0 comments/ 37516 views/ 1 favorites Speed Trap By: ezgoin I stood in front of the fireplace, warming my hands. Jeff would be home late, after a meeting at the Senate Office Building. I was used to the late hours he'd always kept, ever since he decided so long ago to go into politics. I contemplated the last twenty-five years, and decided that I was content, comfortable, even as I missed the fun and excitement of my college years. I normally don't dwell on things past, but tonight was different: an old acquaintance had called to schedule a time to see me, a time when Jeff wouldn't be around. The doorbell rang, and I went to greet my late night guest. His hair was streaked gray now, but his eyes were still a soft blue, his mouth accented with gentle laugh lines: no, he hadn't really changed in twenty-five years. He gripped my hand firmly and looked me directly in the eyes. "Good evening, Mrs. Blakely," he drawled. "I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, but I didn't know 'til this afternoon that the conference here in DC would be finished early. You certainly are looking fine!" He looked me up and down, nodding with satisfaction. His familiarity brought back many details of one long night long past that I hadn't thought of for years. Ever the politician's wife, I was polite. "Well, sheriff, come on in out of the cold. " I took his coat, he insisted on holding on to his briefcase, and I led him into the study, where we could enjoy the fire. "Would you care for a drink? Whiskey, neat, I recall." "No, thank you, I won't be staying long. I just wanted to return something to you." I motioned to an armchair and he sat down and opened the briefcase. He removed a manilla envelope, the kind with a string that goes around a little tab. As he handed the envelope to me, a ghost of a smile crept into his face, his eyes sparkling as with a secret joke. "I believe this belongs to you. Neither one of us has any need for it anymore, right?" I took the envelope, my hand shaking slightly, and carefully unwound the string. I looked inside without removing anything at first. I saw a white tape cassette, a sheet of paper with single-spaced typed lines, and a plastic bag sealed with scotch tape. I pulled out the plastic bag, amazed after all these years that it still existed: two now flattened rolls of yellowed tissue paper, brown crumbs resembling dried herbs loose in the bag. I dropped it back into the envelope and took out the cassette: my name, Alice Blakely, neatly printed on the label with the words "Statement: May 23, 1977". I dropped that back also, and pulled out the typed paper, not bothering to read it, but noting my signature at the bottom, then slipping the sheet back. I said nothing, but stood and walked to the fireplace. I held the envelope deep in the fire, watching the paper flare up. When the cassette inside began to send out strange colored flames, I dropped the blazing mess onto the logs. Was it just my imagination, or did I catch a faint whiff of marijuana? The top was down, the warm late May wind blowing in my short brown hair. I was whizzing south down I-75 in my new red Mustang, on my way home after an exciting, wild week in the big city. This time I'd gone on the pretext of a teacher's conference. True, I had attended conference sessions during the day, but in the evenings I met up with old friends from school. Last night, Thursday, had been especially wild: I'd partied a bit with some sorority sisters, drank a shit-load of wine, even smoked some grass. A little hung over today, I'd had a later start than intended. I called Jeff before checking out, fibbed about having one last meeting this afternoon, went shopping with Carol and Joan, and didn't actually get away until five in the evening. Jeff had suggested earlier that I just stay at a motel somewhere and get into Valdosta on Saturday, instead. "Don't try to call me tonight. The mayor, the asshole, has called a special meeting, and it may run late." So, about 6:30, I pulled off the highway somewhere south of Macon and followed a little two-lane road east, looking for a place to eat and sleep for the night. "Damn! I thought the sign said 2 miles this way to a motel and diner. Shit! Where the hell am I?" The little highway was going through virtual wilderness, only scrubby pines draped with kudzu on each side. Finally, up ahead, I saw some civilization. First there was a little old-fashioned gas station, the sign above the quaint pumps proclaiming it "Soapy's Service Station". I even thought I saw a guy wearing a baseball cap, maybe Soapy himself, peering out the window as I drove past. Then I was in town, a sign next to the road saying "Welcome to Mayberry". It was a cute town, pedestrians walking about in the dusk, going about whatever business pedestrians have. I passed the bakery, the barber shop (with a couple of old geezers outside in chairs on the sidewalk), and a little brick building with the words "Sheriff's Department" emblazoned over the door. It was getting dark, I was tired, hungry, and headachy. I was glad to put Mayberry behind me, but anxious. Where the hell is the motel? Then behind me were flashing blue lights, a brief shriek of a siren. It was a black and white police car, probably the only one this town owned. I pulled over and looked in the rearview mirror as a uniformed man approached my car. He appeared fatherly, maybe in his late forties, hair dark and wavy, square jaw, dark brows, broad shoulders. He stopped behind my car, made note of my tag number, then approached my door in a shambling, casual manner. "This is some little number you're driving, missy. Can I see your driver's license?" "Officer, um, Sheriff Griffin," I glanced at his name-tag, "I'm sure I was only going 45!" "47, to be exact, Miss, but this is still a 25 mph zone." He examined my license. "Did you know this expired last week? I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in." My jaw dropped. "You're going to arrest me for an expired license?" "Well," (he pronounced it "way-ell") "I 'spose you might call it that, but we don't have any reason to keep you long. You'll just have to pay a fine and sign some papers that you promise to get that license renewed." What a God-awful night this was becoming. "Now, little lady, you just step on out of that pretty car and come sit in my back seat. I'll radio my deputy to come pick up your car and bring it on back to the station." He politely opened my door, taking my purse as I got out, and walked me back to his car. After helping me into the back seat, still holding my purse and leaving my door open, he reached through his window for the radio. "Bernie, you hear me back at the station? Over." Bernie, I assume, squawked that he indeed could hear the sheriff loud and clear. "Whyn't you get somebody to give you a ride out here on 21 east. You know where I mean. We gotta little lady here that needs her car brought in." After signing off, Sheriff Griffin opened my purse and started digging through it. At that same moment I remembered something and suddenly felt quite ill. The sheriff whistled as he pulled out a little clear plastic box. I thought I'd put it in my suitcase, inside the lining, but obviously last night I had been either too drunk or too stoned, or both, to think that wisely. "What have we got here?" He opened the box, which at one time had held throat lozenges. Now it contained two nicely rolled joints, a souvenir from Atlanta that I'd planned to enjoy tonight at the motel. He held one up to his nose just as a dusty brown pickup truck drove up, barely slowing down to let out Deputy Bernie. "Bernie, come here and let me introduce you to this pretty little thing. It seems she's in a heap of trouble now, for sure! Deputy Bernie Sife, meet Miss, or is it Mrs., Alice Blakely of Valdosta. We're gonna be charging her with speeding, expired license, and possession of marijuana!" Deputy Sife, a gangly little guy whose uniform looked a size too big, though neatly pressed and starched, shuffled over to my still open door and leaned in to shake my hand, his eyes glued to my T-shirt front. He responded "Whoo-ee" when he saw the joint the sheriff held out for him to examine. "Ms. Blakely," the sheriff looked me coolly in the eyes, suddenly losing his good-'ol boy accent, "Is anyone expecting you tonight?" I felt total despair. "My husband isn't expecting me until tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I can't even reach him tonight because he's at a city council meeting." "A councilman, huh? And what do you do, Mrs. Blakely? Are you a housewife, any babies waiting for you down in Valdosta?" "No," I answered, even more despairing, if possible, as the total extent of my situation sank in. "I'm a school teacher." Sheriff Griffin nodded his head. His drawl had returned. "Bernie, bring the lady's car on back to town, but park it down by the VFW. They're having a shindig tonight and won't think a strange car in town is unusual. Then meet us back at the station." He scratched his head, then added, "Oh, and be sure to put the top up." Before shutting the car door, the sheriff had me lean forward, gently pulled my hands behind my back and clicked on handcuffs. As he did so he recited the "You have the right to remain silent" thing. Bernie showed his teeth in a big horsey grin, eyes still focused on my chest. "OK, Andy, will-do!". On the way back to town the sheriff tried to put me at ease, talking nonstop about his town and the various characters who lived there. I paid little attention to him: I was frantic to think of some way out of my predicament. As they say, I was up shit creek without a paddle. I'd taken some chances in the past, going up to Atlanta every couple of months for a weekend away from the Junior League ladies and their interminable projects and do-good attitudes. I had a separate circle of friends up there, and was able to let my hair down, but this time I guess I'd stretched my luck. The brick building I had passed earlier had a tiny parking area behind it, and we entered through the back door. No one was inside, I thought at first, then I noticed that in the same room with the main office were three jail cells, one of them occupied by a large, maybe obese, man snoring very loudly, sound asleep in a sort of fetal position on a cot. I stood looking around as the sheriff let down the shades and locked the front door. There were two desks in the room, one of them nearly bare, the other one near the door displaying two framed photographs: a freckle-faced red-haired boy of about ten proudly displaying a large toad in his hands, and a stout gray-haired lady with a sweet smile displaying what looked like biscuits and a blue ribbon. I turned and looked more closely at the jail cells. All of them, including the one with the snoring man, had open doors. Each had frilly flowered curtains and matching comforters on the cots. One cell even had a recliner with a table, lamp, and vase of flowers. Sheriff Griffin noticed my puzzled expression. "My Aunt Tee seems to think a homey atmosphere will aid in reforming criminals. I think she's full of shit, but she's a harmless old bat." About then the deputy returned. "Boy! I hope we don't have to close down the VFW tonight! Those old WW2 vets are already gettin' rowdy!" "Well, tonight, Bernie, I think we'll just let the vets have their fun. I think we're gonna be a little busy." The sheriff looked pointedly in my direction and put a white cassette tape from his desk into the breast pocket of his khaki shirt. "Let's go back to the interrogation room, and have us a little talk." Each took an elbow and moved me on down a little hallway, a door on the left and one on the right. The door on the left bore the sign "Restroom", and the door on the right "Interrogation", which we entered. The only furnishings were a small table holding a clipboard of forms and a cassette tape recorder, three wooden chairs and, rather bizarrely I thought, a bare twin-size mattress on the floor in the corner, the dingy striped ticking spotted with stains. There was a long mirror across the entire far wall. "That's really a window, you know, but there's nobody on the other side," the sheriff explained. Deputy Bernie giggled. "We just keep old records and the Christmas decorations in there," the sheriff continued. "We don't have much use for line -ups or such here, on account of we all know everybody who ever does anything in our town anyway." He removed my handcuffs and motioned me to sit in one of the chairs. He perched himself on the corner of the table . The deputy stood next to him, his eyes again trying to look through my t-shirt. The sheriff took the tape cassette from his shirt pocket and popped it into the tape recorder, and pushed the record button. Speaking toward the recorder, he said formally, "This is the statement of Alice Blakely of Valdosta, May 23, 1977." He looked at me, "Mrs. Blakely, did you receive your Miranda rights?" I answered that I had. "Now tell me, why were you brought in tonight?" I hesitated. "Can't I get a lawyer?" "Well, of course, but there won't be any available until Monday. The defense man and the prosecutor, too, are all off with the judge fishin'. They'll be back Monday. So, if you don't want to answer any questions at this time, we'll just turn this recorder off, get you all cozy in one of the cells, and you can call your husband in the morning. Course, you still won't be able to leave until Monday." What a mess! I thought how he had all the evidence against me: after all, I was guilty, so I decided to tell the truth, and just be careful not to let him twist my words. "I was stopped for going 47 mph in a 25 mph zone. My license expired on my 26th birthday, May 12th, and I had 2 marijuana joints in my purse." The sheriff nodded, smiling at my direct honesty. Then looked he up at the far wall as if thinking deeply. "Now here's how I see it: the judge, he's gone for the weekend and won't be able to hear your case or set bond 'til Monday. Then your husband can take you on home." He turned to me, "What happens to school teachers who get charged with drug possession?" I hesitated. I wasn't really sure. "I think the certificate is suspended, with pay, until found guilty. Then, you lose the certificate permanently and can't ever teach again." I started to cry. Sheriff Griffin continued as if I weren't blubbering. "And what might your husband, Councilman Blakely, think of his wife being charged with drug possession?" This time there was no doubt. I stifled my sobs and answered, "It's not so much what he thinks, though God knows he doesn't approve of the stuff, but the press and the voters: he's planning to run against the mayor next year! This would kill his election chances!" I wailed with despair. Both of them looked at me sympathetically, but said nothing, as if waiting for me to say more. As I sat there, crying, I was thinking. As I saw it, I had two choices: I could sit in jail until Monday, lose my career (which I really did value, in spite of its restrictions), face Jeff's wrath and disappointment, and hope he could overcome the scandal by November. My other choice: beg for a favor. "Sheriff," I asked in my sweetest, most sincere voice, the one I use with the mayor, "is there anything that could be worked out, a sort of plea bargain, that would allow me to go on home? I mean, if I vow to never do anything like this again." I batted my eyelashes at him. "Well, now, you mean is there anything you could do to convince us that you mean well, that you're really an upstanding citizen?" His eyes bore into me. I felt as if he could hear exactly what I was thinking, and had already decided on his answer. It wasn't something I had ever propositioned before, but I was desperate and thought I had nothing to lose. "Sheriff, I'll do anything, if you'd just drop those charges and let me go on home tomorrow morning. I would be quite willing to entertain you and Deputy Sife tonight in any way you'd like." What was one night here, I thought, compared to ruining my whole life. The sheriff nodded his head. "Bernie, lock the door." He looked at me while the deputy went over to the door. "Let's see if you mean what you promise. What I want you to do, Miss Alice, is go stand over there in front of the mirror and slip out of those cute little sandals, pull down your jeans and panties, if you're wearing any, and pull off your t-shirt. We already know you aren't wearing a bra." I swallowed hard, hoping this would not be too awful. I pushed back the chair and, standing shakily, I went over to the mirror. I looked like hell, I thought, my eye make-up smudged, my short hair tousled and wind-blown from my drive down, and I could see I was very tired. First I stepped out of my shoes and kicked them away. I avoided looking at the men's reflection, but I couldn't help but notice them leaning forward in expectation. I sighed and went on with it. I unzipped my jeans and let them fall. I was wearing panties: pink satin bikini, but I didn't pull them down yet. Instead, I pulled off my t-shirt, closing my eyes so I wouldn't feel quite so naked. "Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm!" It sounded like they were enjoying Aunt Tee's biscuits. "Open your eyes, ma'am, we want you to see everything," the sheriff commanded. I did so, and the first thing I saw was the reflection of Bernie's eyes bugging out even more than before, licking his lips hungrily. "What size do you think they are, Andy? C or D?" "36D," I answered before Andy attempted a guess. "Now pull down those sexy panties. Bernie and I would like to see your pussy. Is it shaved like they do in the big city?" I didn't answer his question, but pulling down the panties, bending over so they got a nice view of my ass in the process, my dark little bush answered his question for me. "Now don't get nervous, little lady. I tell you what. We won't force you to do anything: we don't want you going home with mysterious fingerprint bruises on your pretty body. You get to choose what you'd like to do, but," he added, looking warningly at Bernie, "we won't fuck you." "Aw, Andy, why not?" he plaintively whined. "Well, Bernie, we don't want to take even a little chance that Miss Alice here could get pregnant." I nodded, convincing myself that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. At least they looked fairly clean, and the sheriff was actually a little sexy, especially when he dropped that "Aw shucks" demeanor: I was beginning to realize that it was put on when convenient, but that behind it was a very shrewd, calculating man. "Who goes first?" I asked quietly. In answer Bernie unzipped his pants and pulled out an unexpectedly long, hard dick. "I think I will, Andy." He turned my chair away from the table and sat down, stroking himself, and grinned that goofy grin. "Come here, teacher. I want to get a closer look at those pretty titties." I moved over to him and he spread his knees so I could stand between his legs. He reached up with both hands, taking a handful of me in each. He squeezed and prodded my breasts, pulling me forward so he could take turns sucking each nipple. I cried out, "Ouch!" when he bit one. "Now, Bernie, be nice. Remember, no marks!" Andy was still sitting on the corner of the table right next to us, so he had a good view of the whole performance. Bernie let go and moved his hands to my shoulders, pressing me down. I thought I knew what Bernie was wanting. I knelt down, moving close to his cock. I first wet it good by licking it all over, leaving a nice slippery film of saliva on his shaft. Then I pressed my breasts hard together on his shiny wet cock. I squeezed myself hard, and moved myself up and down, stroking him inside the tight tunnel my tits formed around him. Every time I slid down his cock it moved into range of my tongue where I would pause long enough to lick the head, dribbling more saliva on him. Then I would rise up again until his cock was barely visible between my full tits. "Oh, sweet Jesus, what she's doing to me, Andy! O lordy, wait 'til you feel what she can do to your dick!" Bernie continued to moan and babble. I began to pick up the pace, knowing the end was near. Besides, I was getting tired of this game. Finally, he cried out, his hips rising slightly from the chair, and I felt his juices spasming onto me, covering my breasts, my chin, my lips. His spurts continued as I lowered my head and pulled his cock into my mouth, sucking and swallowing every drop. When I knew he was done, I pulled him out of my mouth one last time, licked him all over, and kissed his little twitching cock hole. I took a deep breath and rather stiffly rose from the hard floor. Speed Trap I was surprised to see that Andy, still sitting on the table, still had his pants zipped up, though a nice bulge showed his appreciation of the show. "Bernie, close up your pants and go get Miss Alice here a towel and a glass of water. I think she needs a rest." Bernie reluctantly stood and did as ordered, leaving the door open behind him. He soon returned with a hand towel, which I gratefully used to wipe the sticky mess off of my chest and face. The glass of water I quickly drained. The taste of cum is not unbearable, but it always reminds me of the way your mouth tastes in the morning when you first wake up. Andy got up and put his arm around my waist, took my hand, and as if supporting me, he walked me over to the mattress. He pulled it away from the wall and gently helped me sit down, Indian style, in the middle of the nasty thing. "Bernie, if you've recovered from Miss Alice's treatment, you need to go on back to the office and type up a statement for her charges. Besides, 'ol Cletis will likely be waking up soon: he sure started his weekly binge early this time." "Aw, Andy, do I have to?" I was really getting tired of the deputy's whiny voice. "That's not fair! I though you said no fucking her!" "Don't worry, Bernie, I'm not going to fuck our little school teacher, but I'd like some privacy." Bernie left, and Andy again locked the door behind him. He turned toward me and loosened his tie, pulling it over his head still knotted, and tossed it carelessly onto the table. His eyes never left mine. "You know," I finally spoke, "it bothers me how you keep referring to me as a teacher, like it matters." He unbuttoned his cuffs, then the rest of his khaki shirt. He pulled it off revealing a white undershirt. Still he looked at me intently. "You're right: It really doesn't matter what we do: we all need to fuck, the only difference is how we like to do it." He pulled the undershirt off, and I saw that his tan line formed a triangle at his collar. Below that his chest was broad, softly covered with salt and pepper hair down to his somewhat rounded belly. He bent over to pull off his shoes, then unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. I held my breath in anticipation as he pulled them down with his white briefs. His hard-on jumped up as if on a spring. Not as impressively long as Bernie's, but much thicker, even heavy. I nodded with appreciation, a bit sorry that he wasn't going to fuck me. I always thought an overlong dick was a waste: a guy can only put an eight-incher just so far into a six or seven inch cunt before he's banging away at the back wall. On the other hand, a nice thick cock really fills me up, rubbing deliciously in and out of my pussy. He sat down next to me and tipped my head back and pressed his open mouth to mine, his other hand caressing my breast and teasing my nipple. His tongue searched my mouth, he sucked my lip, and licked over my teeth, his hand moving from one breast to the other. I breathlessly returned his kisses, and reached down to grip his cock tightly. His mouth then left mine and he softly kiss-licked my eyelids, my ears, my throat, as he gently leaned me back until I was lying down. He changed positions, straddling my body, on his hands and knees. His lips and tongue continued on down, stopping for a long time to suck my nipples, first one and then the other, nipping them gently with his teeth, sucking and pulling at them with his lips. I squirmed nonstop, whimpering with growing arousal, as his mouth continued to travel down my body. He flicked his tongue in and out of my navel, as if fucking the little depression, and then kissed all over my belly. "I'm heading south," he spoke quietly, his voice guttural. "I love the south!" What was he talking about? "I love the Spanish moss!" He rubbed his nose and lips in my pussy, sniffing and savoring my scent. Oh, I thought, I understand. "All the dark bogs, so steamy and wet!" His tongue explored my soft wet nooks and crannies. I felt his whiskery face pressing greedily into my body, rubbing me, stroking me. He thrust his tongue deep into my cunt, fucking me with his tongue, sucking my wetness. He lifted his face from me long enough to speak one more time, using his fingers to spread open my pussy lips, "What I love best of all about the south is what I find living in the mossy backwoods." With that proclamation, he lowered his head again, his mouth zeroing in my clit. He alternately sucked it and flicked it with his tongue. Did I mention I was going wild? My hips were bucking uncontrollably, yet like a rodeo rider, his mouth was never tossed from its mount. I felt my climax start deep in my belly, a warm coiling creature tickling and tingling my insides, then rising up my spine. I don't know what sounds I must have made, probably incoherent cries, but I was thrusting my pelvis into his face, gripping his head, holding on as if I was in danger of falling. The crashing spasms jerked my body, a seizure of sorts. It was not only a hard cumming, but a long, drawn-out one as well. The room disappeared for me, and all I heard was a roaring in my ears. Then, slowly, I drifted back down to the surface. "Oh God, where am I?" It felt as if I had awakened from a long coma. I continued to shiver and twitch in aftershocks. Andy chuckled. "I thought you'd like that." He shifted so that he was lying on his side next to me, caressing my breasts and throat. "When you're ready, I'd like to have my turn. I've waited patiently, but no more." Slowly I sat up, still weak from my orgasm, and he turned to lie flat on his back. I leaned over and kissed him, my tongue thrusting in and out like a little penis in his mouth, a hint of what was next on the agenda. His whiskers scratched my face like fine sand paper, reminding me of the way it had felt on my pussy. I kissed him down his creased, sun burnt neck. He smelled of soap and sweat, a strangely erotic scent. While I kissed him I stroked his chest, finding his little man nipples and tugging on them like he was a girl. Downward I moved, south as he would have put it, until my chin encountered his upright, hard, thick cock. I licked the tiny bit of ooze that trickled out, then used the broadest surface of my tongue to bathe his cock, like licking an ice cream cone. I savored its smoothness, its hardness as I tongued him all over. "Oh yeah, keep that up, baby!" I gripped him tightly in my hand, my fingers unable to encircle his thickness, as I moved to his balls, also heavy and full. I managed to suck one ball into my mouth, but was barely able to open wide enough to engulf his sack. Finally, my mouth was full, and I sucked hard, bobbing my head, pretending to deep-throat his balls. "That's real nice!" I enjoyed his encouragement. Pulling his balls out of my mouth, my jaws tiring, I moved down to that wonderfully underrated wrinkly place under the cock. I licked him there, and he lifted his ass slightly so I was able to tease his tight asshole with my tongue. Then back up his cock. I sucked hard on the smooth round cap, up and down with my mouth. Slowly I rubbed his dick back along the roof of my mouth until his cock filled my mouth. Then it was a slow movement on down my throat. He rested his hands lightly on my head, I suppose to keep me from getting distracted, or maybe he just enjoyed feeling my head moving up and down in time with his cock being sucked. "Oh you just keep that up for a little longer, sweetie, just. . .keep. . .that. . .up!" I knew the moment was at hand when he started to pant hoarsely, and his fingers tightened in my hair. I felt his balls jump slightly, then his cum was spurting down my throat, filling my mouth. I swallowed as much as I could, but the man was boundless. Some of his thick cum dribbled out of my mouth, and it was all I could do to politely lick my lips clean. He lay there panting for a few minutes, his eyes closed. "Wow, ma'am, you have quite a talent!" He had returned to his drawl. "I'm just gonna rest here a spell. You want to join me?" I lay down next to him, arms around each other. I must have dozed off, but I woke quickly when I heard banging on the door. "Damn, that idiot!" Andy cursed. "What the hell do you need, Bernie?" "Aren't ya'll done yet? Cletis woke up and I let him go on home. I'm ready to cut out of here, too. Mable is expecting me at the end of my shift." "You go on home, Bernie. But first bring in Alice's grip from her car." Andy looked over at me. "Would you like a bite to eat?" I shook my head. I wanted to ask who the hell was Mable and did she know about Bernie's extracurricular activities, but instead I said, "What I'd really like is to wash up and find a place to sleep. I'm beat!" Andy forced himself up, groaning like an old man, and pulled on his briefs and uniform pants. "I guess you deserve that. Luckily we have a bathroom with a shower right across the hall. Will that be fine?" I just nodded my appreciation. After showering and dressing in clean clothes, I actually felt a little less exhausted. I sat with Andy a bit in the office. He poured himself a short glass of whiskey from a bottle he took from the bottom drawer of his desk and offered one to me, which I accepted. He then gave me the typed statement Bernie had left on his desk. "I'll need you to sign and date this at the bottom. It just states how you were speeding, expired license, possession of less than one ounce of marijuana. What I'm gonna do is this: I'll be keeping the statement, the tape of your confession, and the marijuana as evidence, so that if you ever decide to complain about the, er, events in the back room, we both have something to lose. I get in trouble for not reported the arrest, withholding evidence, all that, too. I tell you what, in twenty or thirty years, I'll burn the whole dad burn file: by then, you may not even remember what happened here tonight!" I signed it, and he put the folder in the back of the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. I noticed there were several similar looking files back there already. We ate some leftover biscuits and honey Aunt Tee had brought over earlier with his supper. He told me how his wife had died giving birth to his son, Andy Jr., and that he hadn't dated much since breaking up with a woman who, coincidentally, was also a teacher. His Aunt Tee lived with them as housekeeper/cook, but mostly Andy looked after her: she was getting senile. Around 2:00 a.m. I was about to pass out. I spent that night on a cot in one of the cells, not the one Cletis had occupied. Andy woke me the next morning, very early. Aunt Tee was bringing over some biscuits and country ham for Andy's breakfast, and he felt it best that she not ever know I had been at the jail. My drive on home was thankfully uneventful, and I was happy to get home to my own bed, and my sweet husband, who was pleased to give in to my request to fuck my pussy silly with his fat, beautiful cock. There were no more trips to Atlanta, either. I guess I had learned my lesson: it was time to keep my wild side in my memories. I looked over at Andy after the envelope had turned completely to ashes. "So, Mrs. Blakely, I guess our secret is safe. Bernie, I'm sad to say, passed on a few years ago, and no one ever asked whose red car spent that night at the VFW. I've retired from the sheriff business, you're no longer teaching, and now your husband is on the short list for Vice President." He nodded with satisfaction, like a job well done. "I guess I'll be leaving, now." "I just have one question, Andy. That mattress in the back room: any other ladies ever see it, or was I the only one you ever stopped at your speed trap?" Andy smiled his "I've got a secret" smile. "Way'ell," he answered, "I'll just say that there are no more envelopes needing to be delivered after tonight!" He stood, shook my hand, and I never saw him again.