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Kittycat

By: Pussyrider



Catherine Somers stared at the wall, feeling physically sick, and wondered how the hell she got to this place in her life. When she'd been promoted to her current post she was the youngest female Assistant Commissioner in the history of the Metropolitan Police. Now, at the age of 44, she just felt washed out, incapable of coping with her life anymore. Of course, a lot of that had to do with her husband. A senior solicitor with the Crown Prosecution Service, she had known for a couple of months that he was having an affair with a girl in his office, a kid young enough to be their daughter; well, his, anyway. They had never discussed it, but he knew Catherine knew, and he hardly bothered to make up lies anymore about why he'd had to stay late at the office, or why he had to stay somewhere overnight on business.

Then there was the new bloody Commissioner. Promoted over her head -- and those of the Deputy Commissioners, and the other Assistant Commissioners -- he had come in from a rural county with lots of new ideas. Of course, they always changed things, they had to make their mark and impress their political masters. This one's brilliant idea, one of them anyway, was that his Assistants were out of touch with modern policing, so they needed to go out onto the streets, and re-learn what it was like on the front line. In Catherine's case, she had to admit that maybe he had a point. Educated at an exclusive girls' school, then Oxford, where she'd achieved her honours degree in criminology, she'd been recruited by the Met on a fast track programme that saw her sitting in an office conducting policy reviews from day one. She'd never done any real life policing in her entire career. So that's why she was now here, on a wet Tuesday night in South London, in a dingy little flat which smelt of sweat, boiled cabbage and stale cigarettes, while a drugs task force corralled the residents downstairs, racially abused them and searched the place for illegal substances.

The wail of a terrified infant drifted up the stairs. Catherine sighed and drifted into what she thought was a bedroom. Strictly speaking, she was supposed to stay with the other officers; but the upstairs had already been swept for booty, and she wanted a bit of peace, to get away from all the macho posturing of her erstwhile colleagues as they tore the downstairs apart. She was surprised, though, to see that it wasn't a bedroom. At least, that wasn't what it was used for. It was almost bare, save for a potter's wheel in one corner, what she assumed was some sort of kiln, and a table. And on the table was the most extraordinary sight. It was a clay model of, well, a man's genitalia. The testicles formed its base, and it stood upright, like a space rocket, pointing at the ceiling. It was undecorated and retained the original reddish brown colour of the clay. It was huge -- a good ten inches high, clearly larger than life, and incredibly detailed. She stared open-mouthed at what appeared to be a vein running up one idea of the model. Strangely fascinated by it, she moved closer her eyes fixed on the thing. As if in a trance, she reached out a hand, and ran a finger slowly, delicately up the vein...

"Lifelike, innit?" At the sound of the voice she gasped, and withdrew her hand as if the clay penis had bitten it. She whirled round to see a figure leaning lazily against the frame of the open door. He was an IC3 male (West Indian), mid-thirties maybe, about six feet tall, with a slim but apparently well muscled body, sporting a Bob Marley T-shirt and rather grubby jeans. Shoulder-length dreadlocks framed a thin face with eyes as black and hard as lumps of coal, high prominent cheekbones and a chin that tapered to a sharp point, covered by a thin line of beard, rather Marleyish itself. The guy repeated, "I said, the cock -- lifelike, isn't it?" His accent was South London, with a slight Jamaican twang, his voice a deep rumble.

Catherine felt her face unaccountably flush, and she felt confused -- she thought the coppers downstairs had everyone in the house under control. Glancing at the phallus again, trying not to let her eyes rest on it for too long, she replied to his question. "I wouldn't know, is it?" Christ, she was a senior police officer, with a dozen baton-wielding heavies one flight of stairs away -- why did she feel so nervous? Almost unconsciously, she rested her hand lightly on the handle of her own baton, a gesture which didn't go unnoticed by the rasta.

He nodded slowly, and pushed himself away from the doorframe, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. "Yeah, it is. Talented lady, my Belinda. I can show you if you like." He grinned at the lady cop's bewildered expression, displaying large teeth with a gap between the upper incisors. Speaking more slowly, as if to a congenital idiot, he said "Would you like to see just how lifelike dat dere dong is?" Grinning even more widely, he spread his hand suggestively over his groin.

Catherine couldn't believe it. Did this idiot have any idea who he was talking to? She could take him in and throw the key away just for looking at her in a funny way. Her eyes were drawn magnetically once again to the clay model. Of course it wasn't lifelike, it was obviously far too big. She turned back to face the man, and saw with horror that he had unzipped the fly of his jeans about an inch. Her mouth felt terribly dry. Why was she just standing here like a rag doll, staring at him as the zip dropped another quarter-inch? He must know about the racist uniforms downstairs. God, why wasn't she doing anything herself? 

Grinning more widely by the moment, the rasta continued to slide his zip down, infinitely slowly, as if waiting for her to tell him to stop and nick him for gross indecency. Then the fly was all the way down. Giving Catherine a sly look, and stepping a pace closer to her, he half-whispered, apparently with a mixture of amazement and relish, "White cop lady do want to see the big black man's prick, don't she?" Catherine watched in dumb paralysis as, his eyes locked on hers, the leering man reached inside his jeans. A moment later, there is was. Oh God, the model really was a true representation. She stared at it, the biggest cock she had ever seen in the flesh. She honestly recognised it from the model, right down to that vein. Swallowing nervously, she took a step closer to the man, eyes fixed on his crotch.

At that moment there was a pounding of feet on the stairs, and a uniformed sergeant burst through the doorway, grabbing the frame to slow his pace. Pushing the black guy -- who had quickly stuffed his knob away -- into the wall he ranted, "Oi sunshine, I thought you wanted a piss? Are you all right ma'am?" Catherine nodded then, belatedly finding her voice, said she was fine. As two constables entered the room and pinned the rasta to the wall, the sergeant noticed the clay model for the first time, and advanced on it with a malicious glint in his eye. With a sweep of his baton he knocked it to the floor, where he smashed it under his boot.

The black guy roared in fury at that, and tried to shake off the hands which firmly held him against the wall. Catherine jumped at the sound, as if some sort of spell had been broken. Sharply, she said, "Sergeant, was that entirely necessary?"

The man was obviously thinking quickly, an act which Catherine doubted came naturally to him. "Well ma'am, it was possible there was drugs moulded into it, we had to check."

Scowling, Catherine turned her back on him and snapped at the constables, "Unless you're arresting that gentleman for anything you found in this house, kindly release him." The young PCs did so, reluctantly, and stood tensely waiting to grab him again if he made a wrong move. But he simply slumped back against the wall, staring miserably at the shattered remnants of his girlfriend's handiwork.

Back at her desk at New Scotland Yard, in the early hours of the morning, Catherine stood in the ladies, splashing water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and saw a face drained of blood and haunted eyes. She was mortified. How could she have been so, what, stupid? Pathetic? What the fuck was she thinking of letting some suspect flash her? Maybe her cheating bastard of a husband wasn't the only one going through a midlife crisis. After completing the report she'd drafted of the evening's events -- having left out any reference to her encounter in the art studio -- she gathered herself and left the building. The apartment she and Peter, her husband, shared during the week was in Pimlico, only about 15 minutes walk from her office, and she felt the cool night air, and the steady drizzle, might do her some good.

She let herself into the cold, empty flat. Peter was away in Birmingham for a few days, working with the local force on something. No doubt his slag girlfriend was with him. Sighing, Catherine towelled off her damp, short curly brown hair and switched on the kettle for her 500th coffee of the day. A few minutes later, having carefully hung up her uniform, she stripped and prepared to climb into bed. As she did she caught sight of herself in the full length mirror, and paused. She really wasn't a bad looking woman, for her age. She'd never been considered beautiful, but she'd kind of matured into her looks, and her face was certainly attractive now. Her cheeks were showing the first signs of plumpness, but she didn't have a double chin. Her quite large breasts were still firm, with no hint of drooping. There was only the smallest swell of extra flesh at her tummy, and her trimmed, dark brown pubic hair stretched down to firm thighs. She'd always been proud of her good legs. She sank onto the bed and started at the ceiling in the darkness. She was still desirable; Christ, a couple of the blokes at work openly flirted with her. Okay, it was all just a bit of fun, but...why hadn't Peter screwed her more than three times in the past year, and not much more for the two or three years before that? More to the point, why would a 51-year old man want a skinny, plain-faced little girl when he had Catherine at his beck and call? She rolled over, furious at the teardrops which had formed in the corners of her eyes.

Catherine was back at her desk by nine o'clock the next morning, dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't slept well, being disturbed by alarming dreams she couldn't quite recall. Sighing -- she did that so much these days -- she sipped a strong black coffee as she checked her schedule for the day. Oh good, she was actually going to be allowed to get on with her real work, a couple of reports to write, a few to study, a briefing in the afternoon on a staff morale review...no more playing cops and robbers for a day or two. The Commissioner's rather creepy assistant had scheduled her to go out with the vice squad on Friday, for a raid on an illegal brothel. Oh great, just what she needed: bursting in with a bunch of Met heavies on a gang of gun-toting Russian mafiosa, and arresting a load of terrified teenage Albanian girls who had escaped a life of grinding poverty back home for a life as sex slaves in a country whose language they didn't even speak. That would do wonders for her morale - not! Taking a deep draught of coffee, she wondered what she had done to piss off the creepy assistant so mightily.

The morning actually went quite well, and quite quickly. She got several of her reports cleared, and managed to hardly think at all about Peter fucking his little blonde cupie doll. The dark events of the night before had more or less been driven from her mind. By one o'clock Catherine had built up a real appetite, and decided to wander to the Italian café across the road to pick up a sandwich. She could have asked Joanne, her secretary, to go, but the sun was out and she could use a breath of fresh air, before an afternoon of teenage psychologists telling her and her fellow senior officers what they already knew, how fed up the rank and file were. Thinking about nothing in particular she left the building and paused to allow a car to pass before crossing to the café. She barely registered a tall figure in a green, yellow and red rasta hat slouching outside the place, and slipping inside as she approached. 

There was quite a queue at the sandwich bar, and by the time she got served Catherine was feeling a little sweaty and a bit fed up. As she turned to return to her office, she got the shock of her life -- sitting not two yards from her on a stool, leaning back against a window table, was the rasta from the previous night! He had removed his multi-coloured hat, and sat grinning straight at her, chewing gum. His feet rested on the bar between the feet of the stool and his knees were wide apart. Not even realising she was doing it, Catherine's eyes strayed to the join of his legs. He was wearing tight jeans, and the bulge in the front of them was enormous! Feeling her face flush, she raised her eyes -- and saw that annoying grin of his again, widening as he took in the sight of her. He raised his eyebrows suggestively. At that moment someone pushed rather rudely past Catherine, and moment passed. But as she hurried back to New Scotland Yard she glanced back over her shoulder three times, and each time she saw the man's eyes boring into her, that confident grin like a Cheshire cat's.

Back at her desk, Catherine felt in shock. Putting her cheese salad baguette to one side -- she'd lost her appetite -- she checked her watch. Yes, she just had time before the briefing. Lifting the 'phone, she dialled the number of the Chief Inspector who had led the drugs raid the evening before. "Hi Jimmy, I'm looking for some information. There was a guy at the place we turned over last night, I'm wondering if you know who he is?" She described him.

There was a chuckle from the other end of the line. "Oh yes, ma'am, I now him all right. A well known person of interest, as they say. Name's Sonny Anderson. We think he owns the gaff we raided last night, but of course there's nothing on the papers to prove it. Nasty piece of work, we think he's into drug trafficking, dealing, prostitution, you name it. He's also suspected of a couple of knifings. Trouble is, he's careful, we've never been able to pin more on him than a couple of parking tickets. We did have one fella last year ready to grass him up, but the guy suddenly disappeared. His brother said he's returned to Jamaica at short notice, but the funny thing is that the Kingston police have never been able to find him. Why are you interested in him?"

Catherine realised she hadn't thought of an excuse for her enquiry. "Oh, er, nothing, something just came up, that's all. Thanks Jimmy." She stared thoughtfully out of the window of her eighth storey office. It had to be just coincidence that she'd seen Anderson that day. Then she sniggered humourlessly at her risible attempt at self-delusion. Oh yeah, of course it was a coincidence, Brixton gangstas spent most of their time hanging out in coffee bars fifty yards from the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, it was a well know fact, ha ha. So why had he been there? To contact her? What was it he wanted from her?

She tired to put all thoughts of Sonny Anderson out of her mind during the morale briefing, but her mind kept slipping back to the conundrum of why he'd turned up on her doorstep. More than once during the afternoon she closed her eyes and saw a momentary vision of that huge semi-erect dong poking out of his fly. At one point she awoke from her reverie with a start as she realised an Assistant Commissioner -- her boss -- had asked her something, and she had no idea what.

Catherine was embarrassed, flustered and more than a little pissed off when she returned to her office. She was sure she had seen, as the briefing broke up, the A.C. who had asked her the question jerking his chin in her direction and joking with one of the other officers. Damn him, the bastard probably knew more about her husband's extra-marital activities than she did. When you came right down to it, the police force was still one of the most sexist organisations imaginable, just a big boys' club really. She'd only just settled at her desk when Joanne buzzed her. "Hi ma'am, I've got a caller for you, a Mister Anderson. Refuses to say what it's about, but he's quite insistent he needs to speak to you. It's not the first time he's 'phoned today. D'you want me to fob him off on someone else?" 

Nervously, Catherine said she'd take the call. A moment later she heard the deep rumbling voice from the evening before. "Hi white police lady, how ya doin'?" He waited a moment for her response, but Catherine said nothing. Anderson continued, saying simply, "I got something for ya."

It was Catherine's turn to wait, for further comment, but none was forthcoming. She said, "What do you mean? What do you have for me? Do you mean information?"

When Anderson spoke again his voice was like warm honey, almost playful. "Yeah, somethin' like that. Somethin' you want...somethin' you need. Can't be seen talkin' to you though, we both got our reputations to consider. I wait in me car, in Orchard Street, say an hour's time?"

It was clear Catherine wasn't going to get any more out of him on the 'phone, so she reluctantly agreed. After she hung up she realised she had been so thrown by the call that she hadn't even asked what car he drove. She couldn't think of anything else for the next hour. She knew what she'd agreed to was risky, wondering whether she should take back-up; but she didn't want to scare Anderson off. At worst he was hopefully going to shop some of his gang rivals; at best, she might even be able to trick him into saying something that would incriminate him. Shortly before the agreed time she changed out of her uniform into a cream blouse, a loose brown knee-length suede skirt and tan tights, slipping her comfortable flat-heeled shoes back on her feet.. Then pulling on a light coloured raincoat she left for the rendezvous. God, she hated these dark winter nights -- barely six and it was already pitch black.

Orchard Street was only a couple of minutes walk from The Yard, and Catherine strolled slowly, self-consciously up the street, wondering how she was going to know which of the parked car's belonged to her contact. As she approached one vehicle the headlights flashed, twice, and the passenger door swung open. Damn, in this light she wasn't sure of the model. More by habit than intention, though, she made a mental note of the registration number. The car was a low slung sleek white thing, with blacked-out windows all round: what she'd heard other officers refer to as a 'pimpmobile'. She reflected ironically that, even without the light flash, she'd have picked this out among all the staid middle-aged, middle class vehicles along the street as Anderson's. 

Taking a deep breath, her heart pounding, she slid into the tiger skin printed seat and closed the door. She wasn't used to field work, wasn't trained for it. Anderson's body was twisted in the driver's seat towards her, and there was that grin again. In a mocking tone, he said, "Shaaame, I was hopin' you'd be wearin' that sexy uniform of yours."

Trying to look and sound brusque and businesslike, Catherine said, "Okay, I'm here, what do you want to tell me?" Anderson didn't answer. Instead he swung the car out of its parking space and veered out into Victoria Street, ignoring the angry horn blaring from the taxi he'd cut up as Catherine hurriedly buckled her seatbelt. Anderson drove past the Houses of Parliament and across Westminster Bridge. Within minutes they were deep in South London.

Trying not to sound as scared as she felt, Catherine demanded, "Where are we going?" The man ignored her, and she turned towards him, barking, "I asked you a question. Where are you taking me?"


Kittycat



Anderson sighed tiredly, and pulled over to the pavement. Leaning across her, he reached out and opened the passenger door. "You wanna get out?" His arm rested along the back of her seat, long fingers lightly touching her left shoulder. She glanced out of the open door. She had no idea where she was, but the area looked distinctly dodgy. As if sensing her thoughts, Anderson said, "If you want, I take you back to Scotland Yard, drop you there. You want that?"

Catherine closed her eyes, her mind in turmoil. The hand along the back of her seat had now moved, the hand actually holding her shoulder, kneading it lightly. He had leaned his face close to hers, and she could feel his breath lightly ruffling her hair. She pulled the passenger door closed. Swallowing, and trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, she said quietly, "Just take me wherever it is we're going."

They drove on in tense silence for maybe another fifteen minutes until the car swung into what looked like quite a pleasant residential terrace. Anderson killed the engine and, without looking at her, said, "This is it. You comin' in?" Not waiting for an answer, he got out of the car and walked through a small white wooden gate, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. Catherine couldn't have explained why she followed him, but she did. Somewhere deep down she knew that if she had any sense she'd be running in the opposite direction, snatching her mobile 'phone out of her bag and calling for help.

They climbed a narrow flight of stairs and Anderson swung open the door of a flat. It was a studio, with a large lounge area, a bed at the back on a sort of raised platform, separated from the lounge by a wooden balustrade. Anderson took her coat and nodded towards a white leather couch; unquestioningly, Catherine sat on it. He strolled towards a kitchen area, and asked if she wanted a drink. Gazing around her at the room, she weakly replied, "A gin would be nice, with tonic if you have it." The room was quite tastefully decorated, with cream-coloured walls, subtle uplighting and a big plasma TV in one corner, with an expensive looking stereo unit standing next to it.

Anderson sank onto the couch beside Catherine -- right beside her, his eyes boring into her. She nervously sipped the drink he handed her. It was a neat gin, and the sharp taste sparkled on her tongue. She became aware that Anderson was leaning close to her again, his arm along the back of the couch, just above her shoulders. Speaking softly, seductively, he said, "Ya see, what it is, white police lady. I got this sixth sense for people. I can tell how they feelin', I mean deep inside themselves. And you hurtin', hurtin' real bad, I see that last night." She gasped as his fingers began to lightly stroke her neck. "An' I tell why you hurtin' too. An' that why we here. But then you know that, don't you?"

Catherine shuddered as she felt his hand rest momentarily on her knee, then begin to slide slowly under her skirt, up her thigh. "You wan' it real bad, I see that last night. They other Babylon" -- rasta slang for the police -- "not there las' night, I think you'd have gone down on your knees and sucked me right there and then." His hand was tugging at the waistband of Catherine's pants, his fingers beginning to slip beneath it. God, this was all happening so fast! The fingers of his other hand were now stroking her ear. Oh Jesus, she couldn't let him do this to her, she couldn't let it happen, she really couldn't...

She groaned shamelessly as the man stroked a finger along her slit, then pressed it inside her. Whispering seductively into her ear, his tongue occasionally flicking out to lick it, he murmured, "How long it been? Too long, that obvious. An' you such a sexy, beautiful, desirable, white lady." Catherine knew she was quite incapable of stopping him. He now had two fingers in her vagina, slowly stirring around inside her, while his other hand was unbuttoning her blouse. She let her head fall onto the back of the couch, her mind telling her to flee but her body telling her it was on the verge of ecstasy. She felt her bra cup pulled down, and as Sonny began to suck on her breast she dropped the empty gin glass and placed a hand on his head, taking a couple of his dreadlocks between her fingers.

Still sucking her, his tongue flicking her nipple, Sonny reached out and took her other hand, placing it on his groin. His manhood felt massive. No longer capable of controlling her actions, Catherine sought out his fly and unzipped it. A moment later her hand closed around that cock she'd first seen less than 24 hours earlier. The heat of it burned her hand. It was so thick, so long, and so very hard. Sonny chuckled around her tit. Removing his mouth for a moment, he murmured, "You name Catherine, innit? I gonna call you Kittycat -- and I gonna make you purr like a pussycat." She groaned with abandon as he started seriously fucking her with his fingers, and sucked her entire breast into his mouth, running his tongue all around it. His voice muffled by her tit, he asked, "You wan' my big black prick up your little white pussy, Kittycat?"

Catherine was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice as she said, "Yes. Yes, I do."

Sonny chuckled again, a deep rumble. Raising his head to her eye level, he said, "Okay, you can have it. But first, I want it in your mouth. I want that suck I fancied last night." She was already so debased that, without a moment's hesitation, she began inclining her head towards his groin. But he stopped her. "Uh uh, not yet. First I wanna see you naked, police lady." Catherine watched dazed as he slid her blouse off her shoulders and down her arms. A moment later his strong arms reached around her and unclipped her bra, removing that. He pushed her to stand and she stood. He reached out and unzipped her skirt and it fell to the floor. Finally, he reached out his hands and slid her tights and pants down her legs together. Almost by reflex, she stepped out of them and her shoes. Catherine stood unselfconsciously naked as Sonny slowly ran his eyes from her face to her breasts to her pubes, then back again, licking his lips. "Nice," he murmured. 

Then he grasped her hips and pushed her quite roughly onto her knees. Unhesitatingly, as if she was hypnotised by it, Catherine reached out a manicured hand and wrapped it around Sonny's dick again, gazing at it almost as if she'd never seen one before. God, it really was massive; so were his balls. His pubes grew in little black clumps, as wiry as a scouring pad. Catherine leaned into him, hesitated for a second, then closed her mouth over him. She heard him sigh as she passed her tongue slowly around the tip of his cock. She wasn't very experienced at this, but it wasn't very difficult to work out the sort of things she should do. As she ran her lips up and down his slick cock she started pumping the base of it with her hand, and cupped his balls with her other hand, gently squeezing them. He groaned and she felt him grip her hair at the back of her head. It didn't take long: after a couple of minutes she felt his dick twitch in her mouth, then a stream of sperm slapped against the back of her throat. Not knowing what else to do, she swallowed.

Sonny quickly stripped, pulled her quite gently to her feet and led her to the bed, pressing her down on it. Then sitting on the edge, he reached into a drawer, and pulled out what was clearly a spliff. Casually he lit it, drew on it, then passed it to Catherine. She stammered "No, I don't, I've never..."

Sonny pressed it firmly to her lips, and said, "Go on Kittycat, it reeeaal good." Reluctantly she parted her lips and accepted the cigarette, inhaling deeply. She immediately felt light-headed, and a warm glow seemed to spread through her. She could feel her entire body relaxing. Sonny loomed over her, leaning up on one elbow, and grinned. "Good, yah?" He took it back from her and took another deep drag on it himself, then placed it on an ashtray beside the bed. Turning back to her, he stroked her hair gently, then whispered, "And now, Kittycat, I'm gonna give you that fuck I promised you." 

Unable to help herself, Catherine realised she was giggling like a schoolgirl. Sonny knelt between her legs, then raised them and placed her calves on his shoulders. She howled with fits of laughter at that. He shuffled into position, and she felt a pressure as he pushed his big prick against her slit. Then, with a surge, he was inside her. God, she had never felt so completely filled in her entire life. He started to fuck her slowly, talking to her as he did it. "Yeah, that good innit baby, so big, so hard, an' you need it so bad. I gonna fuck your pain away Kittycat." She began breathing in time with his thrusts, giggling between strokes. Grinning into her face, he began to speed up, thrusting hard and deep into her, making her cunt feel stretched almost beyond capacity. As he began to ram his cock home really hard and fast, his balls slapping against her, she screamed; her hips rose to meet his thrusts, and suddenly she felt her pussy catch fire, a fierce warmth which spread through her.

Afterwards, she lay with her head on her chest, her hand stroking its stubbly hair, while he smoked the rest of his spliff. Unceremoniously he stood and told her, "Get dressed, I take you home." Feeling as if her limbs weighted a ton Catherine pulled on her skirt and blouse, stuffing her underwear in the pocket of her coat. As they were about to leave, Sonny gave her folded piece of paper. "You tell your boys to check this place out Kittycat, maybe around ten one night."

On the drive back she reflected that she might have expected to feel embarrassed, even ashamed, by what had happened. In fact, she just felt completely relaxed, and more sexually sated than ever before. It was just after two a.m. when Sonny pulled up. She'd told him to drop her in Victoria Street, not wanting him to see where she lived. Before she could move to get out of the car he leaned over and mashed his lips to hers, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth. She felt one hand inside her blouse, grasping a tit, while the other slipped up her skirt and big strong fingers wrapped around her naked pussy. Breaking the kiss, and slowly removing his hands, Sonny gave her one of those grins of his. "I see you again Kittycat. You go have a nice sleep now."

In the morning Catherine felt quite hung over at work. Surely one lungful of cannabis couldn't have that powerful an effect? Of course, the gin, the lack of sleep and hardly having eaten for the past 24 hours couldn't have helped. She went down to the canteen and ordered a fried breakfast, but her stomach rebelled at the prospect. She could only nibble at the fried bread and a bit of the bacon. When she reflected on what she'd done, she was appalled. Never mind the danger she'd out herself in, or the fact that she'd committed adultery -- not that that bothered her too much, not after Peter's betrayal -- the man she'd done it with was a criminal, she was in no doubt about that. Okay, he'd rogered her stupid, and she'd really needed it; but she couldn't possibly allow him anywhere near her again. Jesus, they hadn't even used protection. Never mind any nasty little diseases he might be carrying, the thought of getting pregnant horrified her, no matter how unlikely it was at her age. She told Joanne that if Mr Anderson called again he was not to be put through on any account.

She found it impossible to concentrate on her work through the day, and just after an unsatisfying salad lunch she decided she needed some air. She went for a walk in nearby St James's Park, watching tourists feed the ravenous ducks. Even there she couldn't relax. She found she was glancing over her shoulder every two minutes, half expecting to see Anderson following her. When she got back to the office, she remembered the piece of paper he'd given her. There was just an address typed on it -- so no chance of identifying handwriting. She didn't imagine there was anything in it, but moodily she 'phoned the local nick anyway and passed the details on to them. Then she sat and doodled on her pad for a couple of hours in lieu of actually doing any work, and walked back to her empty home. Peter wouldn't be back from Birmingham until Friday evening, and he'd head straight for their house in Sussex. At that time she'd be out busting Russian pimps.

She had just made herself a coffee and changed into an old set of grey sweats when the front doorbell rang. She peered through the fisheye lens set into the door -- and saw Sonny Anderson grinning at her. Catherine fell back against the wall in shock. How did he even know her address? Oh God, she had to get rid of him. Sliding her safety chain onto the door she opened it half an inch and demanded, "What do you want?"

He grinned at her and breathed garlic fumes onto her. "You know what I want Kittycat. Now take that chain off and let me in. You don't want all your nice rich neighbours to see me, do you?" The last thing Catherine wanted to do was let this man into her home. But, as if they belonged to someone else, her hands reached out and removed the chain. Immediately Anderson pushed the door wide and strolled past her into her lounge. As he did, he answered the biggest question tumbling through her mind. "I know where you live 'cos I had a quick look at your address book last night." Oh shit, what other confidential addresses were in there?

Anderson dropped onto her couch, his long legs stretched lazily before him. Catherine tried to assert herself, standing over him with her hands on her hips. "What the fuck do you think you're doing here? Suppose my husband had been here?"

Anderson looked completely calm. "Well, he obviously ain't. And as for what I'm doin' here -- I gonna lick every inch of your body Kittycat." He sat upright on the couch, reached his hands out towards her sweatpants and began to draw them down her legs. 

Catherine lay naked on the bed, propped up on her elbows, watching her black lover walk confidently towards her, his huge cock swaying before him. He lay on top of her and gently pressed her back into the mattress. Then, he attached his mouth to her neck, kissing and biting. He licked her armpits, a first for Catherine, and one she found surprisingly erotic; he feasted on her breasts, and reamed her navel with his tongue. Catherine could feel her thighs rising from the bed with a will of their own, spreading for him. As he licked and nibbled her, he teased other parts of her body with his hands: stroking and squeezing her tits, tracing a finger along her slit, trailing his fingertips like feathers across her skin.

Just as she was sure he was about to dip his head between her legs he moved to the bottom of her bed, and began to kiss and suck her toes. At first Catherine groaned with frustration, but everything he did just felt so good. As he licked her instep his fingers tickled lightly across her calves, and she felt her stomach begin to churn with lust. His tongue followed his hands up her legs; across her calves; to the backs of her knees, s sensitive spot; onto her thighs. Soon he was licking and kissing her inner thighs as her hips raised themselves towards him, so close, so very close...

Catherine erupted in a sigh which quickly turned into a moan as Sonny finally applied his tongue to her aching snatch, licking its entire length, then thrusting deep inside her. Oh Jesus, his tongue felt as long as his cock as he licked deep into her, then ran it from bottom to top inside her, flicking the tip across her clitoris. Catherine found herself groaning words to him, something she'd never done with Peter. "Oh yes, eat me, eat me, gooood you big fucker, suck my cunt into your mouth then fuck me till I scream for mercy." As he pleasured her with his mouth, his fingers dug deep into her buttocks, the nails raking at her flesh. 

He ran his tongue right to the bottom of her pussy, and further, across her perineum and to her bum. Lifting her buttocks off the bed he actually ran that sweet, warm tongue right up her arse crack, pushing it deep into her. The feeling was so intense Catherine could hardly breathe. Then he was back at her cunt, his mouth locked to her clit while his fingers stroked round and round her labia, then thrust deep into her. Catherine writhed in pleasure beneath him. She could feel herself becoming hotter and hotter, her hips twitching off the bed, until finally her orgasm broke and, wailing with release, her juices flooded onto his face.

He carried on licking her right through it, then moved up to her face, pressing his tongue deep into her mouth as his big prick entered her cunt. His face was sticky against hers, and she could taste her own love juice on his tongue as he thrust it down her throat. She struggled for breath as the tongue filled her mouth and Sonny's powerful thrusts lifted her pussy off the bed, over and over. She felt herself coming again, screaming into his mouth, and as she did he shot into her with a gasp. 

Even then he wasn't finished. He pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, and entered her cunt again from behind, lifting her into a semi-kneeling position. His huge monster was now hitting different spots inside her, and Catherine's moans became one long growl of ecstasy. As he fucked her, with one hand he groped a tit, with the other he thrust a finger deep into her bum and worked it around inside her. A third shattering orgasm hit her and she felt all her energy drain away. The only thing keeping her hips off the bed was Sonny as he continued to fuck her. Finally he finished, and Catherine collapsed onto her bed like a rag doll.

He spent the night, and they fucked -- she couldn't think of what they did as making love -- what -- two? Three times more? She wasn't sure. She had sucked him off too, slurping his big cock like a particularly sweet lollipop. Feeling completely at ease, she lay on the bed, her sticky thighs wide apart, as she watched him dress early the following morning. Not looking at her, he said, "You check out that address I gave you?"

Catherine had to think for a moment to remember what he meant. "Oh, er, I passed it to the local force. Why, what's there?"

Sonny just gave her an enigmatic smile and, as he walked out of the bedroom, he murmured, "'Bye Kittycat, I give you a ring." When Catherine got to her office there was a message on her desk. The address Sonny had supplied had been raided and tens of thousands of pounds worth of drugs had been recovered, together with three Yardie gangsters the local cops had been trying to get something on for a while.

Catherine knew how wrong it was, knew she had to break away, but she just couldn't. She was completely in thrall to Sonny. He controlled everything about their relationship. Sometimes she wouldn't see him or hear from him for days. Other times his car would be parked on her route home from work, and the passenger door would just open as she approached. Occasionally, when Peter wasn't around, they went back to her place. More often Sonny took her to his apartment in South London, fucked her, then delivered her home. On one occasion he'd even screwed her dressed in her uniform, roughly, from behind. Once he insisted she stay the entire night, even though he knew damn well Peter was at their flat. She'd had to make up a pretty lame excuse, not that Peter had cared. Very occasionally, they did it in his car. He'd drive to a deserted car park and either she'd give him a blow job or he'd lay the passenger seat flat and screw her on it. Just once, he'd insisted that she suck him off while he parked on a crowded street, a car blanket covering her. And she'd done it. She'd actually done it!

In return he gave her occasional titbits of information. More drugs were recovered, even a cache of guns on one occasion, a particularly vicious human trafficking and forced prostitution ring was broken up, and plenty of bad guys -- no doubt Sonny's business rivals -- were arrested. Other officers began to whisper in wonderment about the guv'nor's new supergrass, and she kept her silence, trying not to think about how Sonny knew so much about these people's activities. Catherine had many sleepless nights fretting over her situation. It wasn't as if she loved him; she didn't even like him, despised what he was, but every time he touched her -- even when he just looked at her -- she was immediately on fire for him. She had never felt so remotely sexually satisfied in her entire life. But she was dying inside. She had to get out of this situation, permanently. She just didn't know how to, and wasn't sure if she had the strength to do so.




Kittycat



One evening, unwilling to go home and face another tense night with Peter, always on the edge of a row, Catherine went for a walk in the twilight -- at 4.30 in the afternoon! -- in St James's Park. As she wandered aimlessly beside the lake, she saw a young black woman striding determinedly towards her. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but Catherine couldn't place her. She was in her early 20s, tall, maybe as much as six feet, and put Catherine in mind of a spider -- skinny body and long arms and legs. Hair cropped close to her skull, eyebrows plucked almost to non-existence, her face would have been pretty but for the ugly bruise which discoloured one of her exquisite cheekbones.

The woman stopped in front of Catherine and stood, challengingly, with her hands on her hips. Then she spoke. "You've got to help me. Tell him to leave me alone." 

She was obviously referring to Sonny -- what other black men did Catherine know? With a shock she realised where she'd seen the girl before -- in the front room of that gaff they'd raided the night she first met Sonny, hunched silently in a chair with tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, clutching a small child to her. Catherine said, "You're his girlfriend -- the artist, right?" What was her name? It started with B.

The girl provided it herself. "I'm Belinda, and I'm not his girlfriend, I'm his fucking slave." She did not have the faux Jamaican twang Sonny affected, her accent was pure South London. "He comes round and fucks me whenever he wants, knocks me around now and then, and never gives me a penny for me or my little girl."

Catherine wasn't clear why the girl was there, or what she wanted from her. "Well, er, Belinda, if you don't like it why don't you just leave him?"

The girl laughed, humourlessly. "Don't you think I've tried? He always finds me and drags me back. Last time he beat me so bad I couldn't walk for three days. If I try it again he'll kill me, I know he will. And I'm terrified he'll hurt my baby. Look, I know you're sleeping with him, he loves telling me what he's done to you, and how you're gagging for him. Please, convince him he doesn't need me anymore, tell him to let me go. Please."

Catherine stared in astonishment at her. "Belinda, if you know Sonny at all, you know neither I nor anybody else can tell him what to do. I'm sorry, I can't help you."

She started to move away, but the girl restrained her with a surprisingly strong hand on her shoulder. "You could stop him. You could get something on him easy, bang him up, then he'd be out of both of our lives. Do you really enjoy the way he humiliates you?" She saw the look on Catherine's face. "But you won't do anything, will you? You're an old white woman, and you like having a big black stud too much, no matter what you have to do to keep him. I wonder what your old man would think of that? And your bosses?"

Catherine turned on her, masking her fear at the woman's thinly veiled threat with simulated anger. "Who do you think they'd believe, you silly little cow? You're forgetting who you're dealing with. I wonder how many times you've been charged with soliciting, with possession? Maybe I'll check. Never mind Sonny, I could get you locked away for ten years in a blink of the eye. And Social Services could have your kid in care so fast you wouldn't know what's hit you. So don't threaten me, and don't come near me again."

The dismay in the woman's eyes told Catherine her guesses about her past had hit close to the truth. As she stalked off, ignoring the curious stares of people around her, Belinda screamed after her, "I'll get you. I'll get both of you, you fucking old bitch!"

Catherine saw Sonny two evenings later, but she didn't mention the encounter to him. She believed that he probably would kill Belinda if it suited him; and her. She was too scared to wonder what he would do if she told him she wanted to end their affair. That evening Sonny seemed more sexually wound up than ever before in her short experience. He hardly let her get through the door of the flat before he started ripping her clothes off, shredding her blouse, breaking the clasp of her bra. Catherine was frightened, yet at the same time incredibly aroused by his passion. 

Not even giving her time to get to the bed he pushed her down on the couch and quickly stripped. Catherine sprawled watching him, half on the couch, half on the floor, her legs wide open, almost feeling her juices running down her thighs, she was so turned on. Sonny's erection looked absolutely enormous tonight. With one big, powerful hand he grabbed her armpit and flipped her over onto her stomach. For a few seconds he palpated her slit with his fingers then his prick surged into her. As he thrust at her with an urgency bordering on frenzy, his huge scrotum slapping against her with every thrust, Catherine thought he had never gone quite so deep before, each stroke stretching her already well-exercised cunt wider and wider. Sonny's hands gripped her tits, squeezing them quite painfully, his fingernails digging into her flesh. His teeth sank into the nape of her neck. The nylon carpet burned her knees as they slid back and forth with the sheer strength of his thrusts. He came, but simply carried on fucking her, growling with each stroke. Catherine lost track of how long it went on for, but as she experienced her most intense orgasm in a while she buried her head in the cushion of the couch and screamed with all her remaining strength.

After that overture she had assumed they would spend a few hours fucking and sucking on the bed, but even as she recovered her breath, rolling onto her back on the carpet, Sonny was dragging his clothes back on. "Come on woman, get dressed, I got tings to do." He didn't offer her a shirt and, too intimidated to ask, she simply buttoned her overcoat over her naked breasts, stuffing the ruined bra and blouse on her bag along with her tights and knickers. On the drive back her aching cunt pulsated as if Sonny was still inside her, and her breasts throbbed from his assault on them. At her apartment she didn't get the usual deep-thrusting kiss and grope, he simply stopped the car and said, "I'll call you, Kittycat."

Scuttling inside Catherine immediately stripped and had a long, luxurious shower. Peter obviously wasn't home -- must be at his whore's place. While she was showering the 'phone rang, but she left it for the machine to pick up. Then she applied some lotion to her sore breasts, slipped on a dressing gown and, her pussy still aching, walked gingerly to the 'phone. There were three messages, and she was just about to listen to them when the doorbell rang. Not a simple polite ring -- someone had their finger jammed on the button, and didn't intend to release it. It could only be one person. She pressed the intercom and asked "What, do you want to come up?"

The hesitant reply took her by surprise. "Ma'am, this is Detective Chief Inspector Donohue from Soho Central. I do need to come up if you don't mind." Catherine immediately pressed the button. Steve Donohue was an old mate from Hendon Police College, in fact a drunken one-night stand many, many years before. His formality clearly meant he had junior officers with him. Something in his voice put Catherine on her guard. Oh shit, that little bitch Belinda hadn't really shopped her over Sonny had she? Perhaps they'd been tailing her. The moment she opened the door the look on Steve Donohue's face made her heart stop for a moment. Even though she'd done little operational policing, she knew that look. It was the look every copper got when they were about to tell a member of the public the worst possible news about a loved one. "Evening Ma'am, can we come in please? You might want to sit down." 

He was accompanied by a young uniformed woman constable, fairly standard when a male officer was about to do what Donohue was about to. Her voice suddenly choked with emotion, Catherine said, "Let's cut the usual crap Steve. What's happened to Peter?"

Donohue gathered himself for a moment. "Ma'am...Cathy...I'm so sorry. He...it's the worst. He was stabbed. They took him to Middlesex Hospital, but he was gone before they put him in the ambulance." Catherine's mind suddenly refused to work. She couldn't summon a single thought into her head. She let her arms slip to her side, her hands resting on the couch, and her dressing gown slipped open, revealing the inner swell of her breasts and the first curls of her pubes. Donohue quietly averted his eyes, but Catherine realised the WPC was staring, her face turning crimson. Maybe she was a dyke. After a moment the young woman moved to sit next to Catherine and delicately pulled the gown closed, tightening the knotted belt.

Catherine realised she had to say something. "Can I see him?"

Steve stood, apparently relieved the moment was over. "Of course, we need a formal ID. He's in the morgue at the hospital. Cathy, we've already got a couple of suspects in custody, it's looking open and shut." She quickly dressed, pulling on the suede skirt she'd worn earlier in the evening -- the one Sonny had dragged off her -- and a roll-neck jumper, together with fresh bra and pants. The WPC held her arm down the flight of stairs to the front door of the building, and into the unmarked car, as if she was a frail old woman about to faint at any moment.

They drove in silence to the hospital. Catherine felt very strange. Peter had been a total shit, screwing his skinny girlfriend behind her back, and she hadn't been the first either. Catherine had told herself more than once that it was only his behaviour that had driven her into Sonny's bed. But he didn't deserve to die for it, nobody did, especially violently. Yet she seemed unable to summon tears, even any real feelings of regret. It was the shock, she told herself, that would all come later. In the meantime, the thought kept running through her head, unbidden and unwanted, that she had avoided the messy and costly divorce that would have been inevitable eventually, she would get to keep both the flat and their lovely house in Sussex, she would be getting a widow's pension, plus a lump sum of three times Peter's quite considerable salary...As the car turned through the gates of the hospital, she heard herself ask, to her own surprise, "You said you've got someone, what are the details?"

Donohue hesitated, clearly thinking Catherine shouldn't be bothering herself with that at this point. Then he said, "It happened around ten past six. The knife was still in his chest, it's quite distinctive, a big horn handle, with 'Sonny' engraved into the blade." For the second time in half an hour Catherine's heart stopped. She'd seen that knife, Sonny occasionally left it lying around his flat. Donohue was still talking. "I'm guessing he only left it because he got disturbed. It took place in an unlit alleyway, a few yards from where his car was parked. It appears he left the home of a, er, co-worker, and was going to the car when he was stabbed. The area's not great for CCTV coverage, but we've got images of a tall IC3 in a leather jacket following him into the alley. Not possible from the pictures to make out the ID, just the race."

Catherine interrupted him as the car drew to a halt. "About ten past six, you said. How can you be so sure of the time?" That was almost the exact time that Sonny had been tearing off her blouse at his flat. "We know he left his, erm, associate's flat at five past, and a bag lady found the body at twenty past. Put that together with the CCTV, it's pretty exact."

Catherine's head was in a whirl. "There's no need to be discreet Steve, I know he was fucking that woman. How did you get onto the suspects so quickly?"

Trying to cover his embarrassment, Donohue continued, "Well, when we went through his personal effects we found a folded list of names and addresses, headed 'Sonny Anderson's known associates and business addresses'. Anderson's a well known villain, into all sorts, he's just been lucky -- until now. We reckon Peter must have been investigating him and got careless. As we speak, we've got blokes out raiding some of the addresses, reckon we'll pull in a nice haul of contraband." Suddenly panicking, Catherine tried to think desperately whether she'd ever let anything at Sonny's apartment that could be traced back to her. Donohue continued, "We called round to the flat Anderson shares with his girlfriend, and they were in bed together. But there was a sheath with no knife in it, and a leather jacket smothered in blood. It's gone for DNA testing but I reckon we've got him bang to rights as it were. We pulled them both in to be on the safe side. Anderson's saying nothing, the girl's turned on him, claims he'd only been there ten minutes, and that he was agitated when he arrived. His clothes were still warm, and so was his car engine." Catherine listened in stunned disbelief. So Sonny had screwed her -- virtually assaulted her -- then gone straight round to spend the night with Belinda.

In the morgue she stared at the white, deathly face of her dead husband. He actually looked quite peaceful. Even then she couldn't summon up any real emotion. She could feel the WPC staring at her, obviously thinking what a cold, hard bitch she was. Donohue started to ask if Catherine had anyone she could stay with, but she stopped him. "Steve, let me come back to the nick with you. I don't want to sit in on the interview with Anderson, obviously that can't happen, I'd just like to observe it. Please? As a favour to an old friend?"

He was obviously very dubious about it, but bowed to the emotional blackmail. When they arrived Belinda was standing in the corridor outside the interview rooms, waiting to be taken in. Catherine turned to Donohue. "Look Steve, you reckon you've got a good case against Anderson, and there's only one person on the CCTV. I know Belinda slightly, she might respond better to me. Let me have just a minute alone with her, off the record. Okay?" Steve Donohue shuffled his feet, clearly unhappy. Catherine pressed the point. "Okay Steve?"

A look of anger on his face, the detective chief inspector stared into her eyes and growled, "Okay ma'am." Catherine stepped forward and took the sullen, silent, woman by the elbow. As she lead her towards the interview room Sonny appeared at the other end of the corridor, cuffed to a burly sergeant. Even at that glimpse of him Catherine felt her pussy twitch. When he saw the two women together, for a moment his face darkened in fury. Then, shockingly, he started to chuckle. Within seconds he was openly laughing, shaking his head, his dreads flying around his face.

Catherine motioned the girl to sit, and she slumped in a rickety wooden chair on one side of a plain wooden table. Catherine leaned against the wall, her arms folded, and asked simply, "Why did you kill my husband?"

For a moment Belinda looked panic-stricken, then tried for anger, before her face slipped into malicious resignation. "This ain't being recorded, is it? So it's just you and me, yeah?" This was one of the small interview rooms which didn't have a two-way mirror for observation. "Okay, I thought it'd tick all my boxes in one go. If I can frame that bastard" -- she jerked her thumb towards the neighbouring room -- "I'll get him out of my life. You'll lose your husband and your biiig blaaaack stud. And Sonny-boy's only alibi is that he was fucking you at the time, so he either says it and your life's over, or he keeps schtum and's got no alibi. They might even believe you're in it together. And just to make sure the plods got off on the right foot I slipped a little typed note in your man's coat pocket"

Catherine nodded slowly. It was quite clever, in its own vicious little way. And it had just got even better. She understood Sonny's burst of laughter -- he had, fortuitously, seen the two women together, and must suspect that they had planned the whole thing between them. As if to confirm it, there was a rap on the door, and Steve Donohue poked his head in. "A word, ma'am?"

Catherine stepped out of the room and took in the look of grim satisfaction on her colleague's face. "He's admitted it Cathy, confessed to the murder. But he says his artist friend in there was in on it with him. Says she was waiting at the other end of the alley for him, standing lookout."

Catherine thought for a moment. She opened the door to the small interview room and stepped into the doorway before answering. "Well, it's nice to know that Anderson's held his hands up for the murder, but Belinda couldn't possibly be involved. She was with me at the exact time Peter was killed. I spent, oh, over an hour with her. She was Peter's source for some of the goods on Anderson, and I was trying to get a bit more out of her. You'll find confirmation of that on Peter's PC at home." At least, they would after Catherine had put it there, with Belinda's help.

Belinda had heard every word. As a surprised Donohue closed the door behind her Belinda stared at her, totally bewildered. "Why'd you do that?"

Catherine shrugged. "I need Sonny out of my life too, and I won't get a better opportunity. And Peter was about to leave me for the little cow he was screwing. I figure you're as much a victim in this as he is and, well, I reckon I owe you. Between us we ought to be able to sew this up completely."

A slow smile spread across Belinda's face. "I reckon I owe you too, now." Catherine's gasped as she felt the woman's toes stroke against her bare ankle. "I'm sorry I called you an old woman, I can see what Sonny saw in you. You're an attractive lady. And from what Sonny says, you're a tigress in bed too." Her eyes were locked on Catherine's. Catherine's eyes closed, and she shuddered, as Belinda slumped down in her chair and her toes stroked across the older woman's calf, reached her knee. "Tell me Assistant Commissioner -- or can I call you Kittycat? -- have you ever posed nude? Those big tits of your would look great in clay." As the toes started to caress the inside of her thigh, Catherine's breath deepened, she felt her skin heating, and a familiar welcome wetness pooling between her legs.