1 comments/ 9175 views/ 3 favorites Money Shots By: rikkitampa2014 "Can you confirm? That's your, um, uh, rear end?" "It is," I replied confidently. The lead detective, a balding white guy in his forties, was having trouble choosing his words. And using them. Not so his partner, a black woman in her early thirties with a gymnast's build sitting on the very edge of my couch. "How can you tell?" she asked. I laughed-involuntarily. "Well...I've seen it before, many times. It's mine. Besides, those are definitely my lace thigh-highs and that's definitely my garter," I added, referring to baby-blue elastic ruffles about midway down my stockinged right thigh. "And what's that above your testicles?" She was referring to the one-inch tall chrome donut around my sack, with my taut, purplish cluster of little testicles almost engulfed by it underneath. I squirmed in my chair. "That's, um, that's a ball-stretcher." "Say what?" "A ball-stretcher. Some guys...well, it's kind of fetish thing. They hang weights from their testicles to stretch them." "And why would they want to do that?" I shrugged. "Because it's painful?" "It really isn't," I replied. "It's more of a...just a sensation. Some guys wear them all day. Some guys stretch their balls until they hang down to their knees. Although I would never do that," I quickly added. The female detective emitted a shoulder-rising sigh as if to say: Whatever... The lead detective cleared his throat. "OK, back to the subject at hand. You've established for us that this is you on your hands and knees in the video. Correct?" "I never denied it. Sir." "No. But...And then there's the gentleman you're having, um, intercourse with. Who is he?" "My Dom." "Your Mom?" Despite his relative youth, the male cop wore a hearing aid, left ear. "Dom." "Name?" his partner asked. Her blunt, to-the-point questions were like darts hitting a dartboard. "I don't know his name," I sighed. Realizing, as if it hadn't been apparent since my barking dog revealed an unmarked police car idling in my driveway, that this was an investigation and I was, at the very least, a witness. If not a suspect. "He's never used his name. I call him Master. Or Sir." "What about in emails?" I shook my head. "No, he never uses a name. And his handle is, I don't know, something like M&C1960...at Yahoo. I'd have to look it up. The hard-of-hearing cop glanced up from his notepad. "Nancy?" "M&C...something like that. It's not name-specific is what I'm trying to say." "So aside from poking you," the dart-thrower asked, with a gesture toward the video playing on iPad, "what's this guy do to you? Hurt you? Inflict pain?" I shrugged. "Sometimes. Spanking. Whipping. Caning. That sort of thing. Or attaching clothes pins to my genitals..." The female cop winced. "And then there's the ball-stretching but I do that anyway. He has a chair with a hollow bottom that he ties me up in. I'm completely immobilized. And blindfolded. And then he likes to stick things up my...in my rectum." "What kind of things?" Another shrug. "He likes...he really likes to insert tampons up my...inside me. He makes me buy a box and we keep it in the bathroom cabinet. He likes to take pictures of the little string hanging out, y'know?" The female cop, to whom I'd addressed the question, remained impassive. "And electrical cords..." "He sticks live electric cords up your...in your butt?" she asked. Or rather, nearly shrieked. "No, no. Nothing like that. It's one of those orange utility cords. It's cut off I guess about a foot from the plug. He feeds that in until just the plug sticks out. Then takes pics of it. Also soundings..." "Say what?" "Sound machines?" the half-deaf cop asked. "Soundings," I said. "In my penis. The real ones go, I think, all the way down into your bladder. Down your urethra. But these, I think...I think these are his wife's knitting needles." "He's married?" "He sticks knitting needles down your cock? Excuse me," she corrected, "penis?" "Yes ma'am. And yes, he is married." "How do you know?" "Cause he's always referring to her. 'Can't make it this week, wife's relatives are in town'...that kind of thing." "Know her name?" "No idea." "So I take it you don't meet at HIS house," the male cop observed. "No sir." "Here?" "No. It's kinda weird. We meet at a friend of his' condo at the nudist colony up the road." "Heavenly Lakes?" "Yes ma'am." (I kept reminding myself: Call them ma'm and sir. Appear submissive. Eager to cooperate.) It's like a second home for these friends of his but, like, they're never there. It's weird." The male cop was shaking his head. "Any name on the mail box, name on the mail on the kitchen counter? Somebody we could contact?" "No sir." Female cop: "But you could show us the location?" "You know, I'm not trying to be evasive but...I frankly don't know. It's like a maze in that place. More than a few times I've gotten lost and gone to the wrong front door. Very embarrassing when you're wearing lipstick and eye shadow." Female cop: "I bet." "How long have you and this, um, Dom as you call him, been, um...?" "Six months? Seven? It's pretty amazing for a Craigslist relationship. They usually peter out in a few weeks. But this one..." I pointed at my iPad's screen. And its repetitive close-up image of my Dom pumping my ass. "You can't see it in the video but I'm wearing a, like, jade ankle bracelet. I wear it whenever we get together. It's sort of a symbol-for me-of our, I guess you'd call it, relationship." "He bought it for you?" she asked. I laughed. "No way! He's too cheap. Never bought me anything. Not even a pair of panties at Christmas." "I know THAT feeling," the female cop said, throwing a glance off at the fireplace to her left. The male cop cleared his throat. "OK, so we've established that you're in the video with the unnamed Dom, as you call him, you're having anal intercourse with..." ("Bout the only kind you CAN have," I'm pretty sure the female cop muttered, under breath.) Another throat clear. "But obviously someone's shooting the video," he pointed. "It's obviously hand-held. Who-" "It's my iPad," I observed to no one in particular. "Is that how you found me?" "Soundings...?" The female cop jumped in. "We found you through the website where you do your sex-video posting. After 'prostitution' popped up in the vice squad search engine, we contacted the website and they provided what contact info they had on you. We traced you from there." My mouth hung open. "Prosti...?" "We're investigating an act of prostitution. On your part. Yes, exactly." "And your, um, Dom's..." "Yes." "I..." "Let's get back to the third person in the room. Who is it?" "I'm innocent!" I pleaded. "Answer the question." Dart to the heart. I was close to crying. Cleared my throat. "She's...he's another of my Dom's subs. Another crossdresser. Younger. Married. I don't know her-his-name either. I mean it's Glenda but that's his...He, our Dom...sometimes he fucks-excuse me-has intercourse with me, and SHE shoots the video, and sometimes he fucks her and I...And then sometimes He has us do Lesbian sex, as he calls it, kissing and...although 69 is not exactly...and then HE shoots the video." "Then what happens?" "I take it back. Download it to my desktop. Edit it in iMovie and then, once it's done, upload it to GayPornVideos.org. What we're watching now." "Yes. And, um, how many of these, um, videos have you...?" "Twenty-something. I think. I don't post all of them. Some of them suck. But, by my last count, I think we've had, like, all total, 45 million views." "45...what?" "Views. People watching." "Jesus," the female cop observed, glancing once again toward the fireplace, "you be like a movie star." "Wish I got paid for it," I laughed. But only briefly. "Yes, um, and that's why we're here. Pay-for-sex." He pointed at the iPad screen. "Just here. He's finishing. He finished. OK, he's pulling out..." The female cop winced as a half-ounce of my Master's copious semen spurted out of my dark, dilated hole. "OK and now, um...he disappears...he disappears from view...close-up of your...and then...but you, you remain on your..." "Yes. He told me to stay put." "Is that normal?" "Not really," I replied. "He usually wants me to, you know, clean him up afterwards. You know, before he goes home to his wife..." "But here he is back again, or his hands anyway...," all three of us on the edge of our seats watching my iPad video, "...and there it is...one...two...three. They look like twenties." "They ARE twenties," the female cop observed. "Sixty bucks. Tucked into your whatchumacallit." "Garter." "Garter. She knows these things, I don't," he nearly joked. "That to me, sir, is pay-for-sex. Otherwise known as prostitution." "Can you shut that thing off?" the female cop asked, hand shielding her attractive face, as more and more of my Master's thick semen oozed from my hole. "Thank you," she said, as I complied. I was full of laughter. Near hysteria. Close to a nervous breakdown. "You're kidding, right? Prostitution?" "It's called pay for, um, sex. Yes. That's the charge. Not the charge, we're only investigating at this point." "No I mean you're kidding about him-HIM?-paying me sixty dollars for a blowjob?" "You gave him a blowjob?" "Yes. No, I...I mean, a fuck? Intercourse?" "That's exactly what we're saying," she observed. "And it's no joke at all. People go to jail for this. They get their name in the paper. We confiscate their cars." "Well, not in this, um..." I still had the giggles. It was uncontrollable. "That's MY money he tucked into my..." "Hunh?" "My money! Listen. I said to him once...wouldn't it be cool if, after you fuck me-scuse me-have intercourse with me, you tucked a few bills under my garter. Like I'm an exotic dancer...?" "Or a prostitute." "No! You don't understand! I told you how cheap he is. I said...I'll supply the money, OK? You just...tuck it in when, after you're done. And he was like-" "You have an email you can share? To prove this?" I hung my head. "No, I...I'm pretty sure it was...it was verbal. A conversation. Like...let's pretend I'm a whore and you're, and you're..." "What was his response?" "He loved the idea. As long as I supplied the money." "But-let me get this straight-you can't tell us who he is. Therefore we can't corroborate your story." "I..." The lead detective looked at his watch. Then slapped his notepad shut. "This is an ongoing investigation into a felony charge of prostitution. You could go to jail for this. Here's my card," he said, handing it across to me as he rose. "I suggest you think real hard about who your, um, socalled Dom is and let us know if there's anything else you can, um, tell us about him." His succinct partner, who was now standing and barely rose to five feet, added: "If he doesn't corroborate your story we arrest you and you go to jail. OK? He goes to jail too. Sounds like he'd be more happy to back you up, right? In more ways that one?" "Yes ma'am." I followed them to my front door. My knees were shaking. I wanted to shout: "This was consensual sex! I'm not a prostitute! It was a game we played!" But it would be pointless. They couldn't care less. At the front door, with her hard-of-hearing partner already through it, the female detective, vice squad, turned back: "So you let this guy fuck you without a condom?" Now it was my turn to stammer. "I, uh...he's healthy. He's married. And I'm healthy." "What about the third guy?" "Oh she's...he's married too. He's healthy." She smiled an insincere smile. "Long as you're confident about it. Good luck..." The door closed. I locked it. Sank to the tile floor. Ironically, I'd never needed my Dom more than now... "Nice toes!" Two weeks had gone by since that first visit by the detectives. Now the older one-the male-arrived solo. It had been two weeks and lots of sleepless nights. I would lie in bed wondering what would happen next. Would I be arrested? Let away from my house in handcuffs?What would the neighbors think? Would my mugshot be splashed across the newspaper? What would my relatives think? My friends? My co-workers? I'd lose my job! I could see the headline now: BANK EMPLOYEE ARRESTED IN PORNOGRAPHY/PROSTITUTION SCANDAL After fitful dreams-nightmares-I would wake up sometimes and my knees would be shaking. As they now shook as once again my barking dog alerted me to the unmarked grey police car parked in my driveway. Panic time. Was this it? The arrest? I'd only just arrived home from work. After showering I'd changed into my usual summer around-the-house attire-a pair of lace microfiber panties. I hurriedly pulled on drawstring pants and a teeshirt and ran toward the insistently ringing doorbell. Forgetting in my haste that my bare feet revealed ten sparkling red-lacquered toenails below the hem. The cop's eyes dropped straight to them. "Nice toes!" I almost blushed. "Thank you." "Can I come in?" He already halfway was. "I have a thing for pretty women's feet. Not that you're a woman, but...The thing is, I marry my wife and wouldn't you know it? She's got like the ugliest feet you ever seen. It's like a horror show when she wears sandals. My teenage daughter on the other hand...she's, um, her feet are kinda cute. Not sure WHERE they came from. "Anyway. Off topic. I stopped by as kind of a courtesy call-I'm off duty by the way-to kind of, um, update you on your case." The detective tugged at the belt below beer belly's sag. "Wish I could report that your video friend, your, um, Dom, has corroborated your story about the money but, frankly, he hasn't. He hasn't said anything. Zipped up and went straight for the lawyer-who, by the way, insists-this is his claim-that there's no video evidence to even prove that's his client in the porn films. All they show is a body and a small portion of his body at that. Very clever filming by the way. Or editing. They call it plausible deniability. Good job." I was perplexed. Was the detective...complimenting ME? I said: "But couldn't you, I mean, couldn't you make him undress and compare..." "His name's Krups by the way. Like the coffee maker. Least that's the brand my wife has at the house. Damn she has ugly feet! You mean...couldn't we bring him in, make him undress and shoot video of his, um, below the waist? And then compare that to the porn flicks? Well, I suppose we could though his attorney would raise all kinds of hell. And it would take a court order. And this is just a prostitution case. Hell, vice arrests ten prostitutes a night. And twelve hours later they're back on the streets. You ever walked the street? Not exactly the kind of case the district attorney is gonna want to expend, you know, a lot of time and, uh, money on. Besides," the detective snorted, "you might be able to make the guy remove his pants but, um, well, don't know of a court order on earth that can require a guy to get a hard-on. And that's what we'd be comparing, right?" "He has a mole on his right butt-cheek," I said hopefully. "Hell, so do I. Or is it my left? So does my wife! So I guess what I'm telling you is that your case is kind of dead in the water at the moment. Still open but..." I felt a degree of relief. At least I wasn't being handcuffed... "But this just goes to show you, um, sir, what kind of trouble you can get in when money exchanges hands." "But money didn't-" "So for instance, if I said...just for argument's sake, said...I have a four-day load-I don't get nothin' from my wife anymore-I have a four-day load and I'll pay you forty bucks to give a blowjob, your response would be...?" To this point I'd been assiduously avoiding eye-contact with the cop. But now I lifted my head, and open mouth, and looked him square in the jowly face. Did I detect a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth? A smile? Sort of? Was he serious? Joking? Was this his attempt to entrap me? "No way," I replied forcefully. "Good. Good. Sounds like you've learned your lesson. But if no money was involved..." Hunh? He elaborated: "If no money changed hands and you got down on your knees-too bad you're not wearing stockings today, LOVE a girl in stockings, though I love the bare toes too-and sucked me off in return for, say, my assurance that your case would remain, let's just say, on the back burner..." Was this really happening? Was he shaking me down? "You get my drift? I gotta spell it out for you?" I'd looked up again. I started to speak. But the shit-eating grin on his face, coupled with the index finger of his right hand pointing downward, toward the zippered bulge, told me everything I needed to know. With a sigh I tossed my teeshirt aside, dropped my pants and sank to my knees. "Not the belt," he said, of my hands, "just the zipper. This is gonna be short and sweet. My wife's gonna be wondering where I am." I unzipped him, worked my hand in and pulled out his big log of an uncircumcised cock. Since it was the end of the day I expected it to be nasty. But it tasted shower-fresh. I even detected a hint of cologne. "Cute panties," he observed, as I went to work on him. "My daughter has a pair sorta that color. Sometimes I see her running down the hall in 'em. Then she's got a pair that says Daddy's Girl on the back. On her butt. Drives me wild. Don't tell my wife, though..." As if that's a remote possibility, I thought? "That's it, bitch, work it. Good...Heard from your Dom lately? Doubt it. Doesn't want any part of you. Not after you ratted him out. Watch the teeth! No, I think you'll be needing a new Dom now. Somebody to treat you like the slutty whore you are. Suck it, babe! Hey," he continued, as I gagged again on his full length, "we could even play a game. You give me a few twenties...I tuck 'em in your thingamajig, pretend you're my whore and I'm paying you to service me." He laughed. "Just kidding! "You do that so well, bitch," he continued, narrating his own blowjob. "You're such a pro...and I do mean pro. Cause I don't care what song and dance you give me and my sexy partner you little cumslut, I'm never gonna buy your-Oh! Fuck I'm gonna cum! Stop!" I backed away. Caught my breath. Wiped my mouth. Hated to admit it but the guy had a beautiful cock. Almost identical in girth and length to my Dom's. My ex-Dom's, I should say. Except that my ex-Dom was Jewish. "Fuck," he sighed, squeezing his saliva-slick cock behind the head. "I wanted to...want to do...a cumshot. Isn't that what you guys call it? In the industry?" WHAT industry? I wondered. I'm a banker. The cop started stroking himself. Furiously. I opened my mouth-wide and quivering-and brought it close again. An inch from the tip of his gyrating head. "Bitch! Slut! Whore!...Panty fucking waist asshole queer cocksucking...Yow! Oh!" The first flying loop of thick semen hit my upper lip. But the second shot square into my mouth. I moved in closer. Then the third, the fourth, the fifth (he wasn't kidding about it being four days' worth)...until a nice oyster of cum had formed on my tongue. I swallowed. Delicious. Cum always tastes so much better when it's jacked off in your mouth like this. Doesn't get lost in the maddening saliva of a blowjob. His cum was exceptionally sweet, too. Must be from all the powdered donuts. I swallowed again, as his working hand went still, and fell away, and then I wrapped my lips around his head again, eager for every last drop. I swallowed. He pushed me away. "Stop! Jesus. Jesus fucking...that was good. My, my, my. Get a cloth. Clean me up. Hurry." Adding, "Bitch," as I struggled to my feet. Money Shots "Nice toes," he said with a laugh as I retreated to the kitchen. "Pervert! Twentyfive years ago I coulda arrested you just for wearing women's panties. Now-" "Now you're getting blowjobs." I'd returned with warm-wet dishcloth. I sank to my knees again. "Wiseass!" he said, cuffing my head. Twice. "You mouth off to your old Dom like that? You do that to me I get out the Glock. Have you suck THAT, asshole!" I remained silent and went about-gently, thoroughly-cleaning his half-flaccid cock. I sealed it with a kiss. Yummy. "Stop that! Pervert! I'm outta here..." He couldn't zip back up fast enough as I rose again to my painted feet. "Ow! Fuck! My wife's gonna..." He was halfway out the door. Halfway. He turned back. "Listen, prick. This is an ongoing investigation. Which means I'll be stopping by this time of day one, even two times a week to update you on the status. Got it? We wanta keep this on the back burner, right? Whore? I'll be back," he concluded, doing a bad Terminator impersonation. "So get used to being on your knees." He closed the door. I locked it. Looked down. My little penis was, surprisingly, half-erect in my panties. Told myself as I caressed it, and a spot of pre-cum darkened the silky pink front, and spread... The bad news is you're being shaken down by a crooked cop. The good: you have a new Dom! "Can you confirm? That's your, um, uh, rear end?" "It is," I replied confidently. The lead detective, a balding white guy in his forties, was having trouble choosing his words. And using them. Not so his partner, a black woman in her early thirties with a gymnast's build sitting on the very edge of my couch. "How can you tell?" she asked. I laughed-involuntarily. "Well...I've seen it before, many times. It's mine. Besides, those are definitely my lace thigh-highs and that's definitely my garter," I added, referring to baby-blue elastic ruffles about midway down my stockinged right thigh. "And what's that above your testicles?" She was referring to the one-inch tall chrome donut around my sack, with my taut, purplish cluster of little testicles almost engulfed by it underneath. I squirmed in my chair. "That's, um, that's a ball-stretcher." "Say what?" "A ball-stretcher. Some guys...well, it's kind of fetish thing. They hang weights from their testicles to stretch them." "And why would they want to do that?" I shrugged. "Because it's painful?" "It really isn't," I replied. "It's more of a...just a sensation. Some guys wear them all day. Some guys stretch their balls until they hang down to their knees. Although I would never do that," I quickly added. The female detective emitted a shoulder-rising sigh as if to say: Whatever... The lead detective cleared his throat. "OK, back to the subject at hand. You've established for us that this is you on your hands and knees in the video. Correct?" "I never denied it. Sir." "No. But...And then there's the gentleman you're having, um, intercourse with. Who is he?" "My Dom." "Your Mom?" Despite his relative youth, the male cop wore a hearing aid, left ear. "Dom." "Name?" his partner asked. Her blunt, to-the-point questions were like darts hitting a dartboard. "I don't know his name," I sighed. Realizing, as if it hadn't been apparent since my barking dog revealed an unmarked police car idling in my driveway, that this was an investigation and I was, at the very least, a witness. If not a suspect. "He's never used his name. I call him Master. Or Sir." "What about in emails?" I shook my head. "No, he never uses a name. And his handle is, I don't know, something like M&C1960...at Yahoo. I'd have to look it up. The hard-of-hearing cop glanced up from his notepad. "Nancy?" "M&C...something like that. It's not name-specific is what I'm trying to say." "So aside from poking you," the dart-thrower asked, with a gesture toward the video playing on iPad, "what's this guy do to you? Hurt you? Inflict pain?" I shrugged. "Sometimes. Spanking. Whipping. Caning. That sort of thing. Or attaching clothes pins to my genitals..." The female cop winced. "And then there's the ball-stretching but I do that anyway. He has a chair with a hollow bottom that he ties me up in. I'm completely immobilized. And blindfolded. And then he likes to stick things up my...in my rectum." "What kind of things?" Another shrug. "He likes...he really likes to insert tampons up my...inside me. He makes me buy a box and we keep it in the bathroom cabinet. He likes to take pictures of the little string hanging out, y'know?" The female cop, to whom I'd addressed the question, remained impassive. "And electrical cords..." "He sticks live electric cords up your...in your butt?" she asked. Or rather, nearly shrieked. "No, no. Nothing like that. It's one of those orange utility cords. It's cut off I guess about a foot from the plug. He feeds that in until just the plug sticks out. Then takes pics of it. Also soundings..." "Say what?" "Sound machines?" the half-deaf cop asked. "Soundings," I said. "In my penis. The real ones go, I think, all the way down into your bladder. Down your urethra. But these, I think...I think these are his wife's knitting needles." "He's married?" "He sticks knitting needles down your cock? Excuse me," she corrected, "penis?" "Yes ma'am. And yes, he is married." "How do you know?" "Cause he's always referring to her. 'Can't make it this week, wife's relatives are in town'...that kind of thing." "Know her name?" "No idea." "So I take it you don't meet at HIS house," the male cop observed. "No sir." "Here?" "No. It's kinda weird. We meet at a friend of his' condo at the nudist colony up the road." "Heavenly Lakes?" "Yes ma'am." (I kept reminding myself: Call them ma'm and sir. Appear submissive. Eager to cooperate.) It's like a second home for these friends of his but, like, they're never there. It's weird." The male cop was shaking his head. "Any name on the mail box, name on the mail on the kitchen counter? Somebody we could contact?" "No sir." Female cop: "But you could show us the location?" "You know, I'm not trying to be evasive but...I frankly don't know. It's like a maze in that place. More than a few times I've gotten lost and gone to the wrong front door. Very embarrassing when you're wearing lipstick and eye shadow." Female cop: "I bet." "How long have you and this, um, Dom as you call him, been, um...?" "Six months? Seven? It's pretty amazing for a Craigslist relationship. They usually peter out in a few weeks. But this one..." I pointed at my iPad's screen. And its repetitive close-up image of my Dom pumping my ass. "You can't see it in the video but I'm wearing a, like, jade ankle bracelet. I wear it whenever we get together. It's sort of a symbol-for me-of our, I guess you'd call it, relationship." "He bought it for you?" she asked. I laughed. "No way! He's too cheap. Never bought me anything. Not even a pair of panties at Christmas." "I know THAT feeling," the female cop said, throwing a glance off at the fireplace to her left. The male cop cleared his throat. "OK, so we've established that you're in the video with the unnamed Dom, as you call him, you're having anal intercourse with..." ("Bout the only kind you CAN have," I'm pretty sure the female cop muttered, under breath.) Another throat clear. "But obviously someone's shooting the video," he pointed. "It's obviously hand-held. Who-" "It's my iPad," I observed to no one in particular. "Is that how you found me?" "Soundings...?" The female cop jumped in. "We found you through the website where you do your sex-video posting. After 'prostitution' popped up in the vice squad search engine, we contacted the website and they provided what contact info they had on you. We traced you from there." My mouth hung open. "Prosti...?" "We're investigating an act of prostitution. On your part. Yes, exactly." "And your, um, Dom's..." "Yes." "I..." "Let's get back to the third person in the room. Who is it?" "I'm innocent!" I pleaded. "Answer the question." Dart to the heart. I was close to crying. Cleared my throat. "She's...he's another of my Dom's subs. Another crossdresser. Younger. Married. I don't know her-his-name either. I mean it's Glenda but that's his...He, our Dom...sometimes he fucks-excuse me-has intercourse with me, and SHE shoots the video, and sometimes he fucks her and I...And then sometimes He has us do Lesbian sex, as he calls it, kissing and...although 69 is not exactly...and then HE shoots the video." "Then what happens?" "I take it back. Download it to my desktop. Edit it in iMovie and then, once it's done, upload it to GayPornVideos.org. What we're watching now." "Yes. And, um, how many of these, um, videos have you...?" "Twenty-something. I think. I don't post all of them. Some of them suck. But, by my last count, I think we've had, like, all total, 45 million views." "45...what?" "Views. People watching." "Jesus," the female cop observed, glancing once again toward the fireplace, "you be like a movie star." "Wish I got paid for it," I laughed. But only briefly. "Yes, um, and that's why we're here. Pay-for-sex." He pointed at the iPad screen. "Just here. He's finishing. He finished. OK, he's pulling out..." The female cop winced as a half-ounce of my Master's copious semen spurted out of my dark, dilated hole. "OK and now, um...he disappears...he disappears from view...close-up of your...and then...but you, you remain on your..." "Yes. He told me to stay put." "Is that normal?" "Not really," I replied. "He usually wants me to, you know, clean him up afterwards. You know, before he goes home to his wife..." "But here he is back again, or his hands anyway...," all three of us on the edge of our seats watching my iPad video, "...and there it is...one...two...three. They look like twenties." "They ARE twenties," the female cop observed. "Sixty bucks. Tucked into your whatchumacallit." "Garter." "Garter. She knows these things, I don't," he nearly joked. "That to me, sir, is pay-for-sex. Otherwise known as prostitution." "Can you shut that thing off?" the female cop asked, hand shielding her attractive face, as more and more of my Master's thick semen oozed from my hole. "Thank you," she said, as I complied. I was full of laughter. Near hysteria. Close to a nervous breakdown. "You're kidding, right? Prostitution?" "It's called pay for, um, sex. Yes. That's the charge. Not the charge, we're only investigating at this point." "No I mean you're kidding about him-HIM?-paying me sixty dollars for a blowjob?" "You gave him a blowjob?" "Yes. No, I...I mean, a fuck? Intercourse?" "That's exactly what we're saying," she observed. "And it's no joke at all. People go to jail for this. They get their name in the paper. We confiscate their cars." "Well, not in this, um..." I still had the giggles. It was uncontrollable. "That's MY money he tucked into my..." "Hunh?" "My money! Listen. I said to him once...wouldn't it be cool if, after you fuck me-scuse me-have intercourse with me, you tucked a few bills under my garter. Like I'm an exotic dancer...?" "Or a prostitute." "No! You don't understand! I told you how cheap he is. I said...I'll supply the money, OK? You just...tuck it in when, after you're done. And he was like-" "You have an email you can share? To prove this?" I hung my head. "No, I...I'm pretty sure it was...it was verbal. A conversation. Like...let's pretend I'm a whore and you're, and you're..." "What was his response?" "He loved the idea. As long as I supplied the money." "But-let me get this straight-you can't tell us who he is. Therefore we can't corroborate your story." "I..." The lead detective looked at his watch. Then slapped his notepad shut. "This is an ongoing investigation into a felony charge of prostitution. You could go to jail for this. Here's my card," he said, handing it across to me as he rose. "I suggest you think real hard about who your, um, socalled Dom is and let us know if there's anything else you can, um, tell us about him." His succinct partner, who was now standing and barely rose to five feet, added: "If he doesn't corroborate your story we arrest you and you go to jail. OK? He goes to jail too. Sounds like he'd be more happy to back you up, right? In more ways that one?" "Yes ma'am." I followed them to my front door. My knees were shaking. I wanted to shout: "This was consensual sex! I'm not a prostitute! It was a game we played!" But it would be pointless. They couldn't care less. At the front door, with her hard-of-hearing partner already through it, the female detective, vice squad, turned back: "So you let this guy fuck you without a condom?" Now it was my turn to stammer. "I, uh...he's healthy. He's married. And I'm healthy." "What about the third guy?" "Oh she's...he's married too. He's healthy." She smiled an insincere smile. "Long as you're confident about it. Good luck..." The door closed. I locked it. Sank to the tile floor. Ironically, I'd never needed my Dom more than now... "Nice toes!" Two weeks had gone by since that first visit by the detectives. Now the older one-the male-arrived solo. It had been two weeks and lots of sleepless nights. I would lie in bed wondering what would happen next. Would I be arrested? Let away from my house in handcuffs?What would the neighbors think? Would my mugshot be splashed across the newspaper? What would my relatives think? My friends? My co-workers? I'd lose my job! I could see the headline now: BANK EMPLOYEE ARRESTED IN PORNOGRAPHY/PROSTITUTION SCANDAL After fitful dreams-nightmares-I would wake up sometimes and my knees would be shaking. As they now shook as once again my barking dog alerted me to the unmarked grey police car parked in my driveway. Panic time. Was this it? The arrest? I'd only just arrived home from work. After showering I'd changed into my usual summer around-the-house attire-a pair of lace microfiber panties. I hurriedly pulled on drawstring pants and a teeshirt and ran toward the insistently ringing doorbell. Forgetting in my haste that my bare feet revealed ten sparkling red-lacquered toenails below the hem. The cop's eyes dropped straight to them. "Nice toes!" I almost blushed. "Thank you." "Can I come in?" He already halfway was. "I have a thing for pretty women's feet. Not that you're a woman, but...The thing is, I marry my wife and wouldn't you know it? She's got like the ugliest feet you ever seen. It's like a horror show when she wears sandals. My teenage daughter on the other hand...she's, um, her feet are kinda cute. Not sure WHERE they came from. "Anyway. Off topic. I stopped by as kind of a courtesy call-I'm off duty by the way-to kind of, um, update you on your case." The detective tugged at the belt below beer belly's sag. "Wish I could report that your video friend, your, um, Dom, has corroborated your story about the money but, frankly, he hasn't. He hasn't said anything. Zipped up and went straight for the lawyer-who, by the way, insists-this is his claim-that there's no video evidence to even prove that's his client in the porn films. All they show is a body and a small portion of his body at that. Very clever filming by the way. Or editing. They call it plausible deniability. Good job." I was perplexed. Was the detective...complimenting ME? I said: "But couldn't you, I mean, couldn't you make him undress and compare..." "His name's Krups by the way. Like the coffee maker. Least that's the brand my wife has at the house. Damn she has ugly feet! You mean...couldn't we bring him in, make him undress and shoot video of his, um, below the waist? And then compare that to the porn flicks? Well, I suppose we could though his attorney would raise all kinds of hell. And it would take a court order. And this is just a prostitution case. Hell, vice arrests ten prostitutes a night. And twelve hours later they're back on the streets. You ever walked the street? Not exactly the kind of case the district attorney is gonna want to expend, you know, a lot of time and, uh, money on. Besides," the detective snorted, "you might be able to make the guy remove his pants but, um, well, don't know of a court order on earth that can require a guy to get a hard-on. And that's what we'd be comparing, right?" "He has a mole on his right butt-cheek," I said hopefully. "Hell, so do I. Or is it my left? So does my wife! So I guess what I'm telling you is that your case is kind of dead in the water at the moment. Still open but..." I felt a degree of relief. At least I wasn't being handcuffed... "But this just goes to show you, um, sir, what kind of trouble you can get in when money exchanges hands." "But money didn't-" "So for instance, if I said...just for argument's sake, said...I have a four-day load-I don't get nothin' from my wife anymore-I have a four-day load and I'll pay you forty bucks to give a blowjob, your response would be...?" To this point I'd been assiduously avoiding eye-contact with the cop. But now I lifted my head, and open mouth, and looked him square in the jowly face. Did I detect a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth? A smile? Sort of? Was he serious? Joking? Was this his attempt to entrap me? "No way," I replied forcefully. "Good. Good. Sounds like you've learned your lesson. But if no money was involved..." Hunh? He elaborated: "If no money changed hands and you got down on your knees-too bad you're not wearing stockings today, LOVE a girl in stockings, though I love the bare toes too-and sucked me off in return for, say, my assurance that your case would remain, let's just say, on the back burner..." Was this really happening? Was he shaking me down? "You get my drift? I gotta spell it out for you?" I'd looked up again. I started to speak. But the shit-eating grin on his face, coupled with the index finger of his right hand pointing downward, toward the zippered bulge, told me everything I needed to know. With a sigh I tossed my teeshirt aside, dropped my pants and sank to my knees. "Not the belt," he said, of my hands, "just the zipper. This is gonna be short and sweet. My wife's gonna be wondering where I am." I unzipped him, worked my hand in and pulled out his big log of an uncircumcised cock. Since it was the end of the day I expected it to be nasty. But it tasted shower-fresh. I even detected a hint of cologne. "Cute panties," he observed, as I went to work on him. "My daughter has a pair sorta that color. Sometimes I see her running down the hall in 'em. Then she's got a pair that says Daddy's Girl on the back. On her butt. Drives me wild. Don't tell my wife, though..." As if that's a remote possibility, I thought? "That's it, bitch, work it. Good...Heard from your Dom lately? Doubt it. Doesn't want any part of you. Not after you ratted him out. Watch the teeth! No, I think you'll be needing a new Dom now. Somebody to treat you like the slutty whore you are. Suck it, babe! Hey," he continued, as I gagged again on his full length, "we could even play a game. You give me a few twenties...I tuck 'em in your thingamajig, pretend you're my whore and I'm paying you to service me." He laughed. "Just kidding! "You do that so well, bitch," he continued, narrating his own blowjob. "You're such a pro...and I do mean pro. Cause I don't care what song and dance you give me and my sexy partner you little cumslut, I'm never gonna buy your-Oh! Fuck I'm gonna cum! Stop!" I backed away. Caught my breath. Wiped my mouth. Hated to admit it but the guy had a beautiful cock. Almost identical in girth and length to my Dom's. My ex-Dom's, I should say. Except that my ex-Dom was Jewish. Money Shots "Fuck," he sighed, squeezing his saliva-slick cock behind the head. "I wanted to...want to do...a cumshot. Isn't that what you guys call it? In the industry?" WHAT industry? I wondered. I'm a banker. The cop started stroking himself. Furiously. I opened my mouth-wide and quivering-and brought it close again. An inch from the tip of his gyrating head. "Bitch! Slut! Whore!...Panty fucking waist asshole queer cocksucking...Yow! Oh!" The first flying loop of thick semen hit my upper lip. But the second shot square into my mouth. I moved in closer. Then the third, the fourth, the fifth (he wasn't kidding about it being four days' worth)...until a nice oyster of cum had formed on my tongue. I swallowed. Delicious. Cum always tastes so much better when it's jacked off in your mouth like this. Doesn't get lost in the maddening saliva of a blowjob. His cum was exceptionally sweet, too. Must be from all the powdered donuts. I swallowed again, as his working hand went still, and fell away, and then I wrapped my lips around his head again, eager for every last drop. I swallowed. He pushed me away. "Stop! Jesus. Jesus fucking...that was good. My, my, my. Get a cloth. Clean me up. Hurry." Adding, "Bitch," as I struggled to my feet. "Nice toes," he said with a laugh as I retreated to the kitchen. "Pervert! Twentyfive years ago I coulda arrested you just for wearing women's panties. Now-" "Now you're getting blowjobs." I'd returned with warm-wet dishcloth. I sank to my knees again. "Wiseass!" he said, cuffing my head. Twice. "You mouth off to your old Dom like that? You do that to me I get out the Glock. Have you suck THAT, asshole!" I remained silent and went about-gently, thoroughly-cleaning his half-flaccid cock. I sealed it with a kiss. Yummy. "Stop that! Pervert! I'm outta here..." He couldn't zip back up fast enough as I rose again to my painted feet. "Ow! Fuck! My wife's gonna..." He was halfway out the door. Halfway. He turned back. "Listen, prick. This is an ongoing investigation. Which means I'll be stopping by this time of day one, even two times a week to update you on the status. Got it? We wanta keep this on the back burner, right? Whore? I'll be back," he concluded, doing a bad Terminator impersonation. "So get used to being on your knees." He closed the door. I locked it. Looked down. My little penis was, surprisingly, half-erect in my panties. Told myself as I caressed it, and a spot of pre-cum darkened the silky pink front, and spread... The bad news is you're being shaken down by a crooked cop. The good: you have a new Dom! "Can you confirm? That's your, um, uh, rear end?" "It is," I replied confidently. The lead detective, a balding white guy in his forties, was having trouble choosing his words. And using them. Not so his partner, a black woman in her early thirties with a gymnast's build sitting on the very edge of my couch. "How can you tell?" she asked. I laughed-involuntarily. "Well...I've seen it before, many times. It's mine. Besides, those are definitely my lace thigh-highs and that's definitely my garter," I added, referring to baby-blue elastic ruffles about midway down my stockinged right thigh. "And what's that above your testicles?" She was referring to the one-inch tall chrome donut around my sack, with my taut, purplish cluster of little testicles almost engulfed by it underneath. I squirmed in my chair. "That's, um, that's a ball-stretcher." "Say what?" "A ball-stretcher. Some guys...well, it's kind of fetish thing. They hang weights from their testicles to stretch them." "And why would they want to do that?" I shrugged. "Because it's painful?" "It really isn't," I replied. "It's more of a...just a sensation. Some guys wear them all day. Some guys stretch their balls until they hang down to their knees. Although I would never do that," I quickly added. The female detective emitted a shoulder-rising sigh as if to say: Whatever... The lead detective cleared his throat. "OK, back to the subject at hand. You've established for us that this is you on your hands and knees in the video. Correct?" "I never denied it. Sir." "No. But...And then there's the gentleman you're having, um, intercourse with. Who is he?" "My Dom." "Your Mom?" Despite his relative youth, the male cop wore a hearing aid, left ear. "Dom." "Name?" his partner asked. Her blunt, to-the-point questions were like darts hitting a dartboard. "I don't know his name," I sighed. Realizing, as if it hadn't been apparent since my barking dog revealed an unmarked police car idling in my driveway, that this was an investigation and I was, at the very least, a witness. If not a suspect. "He's never used his name. I call him Master. Or Sir." "What about in emails?" I shook my head. "No, he never uses a name. And his handle is, I don't know, something like M&C1960...at Yahoo. I'd have to look it up. The hard-of-hearing cop glanced up from his notepad. "Nancy?" "M&C...something like that. It's not name-specific is what I'm trying to say." "So aside from poking you," the dart-thrower asked, with a gesture toward the video playing on iPad, "what's this guy do to you? Hurt you? Inflict pain?" I shrugged. "Sometimes. Spanking. Whipping. Caning. That sort of thing. Or attaching clothes pins to my genitals..." The female cop winced. "And then there's the ball-stretching but I do that anyway. He has a chair with a hollow bottom that he ties me up in. I'm completely immobilized. And blindfolded. And then he likes to stick things up my...in my rectum." "What kind of things?" Another shrug. "He likes...he really likes to insert tampons up my...inside me. He makes me buy a box and we keep it in the bathroom cabinet. He likes to take pictures of the little string hanging out, y'know?" The female cop, to whom I'd addressed the question, remained impassive. "And electrical cords..." "He sticks live electric cords up your...in your butt?" she asked. Or rather, nearly shrieked. "No, no. Nothing like that. It's one of those orange utility cords. It's cut off I guess about a foot from the plug. He feeds that in until just the plug sticks out. Then takes pics of it. Also soundings..." "Say what?" "Sound machines?" the half-deaf cop asked. "Soundings," I said. "In my penis. The real ones go, I think, all the way down into your bladder. Down your urethra. But these, I think...I think these are his wife's knitting needles." "He's married?" "He sticks knitting needles down your cock? Excuse me," she corrected, "penis?" "Yes ma'am. And yes, he is married." "How do you know?" "Cause he's always referring to her. 'Can't make it this week, wife's relatives are in town'...that kind of thing." "Know her name?" "No idea." "So I take it you don't meet at HIS house," the male cop observed. "No sir." "Here?" "No. It's kinda weird. We meet at a friend of his' condo at the nudist colony up the road." "Heavenly Lakes?" "Yes ma'am." (I kept reminding myself: Call them ma'm and sir. Appear submissive. Eager to cooperate.) It's like a second home for these friends of his but, like, they're never there. It's weird." The male cop was shaking his head. "Any name on the mail box, name on the mail on the kitchen counter? Somebody we could contact?" "No sir." Female cop: "But you could show us the location?" "You know, I'm not trying to be evasive but...I frankly don't know. It's like a maze in that place. More than a few times I've gotten lost and gone to the wrong front door. Very embarrassing when you're wearing lipstick and eye shadow." Female cop: "I bet." "How long have you and this, um, Dom as you call him, been, um...?" "Six months? Seven? It's pretty amazing for a Craigslist relationship. They usually peter out in a few weeks. But this one..." I pointed at my iPad's screen. And its repetitive close-up image of my Dom pumping my ass. "You can't see it in the video but I'm wearing a, like, jade ankle bracelet. I wear it whenever we get together. It's sort of a symbol-for me-of our, I guess you'd call it, relationship." "He bought it for you?" she asked. I laughed. "No way! He's too cheap. Never bought me anything. Not even a pair of panties at Christmas." "I know THAT feeling," the female cop said, throwing a glance off at the fireplace to her left. The male cop cleared his throat. "OK, so we've established that you're in the video with the unnamed Dom, as you call him, you're having anal intercourse with..." ("Bout the only kind you CAN have," I'm pretty sure the female cop muttered, under breath.) Another throat clear. "But obviously someone's shooting the video," he pointed. "It's obviously hand-held. Who-" "It's my iPad," I observed to no one in particular. "Is that how you found me?" "Soundings...?" The female cop jumped in. "We found you through the website where you do your sex-video posting. After 'prostitution' popped up in the vice squad search engine, we contacted the website and they provided what contact info they had on you. We traced you from there." My mouth hung open. "Prosti...?" "We're investigating an act of prostitution. On your part. Yes, exactly." "And your, um, Dom's..." "Yes." "I..." "Let's get back to the third person in the room. Who is it?" "I'm innocent!" I pleaded. "Answer the question." Dart to the heart. I was close to crying. Cleared my throat. "She's...he's another of my Dom's subs. Another crossdresser. Younger. Married. I don't know her-his-name either. I mean it's Glenda but that's his...He, our Dom...sometimes he fucks-excuse me-has intercourse with me, and SHE shoots the video, and sometimes he fucks her and I...And then sometimes He has us do Lesbian sex, as he calls it, kissing and...although 69 is not exactly...and then HE shoots the video." "Then what happens?" "I take it back. Download it to my desktop. Edit it in iMovie and then, once it's done, upload it to GayPornVideos.org. What we're watching now." "Yes. And, um, how many of these, um, videos have you...?" "Twenty-something. I think. I don't post all of them. Some of them suck. But, by my last count, I think we've had, like, all total, 45 million views." "45...what?" "Views. People watching." "Jesus," the female cop observed, glancing once again toward the fireplace, "you be like a movie star." "Wish I got paid for it," I laughed. But only briefly. "Yes, um, and that's why we're here. Pay-for-sex." He pointed at the iPad screen. "Just here. He's finishing. He finished. OK, he's pulling out..." The female cop winced as a half-ounce of my Master's copious semen spurted out of my dark, dilated hole. "OK and now, um...he disappears...he disappears from view...close-up of your...and then...but you, you remain on your..." "Yes. He told me to stay put." "Is that normal?" "Not really," I replied. "He usually wants me to, you know, clean him up afterwards. You know, before he goes home to his wife..." "But here he is back again, or his hands anyway...," all three of us on the edge of our seats watching my iPad video, "...and there it is...one...two...three. They look like twenties." "They ARE twenties," the female cop observed. "Sixty bucks. Tucked into your whatchumacallit." "Garter." "Garter. She knows these things, I don't," he nearly joked. "That to me, sir, is pay-for-sex. Otherwise known as prostitution." "Can you shut that thing off?" the female cop asked, hand shielding her attractive face, as more and more of my Master's thick semen oozed from my hole. "Thank you," she said, as I complied. I was full of laughter. Near hysteria. Close to a nervous breakdown. "You're kidding, right? Prostitution?" "It's called pay for, um, sex. Yes. That's the charge. Not the charge, we're only investigating at this point." "No I mean you're kidding about him-HIM?-paying me sixty dollars for a blowjob?" "You gave him a blowjob?" "Yes. No, I...I mean, a fuck? Intercourse?" "That's exactly what we're saying," she observed. "And it's no joke at all. People go to jail for this. They get their name in the paper. We confiscate their cars." "Well, not in this, um..." I still had the giggles. It was uncontrollable. "That's MY money he tucked into my..." "Hunh?" "My money! Listen. I said to him once...wouldn't it be cool if, after you fuck me-scuse me-have intercourse with me, you tucked a few bills under my garter. Like I'm an exotic dancer...?" "Or a prostitute." "No! You don't understand! I told you how cheap he is. I said...I'll supply the money, OK? You just...tuck it in when, after you're done. And he was like-" "You have an email you can share? To prove this?" I hung my head. "No, I...I'm pretty sure it was...it was verbal. A conversation. Like...let's pretend I'm a whore and you're, and you're..." "What was his response?" "He loved the idea. As long as I supplied the money." "But-let me get this straight-you can't tell us who he is. Therefore we can't corroborate your story." "I..." The lead detective looked at his watch. Then slapped his notepad shut. "This is an ongoing investigation into a felony charge of prostitution. You could go to jail for this. Here's my card," he said, handing it across to me as he rose. "I suggest you think real hard about who your, um, socalled Dom is and let us know if there's anything else you can, um, tell us about him." His succinct partner, who was now standing and barely rose to five feet, added: "If he doesn't corroborate your story we arrest you and you go to jail. OK? He goes to jail too. Sounds like he'd be more happy to back you up, right? In more ways that one?" "Yes ma'am." I followed them to my front door. My knees were shaking. I wanted to shout: "This was consensual sex! I'm not a prostitute! It was a game we played!" But it would be pointless. They couldn't care less. At the front door, with her hard-of-hearing partner already through it, the female detective, vice squad, turned back: "So you let this guy fuck you without a condom?" Now it was my turn to stammer. "I, uh...he's healthy. He's married. And I'm healthy." "What about the third guy?" "Oh she's...he's married too. He's healthy." She smiled an insincere smile. "Long as you're confident about it. Good luck..." The door closed. I locked it. Sank to the tile floor. Ironically, I'd never needed my Dom more than now... "Nice toes!" Two weeks had gone by since that first visit by the detectives. Now the older one-the male-arrived solo. It had been two weeks and lots of sleepless nights. I would lie in bed wondering what would happen next. Would I be arrested? Let away from my house in handcuffs?What would the neighbors think? Would my mugshot be splashed across the newspaper? What would my relatives think? My friends? My co-workers? I'd lose my job! I could see the headline now: BANK EMPLOYEE ARRESTED IN PORNOGRAPHY/PROSTITUTION SCANDAL After fitful dreams-nightmares-I would wake up sometimes and my knees would be shaking. As they now shook as once again my barking dog alerted me to the unmarked grey police car parked in my driveway. Panic time. Was this it? The arrest? I'd only just arrived home from work. After showering I'd changed into my usual summer around-the-house attire-a pair of lace microfiber panties. I hurriedly pulled on drawstring pants and a teeshirt and ran toward the insistently ringing doorbell. Forgetting in my haste that my bare feet revealed ten sparkling red-lacquered toenails below the hem. The cop's eyes dropped straight to them. "Nice toes!" I almost blushed. "Thank you." "Can I come in?" He already halfway was. "I have a thing for pretty women's feet. Not that you're a woman, but...The thing is, I marry my wife and wouldn't you know it? She's got like the ugliest feet you ever seen. It's like a horror show when she wears sandals. My teenage daughter on the other hand...she's, um, her feet are kinda cute. Not sure WHERE they came from. "Anyway. Off topic. I stopped by as kind of a courtesy call-I'm off duty by the way-to kind of, um, update you on your case." The detective tugged at the belt below beer belly's sag. "Wish I could report that your video friend, your, um, Dom, has corroborated your story about the money but, frankly, he hasn't. He hasn't said anything. Zipped up and went straight for the lawyer-who, by the way, insists-this is his claim-that there's no video evidence to even prove that's his client in the porn films. All they show is a body and a small portion of his body at that. Very clever filming by the way. Or editing. They call it plausible deniability. Good job." I was perplexed. Was the detective...complimenting ME? I said: "But couldn't you, I mean, couldn't you make him undress and compare..." "His name's Krups by the way. Like the coffee maker. Least that's the brand my wife has at the house. Damn she has ugly feet! You mean...couldn't we bring him in, make him undress and shoot video of his, um, below the waist? And then compare that to the porn flicks? Well, I suppose we could though his attorney would raise all kinds of hell. And it would take a court order. And this is just a prostitution case. Hell, vice arrests ten prostitutes a night. And twelve hours later they're back on the streets. You ever walked the street? Not exactly the kind of case the district attorney is gonna want to expend, you know, a lot of time and, uh, money on. Besides," the detective snorted, "you might be able to make the guy remove his pants but, um, well, don't know of a court order on earth that can require a guy to get a hard-on. And that's what we'd be comparing, right?" "He has a mole on his right butt-cheek," I said hopefully. "Hell, so do I. Or is it my left? So does my wife! So I guess what I'm telling you is that your case is kind of dead in the water at the moment. Still open but..." I felt a degree of relief. At least I wasn't being handcuffed... "But this just goes to show you, um, sir, what kind of trouble you can get in when money exchanges hands." "But money didn't-" "So for instance, if I said...just for argument's sake, said...I have a four-day load-I don't get nothin' from my wife anymore-I have a four-day load and I'll pay you forty bucks to give a blowjob, your response would be...?" To this point I'd been assiduously avoiding eye-contact with the cop. But now I lifted my head, and open mouth, and looked him square in the jowly face. Did I detect a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth? A smile? Sort of? Was he serious? Joking? Was this his attempt to entrap me? "No way," I replied forcefully. "Good. Good. Sounds like you've learned your lesson. But if no money was involved..." Hunh? He elaborated: "If no money changed hands and you got down on your knees-too bad you're not wearing stockings today, LOVE a girl in stockings, though I love the bare toes too-and sucked me off in return for, say, my assurance that your case would remain, let's just say, on the back burner..." Was this really happening? Was he shaking me down? "You get my drift? I gotta spell it out for you?" I'd looked up again. I started to speak. But the shit-eating grin on his face, coupled with the index finger of his right hand pointing downward, toward the zippered bulge, told me everything I needed to know. With a sigh I tossed my teeshirt aside, dropped my pants and sank to my knees. "Not the belt," he said, of my hands, "just the zipper. This is gonna be short and sweet. My wife's gonna be wondering where I am." I unzipped him, worked my hand in and pulled out his big log of an uncircumcised cock. Since it was the end of the day I expected it to be nasty. But it tasted shower-fresh. I even detected a hint of cologne.