope with the forces that will be unleashed on my judgement day. But
I'm hooked, addicted. There's no way now that I can give up on my
games.

I heard him walk into my bedroom, imagined him opening my lingerie
drawer and holding each of the skimpy garments in his hands, going
through my most personal belongings. God, what was I going to write?
My mind was a blank. "Make sure you fetch me something sexy," I called
out, slowly caressing my breasts for the continued benefit of the
mirror. "Something saucy. I'm seeing David later."

David is my boyfriend. When I'm finished teasing Roger, I always
deserve a good fuck. Nothing else will do. Masturbation helps a
little, but there's nothing like the real thing.

I waited for Roger to return, becoming restless. Time ticked by:
seconds, then minutes. What was he doing? I could imagine him laying
each pair on the bed, trying to decide.

"You only have to choose them, not jerk onto them," I mocked.

"Very funny," he called back, but I'm sure my comment hastened his
return. What had he been doing? He came trotting back into the
corridor.

"Come on, give them me," I teased, sticking my bare arm round the
bathroom door, carefully concealing my nudity behind it.

He thrust the skimpy garment into my palm. He'd chosen a brief black
g-string, with a lace front covered in small polka dots. I should have
guessed. In return I handed him the plain white pair I'd extracted
from the laundry basket.

I shut my eyes, imagining him turning the fragile fabric in his hand,
studying the cotton gusset, smelling its fragrance. "You haven't
signed them," he complained.

I smiled. "Of course not. I haven't a pen." What did he expect? I was
in the bathroom, for fuck's sake.

But it wasn't a problem. Roger had one. Of course he did. He handed it
to me with my panties. "So what do you want me to write?" I sighed,
placing my warm cheeks on the edge of the cold bath and crossing my
long bare legs. I was in a quandary; I really had no idea.

"I don't know. You choose, Charlie. You're much better at words than
me."

I sighed. Thank you, Roger. Great. Pass the buck, why don't you. Okay,
here goes. I began to scrawl across the rear panel that so recently
had concealed my tight butt, my mark. "Five feet, four inches. Long
brown hair. Hazel Eyes. Shapely breasts. Creamy skin. Trimmed bush.
Naked. Ready for fucking."

That should do it. The blue ballpoint was clearly legible against the
white cotton. I signed my name down in the crotch, Charlie Phillips.

"Okay," I called; crudely rubbing them into my crotch just to make
sure the aroma was fresh. "I've done it. Do you want to take them?"

Did he, hell. His arm came snaking round the door and I placed both
panties and pen into his strong large hand. I didn't have to wait long
either for him to read my scrawled suggestive remarks.

"Fuck," he exclaimed. I could hear his deep breathing. "You're really
still naked? You wrote this in the nude?"

I pulled on the black g-string he had brought me, snapping the elastic
into place. "You bet."

"Fuck."

He was silent for a bit longer. "And this is true too? You've actually
trimmed your bush?"

"Would I lie to you? That's how Dave likes me." I ran the palm of my
hand across my mound.

"Fuck," he repeated.

I decided to complete the dirty picture he was holding in his mind,
just to wind him up a little further. I shut my eyes, thinking. "Dave
likes me to cut my pussy hair just short enough that you can see the
pink of my slit without me having to open my legs. He says it gives
him the best of both worlds: shaved and unshaved. What do you think?
Is that how you like your pussy, Roger?"

He groaned. "Cut it, Charlie," he said. "You're going to make me
explode. Are you trying to make me cream my trousers or something."

I reopened my eyes. He wasn't far off. "Now that would be
interesting," I joked, picking up a tight green gypsy top. I pulled it
over my head and tugged it down across my naked breasts. My nipples
made two solid indents in the material. The outline of my quivering
tits was obviously observable. I imagined his big thick cock exploding
into his pants, gallons of semen dripping down his thighs, seeping
into the fabric. "I'd like that. Can I watch?"

He mumbled something unintelligible. I could only assume it to be a
refusal, and I was rueful. I often fantasize about Roger playing with
himself after I've gone, jerking himself off in the privacy of his
room while he thinks about me. I even think about it when David's
screwing me in bed.

I know that he does it. I also know that when he's feeling extravagant
he'll buy himself a girl: like tonight. After our interview with Lucy
Bowman, he told me that it had made him horny, that he might pick up a
slapper after I'd gone. I think about that sometimes, too.

I don't mind. I don't get jealous. Because, whichever way he does it,
it's my image he holds in his mind, it's me he's screwing.

I help him whenever I can, at work I mean: I give him a feast of small
crumbs. Women relax in the presence of a female officer. They're more
trusting than they ever would be with two guys. Good cop, bad cop.
They never suspect they're being set up, never imagine that I'm luring
them to their fate, out of their clothes and into Roger's arms. They
never know, not until its too late, much too late.

I don't mind. I even watch sometimes. I don't get jealous. Whatever
Roger does, it's okay with me. Whoever it is, whoever he fucks, it's
me he's thinking about: it's me his screwing.

Me.

A phone rang. It was my mobile, beeping from somewhere in the living
room. I'd left it in my handbag. It was probably David, I thought,
calling to find out when I'd be home.

"No peeking," I ordered, sticking my head round the door. "I'm coming
out and I'm not entirely decent."

Of course, I could have let Roger answer it but I don't like him
talking to David, or vice versa. It gives them strange ideas.

Roger cocked his head to one side. He smiled. "Oh, in what way not
entirely decent?"

"Shut up and close your bleeding eyes."

Reluctantly he did so, and I stepped out into the corridor, watching
him like a hawk. "You keep them like that," I ordered, moving directly
in front of him, deliberately taunting him. "I'm wearing the g-string
you brought me and a thin gypsy top. Not much else." I hesitated,
enjoying his blind gaze upon my panties. I paused, motionless. "In
fact, nothing else. So no peeping."

He swallowed hard. I could feel his arousal. The phone had stopped
ringing. Several seconds later it began again. "Oh."

He was desperate to fuck me. I turned my back on him, imagining he was
looking at my behind, examining my mark. "So I don't want you sneaking
any peeks at my exposed butt. This thong is for David. It isn't for
your benefit, buster."

There was a tent protruding from the front of his trousers. I saw it
with pride. Yep, I was doing a grand job. I carefully moved passed
him, impudently dangling my towel around his neck and kissing his
cheek. Then, on impulse, I slapped his butt and darted quickly into
the living room before he had the chance to retaliate.

Not that he would.

I picked up the phone. "Charlie Phillips," I said, casting a final
quick glance to check that Roger was still being good. He was.

As I'd anticipated, it was Dave on the phone. "What the devil are you
doing?" he asked intolerantly. "Where were you? I was worried. Why
didn't you answer your phone? It was ringing for ages."

I apologized and told him how his timing had been a little
inconvenient to say the least. I was with Roger.

Dave didn't like that. "Why the fuck is he there?" he barked. "What is
it with you two? Doesn't the mother fucker have a home to go to? If
the neighbors see him... God... do you realize how it looks?"

"Who the fuck cares how it looks?" I countered, pacing the room and
gesticulating madly. I hate it when men try to tell me what to do.
"Shit, David. We're in the twenty first century, not the nineteenth.
What's this got to do with the neighbors?"

He only got more irate, of course. "I didn't mean the neighbors," he
fired back. I threw my hands into the air. God. Then why had he
mentioned them? "I meant how it looks to me: to me, Charlie. We're
supposed to be a thing, a couple, an item. But I never see you. You're
never here. You're always prancing about with that jerk, the
incredible hulk."

What? Was he talking about? Did he mean Roger? "Bloody hell, Dave.
Grow up. There's no fucking need for insults. Roger is my partner. We
spend time together. That's life. That's how it works."

He misheard me, or else he hadn't been listening. I'm not sure which.
"Work? Work? So what are you doing? Arresting the cat? Are the roaches
about to riot? Tell me, Charlie. I'd love to know. What is it you guys
find to do of a night? That apartment of yours must be a real high
crime area."

"Very droll," I commented, prancing about. "Get serious, Dave. I'm a
cop. It's dirty work. I like to shower. What's wrong with that?"

He was as annoyed as I was. We were fuel for each other. "A shower?
Are you there now? Is that creep with you? The mother fucker! Is that
what's going on? Shit! Is he watching?"

I was fast blowing my fuse! "No, Dave, he fucking well isn't with me
now, though it would be none of your business if he were. I'm in the
living room and Roger is outside." Why was I explaining? Was I to be
interrogated like some delinquent teenager? Like one of my own bloody
whores? Christ, Dave was just a pleasant grapple: a diversion. He
didn't own me. I spat my oily venom at the handset. "Fuck you, Dave.
Go screw yourself! I've had enough. I don't need this."

I hung up, well, I think I did. I slammed the phone down into my bag.
Fuck!

Why are men so possessive? Fuck you, David. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It
always happens. Jealous domineering lovers! Thank God I'd decided not
to throw the apartment. I'd anticipated trouble before I'd even moved
in with the bastard. Shit. Thank God for independence.

Roger was still floating about outside. Christ. I'd better get
dressed. He would be getting fidgety, bless him. I grabbed a pair of
jeans from the bedroom and hastily pulled them on, almost falling
over, slamming the door on my way out.

"You can open your eyes," I snapped, racing along the corridor,
pushing past him into the bathroom. "Fuck you, David Carter!"

Roger peered round the doorframe. He seemed amused. "I take it that
that didn't go well?" he inquired sardonically, stepping into the
bathroom. He lowered the lid of the toilet and sat down, casually
watching while I tidied my things.

"Do you fancy a drink?" he suggested after a few moments. "A brandy?
Calm you down?"

"No," I snarled, slamming the talc back onto its shelf. "I want...
well, never mind what I want."

I knew exactly what I wanted. 

Shit.

I wanted a fuck.

He still had my towel draped over his shoulders. I snatched it from
him and threw it untidily over the towel rail.

Roger remained patiently implacable. He got up. "Give the guy a break,
Charlie," he sighed, straightening the towel. "You'd be just as upset
if he wasn't jealous, probably more because then you'd say he was
indifferent."

"Don't," I warned, swinging round and holding up the flat of my hand,
very conscious of how close Roger was to me. I don't want to hear it:
not now. "It's finished: finito, done with. You hear that? He's
history."

There was still a bulge in the front of Roger's trousers. It had
deflated a little, but was still very obvious. Despite my rage,
perhaps because of it, it made me think. David had described Roger as
the incredible hulk. It was a good simile, better than Dave could have
guessed. Then too, in addition, Roger is broad and muscular and
incredibly strong.

"So are you still thinking of buying a girl?" I asked tetchily. I
didn't fancy spending the night alone, not tonight.

He cocked his head to one side. "Maybe. Why?"

I looked again at the distinct bulge and pointed it out, smiling
plaintively. "That must be uncomfortable."

He looked down. He was a little embarrassed but he didn't try to cover
it. "A little," he said. "Why? Stop changing the subject, Charlie."

I stared at him wistfully. It would be a shame to let it waste. I
wanted to touch it, to hold it, to make him come. "I feel rather
responsible," I said, reaching out. "I guess all that talk with Lucy
Bowman must have worked you up, eh?"

I moved forward, even closer, dangling my fingers in front of him,
just inches from his aching dick. His face flushed and his breathing
quickened. "Charlie, it's not Lucy Bowman I have the hots for. You
know that."

The tips of my fingernails brushed the ridge of his trousers. "Maybe I
can help." I cooed, thinking fast, moving even closer. "Would you like
that?"

He swallowed hard. "You'll regret this, Charlie. In the morning..."

I allowed my fingers to wander a little, to the left and then to the
right. I could sense his dick growing and knew the proximity of my
hand was the cause. "Oh, I don't think so," I murmured, pinching him
softly. I wouldn't regret it at all. "We're adults, Roger, you and I.
We both know what we want. We've always known. And I'd love to teach
Dave a lesson."

Roger's lips were dry, his mouth slightly open. "I don't know Charlie.
Are you sure?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure. But what about you? Are you game?"

He nodded nervously, immediately beginning to unfasten the belt of his
trousers. As he did so, I turned my back, petulantly flicked my long
brown hair from off my face, and walked out of the room.

"Then that's settled," I said, twisting around when I got to the door
and tossing him a long sultry grin. "Consider it done, Roger. No
problem. I'll do it now. I'll buy you the girl."


End of Part One


More is written. Maybe someday I'll post it...

The Cop Tease
Grim Williams (gw@grimwilliams.co.uk)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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