0 comments/ 24167 views/ 2 favorites The Law is a Mistress By: Falcinator Author's note: The inspiration for this should be fairly obvious. I wanted to play with that idea, and see where it lead if we assume the exception-al (an interesting word, that, if you consider the root word) to be everyday. And I also wanted to say that no matter what your perversion, fetishists are people too. ############ The policewoman's stare bored into him. He felt his initial cockiness whither and dropped his gaze. "No, miss," he mumbled at his feet. "I can't hear you," she said acidly. "No, I don't think I deserve special rules, miss," he said even more miserably, in the face of her violet-wand glare. "I'm glad to hear it," she snapped. "You've been selfish, little boy. Spread your legs and bend over." By now quite a crowd had gathered, and he felt his cheeks burning with shame as he unbuckled his belt, pushed his pants and his shorts down his legs and bent forwards, grabbing his ankles. He did his best to shut out the ribald comments from the crowd as the policewoman, her underbust corset creaking, moved around to his side. He saw her black, stiletto-heel thigh boots come into his vision and settle into a stable position. He squeezed his eyes shut. *THWACK* She had a strong arm, and the first blow of the truncheon made him jump, but he managed to bite his lip to avoid crying out. *THWACK* *THWACK* Ten strikes landed on his buttocks before she stopped, reached between his legs and seized his hard cock and his balls, her leather gloves cool against him. "That was a warning," she hissed. "Don't let me catch you again." Then she jerked and he came, splashing onto his upside-down face. She stalked away, boots clicking on the pavement, to where her catcher squatted obediently with his leash between his teeth. She took the leash and zipped up his mouth and stalked off down the street, her catcher padding after her in his running shoes, cycling shorts, chest harness and gimp mask. Robert slumped to the side of the pavement dejectedly, his now shrivelled cock limp between his legs, as the crowd dissipated. Suddenly a hand grabbed his chin. He got a glimpse of predatory dark eyes rimmed with black, nose and lip piercings and spiky hair before she licked his cum off his face, slowly and possessively. Then she stood up, showing him a net body stocking, no bra over small and pert breasts, a leather g-string and even taller boots than the policewoman had worn. "You're cumming home with me," she said, looking down at him. "Pull your pants up." # Officer Chris was tired and grumpy when she had finished the last of her paperwork and headed into the locker room at the end of her shift. That little toe-rag of a jaywalker had been typical of her day, and the day had been typical of her week. She took her belt off and hung it inside her locker, then her catcher loosened her corset before stripping off his own uniform to change into his almost identical street clothes. Her torso ached with the corset off, which just meant she needed a good long soak in a hot bath. Or a good long something. Her kid-leather catsuit zipped up the back, but she could get that herself. She had peeled off her uniform bra (antibacterial and moisture-wicking) and was unscrewing the studs in her nipples when her boss entered and leaned against the lockers with his arms crossed. She pulled out the first stud, began on the second, and just waited. "Talk to me," he said. "Grumpy, frustrated and tired," she said shortly. "Need a holiday?" "Need a case." She fished her normal piercings out of her jewelry box, pulled out her left nipple and carefully pushed it through. Captain Collerton nodded. He hadn't forgotten the tedium of the beat. "I think you deserve it," he said. "I'll bear you in mind. Go home, have a drink." "Intend to, sir." She clipped up her second piercing and bent down to peel off her uniform panties. She straightened up to give the captain a kiss, leaning her naked body into him, before he went back to his office. Then she bent to replace the uniform stud in her clitoris. "Afternoon, Chris." She glanced up at the new arrival, who was peeling his latex shirt over his head. "Afternoon, Michael." "Anything been happening?" "Sweet fuck bugger all," she said as she pulled her leather panties out of her locker. "I hear you," he said, stripping off his microshorts. "Hey, look what Richard got me!" She looked up at the sudden enthusiasm in his voice. His prince Albert piercing had been replaced by a gleaming silver shaft with a ruby in the end. "That's lovely!" she exclaimed, genuinely. "He hasn't..." "Yes!" Michael almost squealed. "We're getting married!" "Oh Michael, that's fabulous news, congratulations!" she embraced him tightly, then kissed him briefly but hard. "I'm so happy for you!" Michael looked as though he wouldn't stop grinning for a week as he continued dressing for his shift. # In the absence of legal personal transport within the city, the police managed to bend the rules by running strictly informal shuttle runs with vehicles on the way to new beats or posts, so Chris and her catcher could get a lift almost all the way home and didn't have to put up with the public they had just been policing. She felt bone-weary as she walked through her door, and began peeling her latex dress off as she walked straight to the bathroom. "Undress," she said without turning around. "I need a wash." Without his gimp mask, Chris' catcher had a strong and handsome face that matched his lean sprinter's body. He also had a worshipful look in his eyes as he followed the now naked Chris towards the shower. She viciously yanked the shower's single handle on, twisting it towards hot. It didn't need time to heat up and she stepped straight in, tugging off her hair band as she stood under the punishing spray, tossing it carelessly out onto the floor. She stood facing into the corner of the shower recess, leaning in with her hands high on the wall and her feet spread wide. Standing behind her, his cock helplessly erect, her catcher poured body wash onto a synthetic loofah and began vigorously rubbing her back. It had taken her some time to bend her catcher's conditioning enough to get him to be properly vigorous, but it had been worth it. He didn't stop until her skin was pink from more than just the heat of the shower. After her back he worked his way up and down her arms, then her legs, then stepped forwards until his cock was resting between her arse cheeks and, reaching around her, did first her belly then each breast, before moving down to her groin. As he went on her arousal grew, and when he left her breasts her hands were curling into claws against the wall. It only took a few passes before she came with a deep, long, shuddering groan in her throat. When he stepped back and she turned the water off, his cock almost glowed red. "Wall," she ordered. Eagerly, he adopted the position she had been in while she quickly and efficiently strapped a dildo on, the water pooling about her feet. She fucked him brutally, her fingers clawing into the skin of his hips, and it took less than a minute for him to violently spend himself on the tiled wall. She left him to clean up with his tongue while she took off the dildo, tossed it into the clothes hamper, grabbed a bathrobe and headed out, letting warmth and the robe dry her off. She went straight to the kitchen, a vague thought of a tajine growing in her head. She unwrapped her precious knives, paying little attention as he came out of the bathroom and pulled the treadmill out of its niche in the wall. The rhythmic thumping, whirring and breathing sounds of his exercise soon formed a comforting background to the flashing of her knives as she glided around her kitchen building what turned out, after she made it, to be a mango chicken tajine with saffron rice. When it was on the stove she went and sat on the couch and watched the workout, sipping a glass of verdelho as she watched the sweat glisten on his lean body, the bouncing of his naked cock and the hypnotic rhythm of his apparently tireless legs. She had set a timer - she knew what watching him did to her - and was off the couch before her brain had properly registered it going off. She stirred the tajine, adjusted the heat minutely, and drifted back out of the kitchen, the tension and sore of the day relaxing to a warm buzz that made movement pleasurable again. She glided over in front of her catcher on his treadmill, his unfocused gaze not missing her but not distracted by her either. She rolled her head, working tension out of her shoulders, and raised her hands to the collar of her bathrobe, letting the movement of her neck travel down her torso and settle in her hips, turning into a swaying, figure 8 motion as her fingers slid down the hem of the robe, pulling it slowly apart, gradually revealing more cleavage until the two sides hung off her nipples, showing the inner halves of both firm breasts. As her catcher ran seemingly impassive and oblivious on his treadmill, his cock slowly swelled, thickened, lengthened and grew. Chris' hands kept on going down until they reached the belt, and as she began untying it she began slowly turning, shifting each foot a little as the sway of her hips flicked it off the ground. She was side-on as the belt parted, and she let a flash of nipple cross his gaze as she pulled the robe apart, slipping it off her shoulders as she turned her back to him, dropping it entirely as she started turning back, giving him a full view of the dragonfly tattoo that spread across her back and down onto one cheek. She brought her arms up in front of her, sliding them between her breasts and above her head, giving him a full profile view of lifted, hard-pointed globes before she swivelled back to face him with arms entwining above her head, hips still swinging. For the first time she looked directly at him, at his groin, seeing his engorged and rigid cock, tip glistening slightly, bouncing with the motion of his running. She flashed a predatory grin, transforming in an instant from the innocent coquette to the predator, and parted her knees, bending them, exposing herself as she lowered towards the floor sliding her arms down and over her breasts, onto the carpet and forwards, lowering her entire torso with arse thrust upwards, then sliding her nipples along the carpet until her pussy was pressed firmly against it and her torso was bowed upwards, presenting her breasts. She crawled forwards until she was nearly at him then seamlessly twisted onto her back, grasping the bar over the front of the treadmill and effortlessly pulling herself upwards, head darting towards his groin and capturing his cock between her lips. She pulled herself towards him, adjusting the angle until he was buried deep in her throat, his sweat dripping on her face, his tight balls hard against her nose and only the motion of his running fucking her throat on a very short stroke. She stayed there, arms not even feeling the strain, as he neared orgasm with agonising slowness and finally, with a strangled grunt, came down her throat. She didn't move, swallowing it all, until he had finished spurting. His legs didn't even falter. The tajine was perfectly cooked. She ate lounging naked on the couch, watching him run. By the time she had finished and put her plate in the sink he had finished his session and was stretching. She leaned against the kitchen doorway and watched him, idly masturbating, until he had finished and walked into the bathroom. For his shower his hands were shackled to the ceiling as she washed him very, very thoroughly, not missing a square inch of skin, tenderly scrubbing him, lingering around his pierced nipples and straying a long time on his groin until he was throbbingly hard again. She continued on down his legs and finished with his feet, but he did not lose any hardness. She turned around and lifted herself onto the balls of her feet, spreading her arse with her hands and slowly working herself down onto him until she had taken him all. Then she began to ride him, furiously masturbating with one hand, the other grabbing at the rings in her nipples, pulling each one in turn to stretch her nipples and distend her breasts until she came explosively, screaming, the sound echoing around the tiled bathroom. # The next day when she woke up, she felt better about the world. That even lasted past the morning's briefings, when she drew what was derisively known as "cluster crawling". Police computers had identified a statistically relevant cluster of reports, complaints and reported behaviour in a small warehouse district, and so an officer was detailed to do a sweep with their eyes open. It wasn't always unproductive and it had borne fruit often enough to still be procedure, but it was generally regarded as being about as exciting as flannel. The district was a muddle of residences, factory outlet shops and repair centres jostling together in an organically unplanned mess. She stalked along the streets with every sense alert, her catcher padding along beside her with the alert and charged energy of a disciplined hunting dog, trying to sense anything unusual in the air. Mid-morning in this neighbourhood there were only the people there on business and those working indoors. Where, exactly, did the reports come from? She turned a corner and saw a block of four shops, all unoccupied. Well, that was unusual. Empty buildings and unused resources were as rare as Christians. Chris wondered briefly if the mere presence was spooking people. She strolled along the front, looking for things out of place, and saw enough signs to suggest that decent-sized renovations were required on the entire building. Fair enough, but why hadn't they happened? It looked unoccupied for at least six months, maybe more. She reached the end, and turned up the alleyway between building and fence. Halfway along, a furtive movement caught her eye, a face appearing briefly around the corner, retreating with a startled expression. Ah. Right, then. She almost slipped her catcher off, but she didn't know enough yet. She strode towards the corner, slipping her thumb over the release button on the handle of her catcher's leash and drawing her truncheon. Raising it to block a blow from above, she looked cautiously around the corner. Halfway along, a door stood ajar. For a few seconds, she hesitated. This could easily be a group of homeless, mentally ill or criminals, all of whom needed attention from the police, followed by any of several other departments, and all of whom posed different levels of threat to an officer without backup. On the other hand, she could hear nothing and the face had seemed young and startled, not threatened. She approached the door cautiously, raised her truncheon as if to shield her eyes from the sun, and peered through the crack. Inside was dark - the only light was what was coming through the door. She holstered her truncheon and replaced it with her torch, flipped it up to her shoulder pointing inside, clicked it on and called out "Hello, police!" There was no answer. Frowning, she pushed the door further open. "This is the police!" Still no answer. Gesturing to her catcher in the quick police finger language, she unclipped his leash and stowed it, then slipped her truncheon into her dominant hand and slid carefully and very nearly noiselessly inside. Her catcher slid at her back, covering her, as she swung inside and swept it with her torch. She immediately registered that the space was a lot wider than it should have been, and automatically tapped the call button on her earpiece. There was no answer, not even the click of a connection. That shouldn't be possible. All buildings were required by law to be transparent to emergency frequencies. Chris was already moving for the door when it slammed shut, lights burst on and her catcher's head exploded in a gout of blood, bone and ripped leather and a sound so loud in the confined space Chris was nearly stunned by the shockwave. # There were four of them. The extremely illegal gun was carried by a man with an ugly face and an ugly personality who looked like a dishonourably discharged soldier turned enforcer, the ear protectors all three had been wearing still nestled on his head. A second man dressed in workmanlike black and with the bearing of a man big by muscle not frame was watching her closely and with more intelligence. But they were all clearly subservient to the figure Chris had followed, a short, slender and girlish woman with predatory, black-rimmed eyes, nose and lip piercings, spiky hair and a black mesh body stocking worn over a leather g-string and no bra. "Fuck yeah!" the woman said delightedly. "A policewoman!" Chris didn't bother saying anything. It was well past time for anything she said to make a difference. Instead she stood very still and swivelled her eyes around what she could see. It was clearly a film studio, equipped with the sort of standard bondage gear that could be purchased flat packed at any hardware store. Very little was illegal. All that was left was children, animals, rape and snuff. She couldn't hear or smell anything except stale sex. The woman was grinning at her. "Come on," she said, "tell us what you think." "You're making rape films," Chris said evenly. "Among other things," the woman said with a smirk, uncrossing legs covered almost to her crotch by leather boots and hopping off the wooden horse she was sitting on. "Drop the torch and the stick, officer." Chris' brain was struggling with the trauma of her catcher's death, but training and the temperament that had suited her to a career in the police were ruthlessly squashing it down, suppressing her shock and her grief under layers of discipline and logic. She knew the rules, and she knew the chances of expecting any mercy from the man holding the gun. She could also see that one of the cameras was pointing at her, and had a small red light steadily blinking on it, and knew exactly what it meant. She would stay alive as long as she was useful to them, and that meant doing what they said, whatever they said, and hope someone had spotted her dropping off the grid. She held her hands out to her sides and opened them, letting the items fall, the torch still shining brightly as it bounced. "Now the belt." Slowly, she unbuckled the belt holding almost all her tools and let it drop with a clunk at her feet. "And the earwig." While it wasn't working in this building, it wasn't a great loss or asset, but it may yet play its part and so as Chris slowly pulled it out of her ear the seemingly natural movements of her fingers pressed the button combination which locked it into emergency mode, broadcasting a sporadic emergency pulse until the battery died in a week's time, even when apparently turned off. She dropped the small unit on the ground with the rest of her equipment. It could take much worse punishment than that. "Now move sideways, away from them." She did so, placing each foot carefully. The woman, meanwhile, was unzipping and pulling off her boots, wriggling out of her mesh and then pulling her boots back on, followed by a mask which left her mouth free. Small and firm tits barely bouncing, she strode briskly over to the dropped gear, collected it into two hands and flung it towards the man in black, who, out of camera shot, collected it and dumped it together in a box. Neither of them seemed to pay her earwig any attention at all. The woman, hands on hips, faced her in a pose obviously calculated for the camera. The Law is a Mistress "Corset," she ordered. Chris normally needed a hand undoing her uniform issue corset, but she was not willing to say that and put her captors to any inconvenience that may annoy them. She pulled the emergency tabs on the sides to loosen it off enough to unclip in the front. It would need resewing later, if she survived this. "Boots." Making each movement slow and deliberate, she knelt, unzipped and then removed each one. The woman waited for her to stand up before saying "Catsuit." When she had stripped it off, the woman shook her head, disappointed. "You wear underwear under that? Shame. Get it off." Chris peeled her sports bra over her head. "All of it," the woman said, slightly chiding. Woodenly, Chris pushed her panties down her legs and straightened up, standing expressionlessly at attention. "Now look here!" the woman began, speaking for the camera. "This is what a policewoman looks like out of uniform! Great body, lovely tits and oh, look! Piercings! Fantastic!" The woman turned back towards her accomplices and the man in black threw her a bundle which she caught deftly, unrolling it to reveal a leash, collar and chunky handle that looked a little like a police issue set. But the handle clearly didn't control just a release mechanism. When the woman, still standing just out of hand or foot reach, tossed her the collar and told her to put it on, Chris could see electrodes around the inside, and willed herself into a submissive mindset that could absorb pain. When she closed it around her neck, it closed with an easy but irrevocable click and the handle beeped softly. "I imagine a highly trained observer like you has worked out what this little collar does, but let's show the viewers shall we?" The shock was easily as great as any police last-chance riot weapon and Chris screamed with the pain, her whole body contorting before she dropped to the ground, landing awkwardly on one knee. It took her a few seconds to recover, but the woman didn't give her the opportunity, tugging on the leash and saying "Get moving unless you want another dose, puppy." Desperately holding onto a submissive mind for her own protection, Chris stumbled after her on hands and knees. The woman walked off to the side, holding the leash out with one arm level, giving both the camera and the shooter a clear shot. Even naked, Chris would have been able to handle the woman with no problems, and would have been prepared to take an even bet against either man, but they were taking no chances. As she scurried forwards on all fours, breasts swinging, the camera tracked her. Probably a transmitter in the collar, she thought muzzily. The man in black put a gimp mask on, the other man kept hold of the gun. There were two pieces of bondage equipment in the room. She was lead towards a box frame with a padded rest on a scissor jack sitting on the floor at its centre. Without warning, the collar delivered another shock, making her scream and jerk violently. Before the tremors had subsided, the man in black picked her up and threw her into the frame like a rag doll. Her hands were shackled before her head had stopped spinning. Her feet were pulled wide apart and shackled down to the bottom corners almost as fast. In less than a minute she was restrained, helpless and exposed. Then a cane slashed against the sole of one foot, sending searing pain right through her. She screamed again, but did not have chance to draw breath before a strike landed on her other foot. As the pain cleared, she heard the woman giggle. She was standing at the base of the table, a thin bamboo switch resting on her shoulder. "Pretty little policewoman screams so nicely," she cooed, before bringing her arm down again. This time Chris saw it coming before it slashed against her inner thigh. It didn't help. She had tears in her eyes and didn't see it coming before it struck the same spot on her other thigh. She was still sobbing when it tapped lightly off her cunt, not actually painful but, coming after the full-force strikes, making her shriek and jerk in her bonds. The woman knelt by her head as she dragged her senses back under her control and blinked the tears from her eyes. "I do so love the sounds you're making," the woman said, loud enough for the camera to hear, before gently running the tip of the cane around Chris' closest nipple in a tickling, almost loving gesture, and leaning in until Chris could almost feel breath on her cheek. "I wonder how long you can keep it up for?" suddenly the cane slashed down onto the sensitive underside of Chris' breast. That wasn't guite enough to make her scream, too close to her own self-play, so the next blow landed directly on the tip of her nipple and her shriek echoed off the walls. "I can think of better things to do with those nipples," the woman suddenly declared, the sound barely filtering part the red haze of pain in Chris' head. "But you need to be made ready, first. "Give me a hand, Martin." Martin, Chris thought, slightly demented. It sounds too normal to be a screen name. There was a buzzing of an electric motor, a whirring of gears and the padded rest began to rise underneath her, against the small of her back. It pushed her torso up, taking all her weight and bowing her, stretching her until she was tight, the shackles on her wrists and her ankles positioned at the right height to have her cunt at fucking height as her back was arched painfully, every muscle stretched tight and joints aching. She felt oil being poured onto her belly, then two sets of hands, neither gentle, began rubbing it in to every inch of available flesh. Her skin began to tingle, crawling with warmth and more delicious sensations. It was a common erotic message oil, blended with nerve stimulators and sensitisors and with a warning on the bottle against applying to sensitive areas. They covered her thoroughly, working over all of her torso save her breasts, her buttocks and shoulders, and along her legs and arms, making her gleam for the cameras. Then the woman returned to her breasts and Martin returned to her groin. The tingling, prickling sensations all over her skin were already giving her perverse pleasure and making her sexuality wake up. The woman's slow, confident rubbing of her breasts became very hard to ignore and she was gritting her teeth, forcing herself to focus as the slow kneading neared her nipples, when Martin smeared the oil over her clitoris and then forced two fingers each inside her pussy and her arse. It was like liquid fire. Her entire being was engulfed with searing flame and she opened her mouth and began screaming, barely even noticing when the woman began rubbing and teasing the oil into her nipples. Martin started fucking her hard with his fingers, pumping in and out of her pussy and her arse at the same time. The stimulation of the oil was too much for her body to ignore. Combined with the kneading of her breasts and nipples and the rapid fucking of both her holes, an orgasm was bullied from her as she screamed in a long, rising wail. When he pulled out and she stepped back, Chris was left shaken and still burning. They tied thin cord around each nipple under the uniform studs, so the studs held the knot on. The cords were passed over the top bars of the box frame and Martin easily lifted up two bowling balls for the woman to tie on. Chris clenched her teeth. It was normal play, she knew, but she was a dominatrix with little experience of sub play and her nipples were not conditioned as a regular slaves' were. When they eased the pressure on and left the balls hanging, the stretch and the pull on her flesh made a sharp, unavoidable and searing background of pain to all other sensations. Then Martin picked up a cattle prod and casually touched it to the sole of her left foot. Her scream went up another octave. The cattle prod tapped lightly against her inner thigh, her other foot, the underside of one breast, her other thigh, the top of her other breast, her belly, one distended nipple and finally her exposed cunt. She had been in a world of pain, the silent screaming from her nipples flaying her brain and robbing her of self control, then the violent shocks of the prod had reduced her to so much flesh, awash with adrenaline and fear hormones, and when the shock stabbed through her clitoris and her cunt she, impossibly, came. The pain stopped and she was left disorientated, sobbing and burning all over. "Well that was easy," the woman's voice said, remotely. "Try flogging her now, see what that does." After the cattle prod, a mere flogger would have been a relief. But the man brought it down hard on her cunt. It barely rung a gasp from her. He brought it down hard again, and again, and again, until she was well past her point of tolerance and was crouching inside her own head, whimpering. She barely heard when the woman finally said "Good," approvingly. "The poor thing seems to be thirsty. Why don't you give her a drink." It had almost filtered through Chris' reeling mind what she meant when the man grabbed her hair and lifted her head up. She had enough presence of mind to open her mouth wide before he made her, and he pushed into her throat without ceremony. He had clearly been chosen for more than just his rigging skills. Her jaw was forced to open almost painfully wide, and even with her experience she was almost gagging as he shoved himself into her throat and out again. He was soon wet and slick, which made it a little easier past her lips. Then she felt the woman's tongue on her pussy lips, and the turmoil of pain, fear, shock, disorientation and abuse became arousal again. The things being done to her were only removed by degrees from things she enjoyed and her body traitorously responded to the woman's talented cunnilingus. Tortured moans of arousal and need were soon being muffled by Martin's cock, which made him laugh and fuck faster. The woman just kept at Chris' pussy. It wasn't long, helpless and over stimulated, before she shuddered through her third orgasm. "Filthy fucking slut," the woman said in an amused tone of voice. "Martin, be a good host, give her that drink." Martin grunted, pulled out and came. An experienced actor, not only could he cum on command but his volume and his ejaculation power had been surgically enhanced. The first stream hit Chris in her still open mouth, slapping her in the back of the throat and making her cough violently. The second stream hit her chin, her neck and the upper slopes of her beasts. He aimed lower, covering her nose and her eyes, reflectively closed, then lifted and sent his final stream directly onto her distended right nipple. Then the woman bit her clitoris and she came again, her moans gurgling through the cum in her mouth. "Even dirtier slut," the woman said with a touch of malice in her voice. "Get round here, Martin, I want to see if she's any good with that mouth when she actually has to work it." Through her haze of pain and arousal, Chris felt the woman suddenly at her ear, whispering "I hope you're fit, bitch, we won't have any use for you when you stop cumming." Chris could claim twelve times under ideal circumstances. Tied and stretched and abused like this, she had idea. The woman straddled her head, pulled it up into her cunt and said "Lets see you give me one, you filthy fucking whore." Chris was as bisexual as anyone else, and had subbed for women more often than for men. She opened her mouth wide again and began to lick, smearing Martin's cum over the woman's cunt and inner thighs. As the woman held her hard up by her ears, promising pain if she didn't support it herself, Chris felt Martin's hands pressing large pads onto her belly and her thighs. Even in her state, she recognised then even before the TEMS machine was turned on. They had it turned up high, and the forced contractions of her muscles was painfully violent. She screamed, muffled by flesh, and the woman gasped, said "leave it on that, I like the effect that had." She kept on licking, practice driving her now, and felt a thick, cold, well-lubricated and metal-smooth smooth shaft pushed inside her. Her body had been craving penetration since she first came and she clenched around it, an animal thrill making her entire body buzz for a second, a needy moan smothered in the woman's now dripping cunt, before the next shock came and the metal dildo carried it deep inside her, forcing the depths of her to spasm. She screamed, muffled in flesh, and her pain made the woman cum, squirting onto her face to mix with the man's juices. The shock after that made her scream again, and then they pushed a Magic Wand against her clitoris. The sensations assaulted her, depriving her of any sense of time and space, the sudden jolts from the TEMS machine breaking through the relentless pain from her nipples and the relentless, imhuman sensations from her clitoris. Her next orgasm wasn't coaxed or driven from her, but torn. She came while sobbing with pain. She barely noticed when they peeled off the pads, pulled the dildo from her without ceremony and then took the weight off her nipples and untied them. As they relaxed, they began to throb with the different but no less excruciating pain of release. Nobody noticed when the sour-faced man with the gun stiffened for a second and then slowly folded up and collapsed. But even Chris noticed when Martin crumpled to the floor with the characteristic shudder of police tranquiliser guns. "What the fu..." the woman's angry, startled exclamation was cut off as she too collapsed. Then there were paramedics bending over Chris, and a lot of blue-uniformed people in the room. # Captain Collerton let the paramedics have her until she asked for him, sitting in the back of an ambulance wrapped in three blankets, skin numb from the anaesthetic they had used to counteract the oil and her entire body aching in different ways and nursing a cup of whatever hot beverage she was allowed with caffeine and alcohol both prohibited by the medics. "I was fucking stupid," she said flatly when he climbed in through the ambulance doors. "I went too far without requesting backup." "Are you going to be okay?" he asked calmly. "Yes." "Do you need time off?" "No." "Do you need time off?" "Look, Captain, I..." "Do you need time off?" It is part of an officer's job to look after the people under their command. He held her for a long time as she cried, her memory replaying over and over the image of her catcher's head ripped apart.