Road Games Read online

  “She comes in a hot package,” I replied.

  “Aha.” We both took a moment to look Hot Blonde up and down, all the way up her shapely legs in stilettos and black stockings and all the way down her curving body, imprisoned in a tight, low-cut top that was crying out to be pulled off and tossed aside. I noticed Tomi was also checking out Femme Companion. She was sexy too, in that haughty, stern-faced way. Wasn’t sure if I liked or didn’t like Femme Companion’s hands all over Hot Blonde’s hips, back, and buttocks. I did like Hot Blonde blatantly staring at me while she did so. They were subtly grinding. Taking the fast track at half speed, Hot Blonde’s leg between Femme Companion’s, and pressing into her.

  “So what happened to a quick beer after work, feet up in front of Jennifer Aniston?” Tomi mopped up a spilt rum and Coke.

  “There’s only so many reruns of Friends a guy can watch…” I told her.

  “So this is you taking a risk, is it?”

  “Huh?” I narrowed my eyes, hoping to hell Tomi hadn’t discovered self-help books.

  “Ain’t that what Myra wants you to do?”

  I continued to narrow my eyes.

  “Your dating skills gotta be a bit rusty.” Tomi buffed the counter, rubbing hard at a mark.

  The song ended. Hot Blonde strutted back to her table, her short skirt flashing glimpses of her thighs. She stared straight at me so hard I swallowed, then she reached for her glass of champagne and necked it.

  “Tomi, I think I’m gonna need champagne…” I murmured when Hot Blonde waved. Not waved me over. Waved good-bye. I frowned as Femme Companion drained her glass also, took Hot Blonde’s hand, and pulled her toward the door. Even two fabulous booties strutting in high heels couldn’t compensate for my letdown. I’d been enjoying the teasing, from the safe distance of my bar stool. At the door Hot Blonde turned and shot me a long come-hither. Not sure if I wanted to follow, I sat deliberating, watching Tomi dig around in the chiller. Hell, Myra was right. I needed to think outside the box.

  “Gotta go,” I muttered to Tomi’s surprised face as she emerged with a dripping bottle of champagne.

  The car park was quiet and deserted. It seemed I’d lost them. Maybe it was just as well…I wondered whether to return to the bar or get on my bike, gleaming quietly under the dull floodlight, and just take off somewhere. I headed for the bike…and a powerful saloon purred behind me. Hot Blonde was sitting in the passenger seat applying lipstick, silhouetted in the interior light. Okay, this was it: the second chance. I walked quickly over before I could talk myself out of it.

  “Um…” I said.

  Hot Blonde glanced at me, winked, and continued pressing lipstick onto her pouting lips. The lips looked like they were enjoying the fondle.

  “Yes?” Femme Companion said sharply.

  “Um…hi,” I managed.

  “Hi.” Hot Blonde said sweetly. Then she and Femme Companion stared at me. Not in a hot way. In a “what the hell do you want?” kind of way.

  “Do-you-want-to-go-somewhere?” I said in a curious monotone forced by nerves.

  “I’m in a bit of a rush, actually,” Femme Companion said, leaning forward to reveal the tops of two very nice-looking breasts.

  “I’m not.” Hot Blonde was running a hairbrush lightly through her long blond locks. She swept a bunch off her gorgeous face and looked at me from under those long, dark eyelashes. I smiled.

  “That’s what I hoped.” I boldly opened her car door.

  “Well,” Femme Companion pouted, “guess this means I’ll see you later, darling.” She smooched into Hot Blonde and snogged her with no regard to the recently applied lipstick. “Ta ta,” she said to me like a sexy femme Mary Poppins, mouthed me a kiss, and gunned the engine.

  Hot Blonde walked away from me, her buttocks swaying a sweet promise. She rested against my bike, putting one stiletto on the passenger footpeg. “I like motorbikes,” she informed me, fingering my black pearl upholstery.

  “What would you like to do?” I asked, stepping closer and trying to look moodily Brandoesque.

  “Let’s ride.” She jumped astride the bike like a pro and patted the front seat, the tip of her tongue poking out between her teeth.

  The Harley growled to life under my fingers, and I turned onto the busy main road, weaving gracefully through late-night club traffic. “Where d’you wanna go?” I shouted over the engine at lights.

  “Surprise me,” she mouthed, tucking strands of blond hair into her helmet.

  I took off with the green light, musing how in a relationship, reading my girl’s mind is the last thing I want to do. With a stranger, that’s a lot of the fun.

  I took the road out of town and onto the M25. The Night Train roared beneath us, responding eagerly to the throttle with a boom from the twin exhaust. A bit nervous, I relaxed as Hot Blonde nestled into me, her arms around my waist. I felt the hard plastic of her helmet where she rested her head against my shoulder blade.

  On the M23, her fingers slipped inside my jacket. The hulking shadows of pine trees flanked the road, urging us southward. I opened the throttle so we could enjoy the awesome power between our legs, and the Harley swallowed the tarmac. Hot Blonde reached around me, her hand pushing my cock onto the bike seat so that the deep vibrations shot through to my clit. I smiled, imagining Hot Blonde behind me with her legs wide open to the same guttural force.

  Brighton Pier was still lit up when I turned onto the lower seafront road. Clubbers were staggering out of rainbow-flagged bars. I cruised, as subtly as a Harley will allow, to a darker, quieter spot of beach. Hot Blonde stepped off the big bike smoothly, taking my hand. Free of the helmet, I faced the ocean and a salty breeze hit my nostrils and ruffled my hair. I stepped onto the pebble beach when I felt resistance from Hot Blonde.

  “You don’t expect me to walk on that in my Manolos, do you?”

  I turned to see her frowning at the pebbles and then at her shoes.

  I shrugged. “Should I carry you?”

  With an easy sigh, Hot Blonde shook her head, kicked off her shoes, lifted up her skirt, and slowly unrolled her stockings from her dark legs till she was barefoot and my shorts were soaked.

  We walked to a spot sheltered by a beach hut and a weathered, upturned rowboat. I laid my leather jacket on the pebbles.

  “This is a nice spot you’ve brought me to,” Hot Blonde said softly, looking out to the waves turning under a slowly brightening sky. “It’s quite far to come with a stranger…”

  “Do you go all the way with strangers?” I couldn’t help asking. I dared to reach over and rest my fingers lightly on her bare leg, watching her face to see what she would do.

  “Not every stranger. Why don’t we make a start and see how far we get?” Hot Blonde pulled me into a kiss, tonguing my mouth while pushing her hands under my T-shirt, pulling it up to expose my back. I cupped her breasts out of her bra and popped them into my mouth, giving each of them a fair tonguing. The sea air licked my back and bare arms while I licked Hot Blonde’s hard nipples. She moaned into the top of my head.

  “What have you got for me in there, honey?” Her hands found my cock. She pressed it so the top of it pushed against my clit.

  “That feels good.” I sighed, unable to hold back. I slid up into her, pumping fast until she put her hands on my hips, pushed down, and breathed, “Take your time, baby. There’s no place I have to be but here.”

  The easy rhythm of the beach washed over me. It was me and the hot blonde, and it was also the crash of waves, the salty breeze coming off the tide, the pulse of the sun-soaked shell and shingle, the sweet ancient rhythm of the earth beneath coursing through my body. She started to come, loudly. Staccato moans that spurred me on harder and deeper, and seemed to wake up sleeping gulls. The ocean itself crashed to the beat of her breath as her nails dug into my back and she cried out. Finally she lay back, dishevelled and panting.

  “Wow!” I grinned. “You came so hard you knocked your wig off.”

  Laughing, sh
e reached up to the gold silky hairpiece and stroked it tenderly. “It got you off.” She smirked.

  I allowed that. “It suits you…but then, I knew you weren’t a natural blonde.” I twined my fingers in her raven pubic hair.

  “You know, in twenty years you’ve never fucked me on Brighton Beach,” she said as I tucked myself in and she straightened her skirt.

  “No, Myra. But we got quite far in the ghost train on the pier, a few years ago…”

  “Sexy…but also a little creepy,” Myra reminisced.

  “How did I do?” I asked.

  “God, you don’t want marks out of ten now, do you?”

  “No, I’m talking about my driving.”

  “Oh.” Myra relaxed. “You drove my bike very well, darling. Might even lend it to you again.” Her eyes misted slightly, staring out to a bank of gray cloud moving in fast.

  “Do you think you could get passionate leave?” Myra asked wistfully, trying to smooth the wig back down on her gorgeous head.

  “What kind of compassionate leave?”

  “Not compassionate, passionate.” Myra pouted. “Take me south, baby.”

  I thought about it, eyeing the Harley thoughtfully. Dover was only twenty miles away…

  “Don’t you need clothes and stuff?” I asked.

  “Knickers…not even,” Myra decided. “Anyway, the shopping’s fantastic in St. Tropez.”

  “Okay. Let’s go…hey, remember that peach orchard just outside Nice?” I said with a grin, getting to my feet. I remembered the sun on my back, the smell of the fragrant fruit.

  “Peaches, hmm…sweet, plump, succulent flesh with juice that runs down your chin,” Myra said, pulling me back, unzipping my flies. “Oh yes, I remember…”

  One for the Road

  VK Powell

  No cop in her right mind would volunteer for night shift—especially not on a rainy Saturday night. And any lesbian with half a brain was at home making love to her girlfriend or, if like me she didn’t have one, was out cruising for one in the bars or coffee shops. I closed my thighs around the sharp need that seemed to be a constant companion on long nights patrolling the mostly desolate tri-county area. As I maneuvered my police-package Impala along the rain-slick highway, the fire burned closer to the surface. Tonight the longing verged on being painful.

  Why were cops so interminably horny, anyway? Maybe there was a cop gene. One had to be born with it to go into the profession and to chase sex so relentlessly. Some believe it’s the uniform, like catnip to women of all persuasions and inclinations. My personal opinion, it’s the power. Authority can be a heady aphrodisiac but a cold bedmate. Most of the time, I just wanted to let it all go.

  I slid my right hand up the inside of my leg and into the heat between my thighs. The back of my thumb pressed against the hard prominence of my clit, sending a shiver into my gut. I rocked forward and the utility belt settled lower on my hips, increasing the pressure in my core. The air inside the car sweated moisture, adding to my discomfort. I surveyed the tools of my trade while rain peppered down on the roof like a calling.

  My nightstick and flashlight were tucked into their usual spots between the passenger seat and back. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten off riding the ribbed handle of my baton or the dimpled shaft of my Maglite. Squeezing my swollen center, I felt the evidence of my arousal seep through the wool-cotton blend uniform pants. I reached for the nightstick and propped it in the seat between my legs, slumped in the driver’s seat, and rubbed my crotch against the upright pole. A couple of long, easy strokes were all it would take to stop the jagged pain.

  Scanning the road ahead, I looked for a safe place to pull over as my clit twitched with each agonizing touch. As I rounded the bend at Murphy’s curve, the headlights of my cruiser illuminated a vehicle off the side of the road and a drenched figure with arms flailing. Not now. Five minutes from now, but not now. Returning the nightstick to its intended position, I cursed and pulled over, positioned the patrol car for protection, and activated my blue lights.

  The bundled figure moved too quickly toward my vehicle, face obscured by a massive umbrella, right hand stuffed into a jacket pocket. Adrenaline that seconds before had pulsed between my legs shot like tiny pinpricks up my spine. Experience had taught me not to take chances out here, miles from the nearest backup. I stepped from the car, abandoning my raincoat, and ordered the person back between the two vehicles. My hand hovered above the Glock 40 on my hip.

  “Stay where you are,” I yelled over the deluge of rain. The figure continued to approach. Violation of safety rules one and two: always keep your hands visible and never move toward a police officer. The advance is always theirs. This one didn’t get the memo.

  “Driver, stop.” Instinct took over. I surveyed the area around us and calculated my next move. The road was deserted as far as I could see in both directions. In one fluid motion, I unsnapped the holster, drew my weapon, and leveled it at the encroaching motorist. Preparing to duck behind the door of my patrol car, I gave another command. “Stop and show your hands.”

  Arms stretched skyward and the unseasonably heavy coat draped open. The umbrella fell to the ground and tumbled away in a brisk breeze. A figure that seconds before had seemed menacing and potentially dangerous was transformed into a half-dressed, very surprised woman.

  Straight blond hair hung at shoulder length, plastered to her head. Her eyes were wide with confusion. Underneath the overcoat a lace thong teddy with a cutaway middle, made transparent by the rain, clung to the sculpted curves of her full breasts and hips. The light patch of hair at the juncture of her thighs changed from golden to silvery blue as the light bar flashed repeatedly. I was spellbound by a sight I’d never encountered in all my years of police work.

  “Could you lower that thing, please?” The woman nodded toward the weapon in my hand, which was still fixed on her midsection. “As you can see, I’m not armed.” She turned her body completely around to illustrate and ended with her hands perched defiantly on her hips.

  When my alert status returned to quasi-normal, I holstered my weapon, closed the patrol car door, and stepped toward her. As I got closer, something about her seemed familiar, but I couldn’t make a connection. It was just wishful thinking. What cop wouldn’t want to drive up on something like this?

  “What are you doing out here—like that?” I gestured at her skimpy outfit, an appreciative smile threatening to belie my professional tone.

  She gathered the coat around her and gave me an up-and-down appraisal. “I was on my way home and this damn piece-of-junk car broke down. It’s finally died, I’m afraid.”

  I gave her what must have been a skeptical look. “Guess I shouldn’t ask where you’ve been in that outfit.”

  “It’s a long story. Any chance you could give me a ride? It’s just a couple of miles up the road.”

  “Sure. I’m about to go off duty anyway. If the car’s locked, it should be okay here until someone comes out tomorrow.” I motioned her toward the passenger side of my patrol car. “But I’ll have to search you. It’s policy.”

  “No problem, Officer.” She slowly removed the weighty coat, held it at arm’s length, and dropped it on the soaked ground. Placing her hands on the hood of the car, she stretched her legs out behind her and leaned forward, exposing bare cheeks separated by a single strand of lace. “Please be thorough. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

  I stepped behind her and positioned my right foot against the inside of hers. I reached toward my glove pouch, then decided against it. This was one search I wanted to conduct skin on skin. Our bodies were so close I could feel her heat through my rain-soaked uniform. Resisting the desire to merge her warmth with my own growing need, I leaned in and began the rote procedure.

  I slid my hands up her firm arms, patted and squeezed the well-formed muscles, aware that the only thing concealed there was a sexual energy so strong it pulsed beneath my touch. When I reached her shoulders, I eased my fingers u
pward along her strong neck and into her long hair. I massaged her scalp and she gave a low moan. Or did I imagine it?

  Returning to her back, I smoothed my hands along her shoulder blades, down and forward, lightly cupping the swell of her breasts. They fit so perfectly in my palms. I imagined their weight and texture sucked first delicately, then hungrily into my mouth.

  “Umm,” she groaned and eased slightly backward, bringing her butt into contact with my pelvis. I stifled an initial impulse to rock forward into her inviting ass.

  I reached around her body and with the backs of my hands searched between her ample breasts. They were hot and supple against my skin, the nipples puckered and rigid.

  “Oh,” she breathed heavily. Her head slumped forward. “I’m sorry. Must be the rain. It always makes me horny, Officer.”

  The hint of irreverence and challenge in her voice excited me in a perverse sort of way. What kind of woman would travel half naked in this dreadful weather? Did she have a lover waiting at home as turned on by the thought of her as I was in her presence? I wanted such a woman, and my body emphasized how much.

  I didn’t trust myself to respond. The ache I’d felt earlier returned with a vengeance. I knew the slick wetness between my thighs had nothing to do with the rain. I’d never responded sexually to anyone while on the job, but she was different.

  Resting my hands on her hips, I paused and drew a ragged breath. A wave of warmth sprang from my depths and burned the flesh where we connected. I kneaded the fullness of her thighs and headed toward her curvaceous ass. My clit pounded with an urgency that made me weak. Her hips ground back against my hands, humping the charged air between us.

  As I smoothed my palms up the inside of her legs, she leaned farther forward on the car, splayed her hands across the hood, and hiked her ass toward me. “Oh, yes…higher, please.”

  Her words unleashed a primitive urge that warred with my experience and training. Blue lights flashed, reminding me of the potential exposure to passing eyes and professional censure, but my body was beyond reason. My hands quivered uncontrollably against the inside of her thighs. The back of my fingers brushed against the passion-drenched fabric covering her crotch, and this time, the moan was mine.