Good Vibrations Magazine

I still can’t take my eyes off of you. The party is packed with people wearing the most outrageous costumes I’ve ever seen — drag queens dolled up with yard-high bouffants, Anita Bryant spanking RuPaul with a big wooden cutting board. There are three Martha Stewarts and more fetching hookers, schoolgirls and coquettes than you could shake a stick at, about evenly divided between women and men in their 20s, 30s and 40s.

But you’re the one I can’t ‘t take my eyes off, because you look like nothing I’ve ever expected.

You were so secretive about your costume, stashing it at work, blowing off my questions with vague smiles, giving me just the most tantalizing of hints. But I had no idea. I really had no idea. When you walked out of the bathroom wearing that outfit, I just about flipped. Your knee-high motorcycle boots were polished till they gleamed, and their heels added a good two inches to your already impressive height. Your tan pants fit tight and flawless, the dark stripe outlining your long, muscled legs. You had the helmet, too, complete with microphone. Your belt had everything it was supposed to have: ammo cases packed with condoms, a fake gun. And handcuffs.

I could see myself in your mirrored aviator sunglasses. I could see my eyes wide, my face blushing red. And I hadn’t even put my costume on yet.

I’ll never know, I guess, if you dropped some hint that made me think in terms I wouldn’t have otherwise thought. I’ll never know if I guessed, subconsciously, that you were going to be the vibrant cream of the law-enforcement crop for the costume party, and that, therefore, if I wanted to get my fondest wish I’d better be something naughty.

You remember the commercials from the ’70s, don’t you? That fast-food chain, the one with the guy who was always trying to steal hamburgers? I’m a little embarrassed that my costume was so silly, but it got so many compliments from bouffant-headed drag queens that I guess it must have worked. Besides, I’d gone out of my way to make it sexy, and I hoped it would have the desired effect on you in particular.

The cape and the hat were easy to come by. I went without the fake mustache because however cheesy I was, I wanted to be a sexy ’70s icon, after all. The striped outfit was a little more difficult; I found one at the costume shop, but it fit me like a canvas sack, so I sewed my own, skintight and low-cut, clinging to every curve of my body. On any other night, it would have been almost obscene.

I guess it’s just a sort of poetic justice that I’m a vegetarian.

As I sit there in the big armchair, watching the party go by, I’m quite aware that I’d should have used thicker material for the top. My nipples are hard from watching you. They show plainly through the striped top, which is damp with my sweat in the close quarters of the costume party. It’s reasonably dark, but ultraviolet lights over by the punch bowl are igniting the fires in my white stripes, making my nipples stand out more clearly, making me feel more exposed. Some guy is trying to talk to me, leaning close, glancing from my face to my tits and back again. He’s some dot-com reject with a hard-on for hamburgers, I guess.

I make polite conversation, searching for you in the crowd as you sway in and out of my vision, fending off (I hope) all the svelte hookers and buxom schoolgirls trying to tempt you away from me. I catch a glimpse of you and my breath catches; I can see the rapt face of a pigtailed slut reflected in your sunglasses. I feel my pulse quickening as I watch you flirt with her. I wonder if you’re thinking about taking her home with us. The guy leaning close to me asks me if I’d like to go somewhere. I tell him I’m here with someone and he falls all over himself apologizing, like I care. I smile at him, tell him I’m going to go find my friends, and tell him it was nice to meet him.

Threading through the crowd, I find myself lost; I can’t find you. I’ve been planning it since I first saw you in your outfit, but I thought I’d be able to wait until we got home. Now I know I can’t wait; I’ve got to have you now.

I’ve been planning it, running over and over the fantasy in my mind: going up to you, putting my lips to your ear and saying “I want to turn myself in, officer.”

But now I can’t find you. I’m crushed by the press of bodies as an ancient ’70s disco anthem comes on, remixed for a circuit party from hell. A drag queen grabs me and tries to get me to dance. I beg off, blushing, pushing away. “Got to go steal some hamburgers,” I say weakly. I feel a hand on my ass and I start to turn, not knowing if I’m going to reproach some playful queen or slap some sleazy straight boy.

Instead, I find that I can’t turn, because you’ve got me pinned, holding my slim wrists easily in one of your big hands. I’m immobile, pulled hard up against your body, smelling the leather of your jacket as it overpowers the scent of bodies, pot and liquor.

I feel your breath hot against my neck as you growl into my ear:

“I suggest you turn yourself in, ma’am.”

I melt, just like that. I’m yours; you could do anything you wanted to me. But when I feel the handcuffs going around my wrists, hear you ratcheting them tight between beats of house music, that’s when I really feel it start: the heat between my legs, the almost painful throb, the flood of moisture that soaks the too-thin material of my tights. God, everyone will know. Everyone will know I’m wet. It’ll soak right through my tights and everyone will know how wet you make me, how bad I want you to handcuff me and fuck me, so hard I scream, so hard I cry. Everyone will know.

And if anyone doesn’t notice you French-walking me down the hallway, it’s not because of any discretion on your part — it’s because they’re too lost in their own drunken gropes and coke-addled dancing to notice a straight couple locked in a heated rendition of the quintessential bondage scenario: cops and robbers.

By the time you usher me into the bedroom, I’m so wet you can probably smell me. You toss me onto the huge pile of jackets, leather and faux fur mingling against me as I wriggle in my handcuffs. Every time I feel the sharp pull of the metal against my wrists, a new wave of pleasure goes through me. Helpless, I’m helpless. I hear you lock the deadbolt.

You lean on me, hard, your hand thrust between my tightly-closed legs. But you’re too strong, and your hand forces its way in there. When you run your fingers over my pussy, I know that I was right: I have soaked through my tights. I knew I should have worn underwear, panty lines or no. The tights are so wet anyone could have seen them if they’d cared to look. And maybe they did.

Your mirrored eyes flash the light of the lava lamp, and you smile. It’s that smile that always melts me, but I’m already melted, reduced to a quivering pool of need here on the leather-strewn bed.

“Do you know what the punishment is for attempted theft of a hot beef injection, ma’am?”

I want to giggle, I want to, really. It’s funny. But my breath catches in my throat, because now you’re pressing on my cunt, working the swollen mounds of my lips, rubbing your finger on my erect clit.

“No, officer,” I manage to croak. “What is the punishment?”

“Whatever I want it to be,” you growl, mercilessly toying with me. I am so completely at your mercy that you could have me any way you want, and you know it. I can feel how much you know it by the firm shaft of your cock pressing through your skintight pants as you lean on me. But you’re having too much fun torturing me to just take me. You’ve got much crueler things in mind for me.

My tights are around my ankles in an instant, and the soft boots I wore are gone in a jumble of soaked, stretchy stripes, leaving me barefoot and naked from the waist down. I try to close my thighs, but your knee is wedged between them and your force my left leg far open, leaning over to get your arm around my right thigh. I’m spread, helpless. I’m open for you, unable to stop you from doing whatever you want with my pussy.

I struggle against the handcuffs, moaning softly as I await my punishment. Then I feel it.

The first open-handed blow is soft; I could have handled something much harder, and you knew it from experience. But this time it takes my breath away, because your big, broad hand doesn’t connect with the sweet spot of my ass — it lands squarely on my pussy. If you’d hit me any harder, I think I would have come.

I writhe in your grasp, pushing back against your hand, lifting my ass in the air. My breasts, braless and covered only by the thin, low-cut top, rub against the faux fur and leather, my nipples so hard that they send shivers through my body as they catch on buttons and zippers. You no longer need to wrestle my thighs apart; with that one blow on my cunt, you rendered me utterly unable to resist you. But you still hold me, tight, reminding me that you’re in control, that there’s nothing I can do to stop you. And that excites me still more, making my cunt purr and pulse with desire.

You spank my pussy again, this time a little harder. With your middle finger extended slightly like that, you’re stimulating my tormented clit with every blow. I hear myself whimpering like an animal, wriggling and squirming underneath you. You spank me again. I pull against the handcuffs, their pressure heightening my arousal. Again. I can feel the pleasure building inside me, coming closer and closer as I get ready to let go.

You spank me again, harder still, mounting my pleasure toward orgasm without caring whether or not I want to come. You’ve never spanked my pussy before; for every time I laid there spread in your lap and let you take your liberties with my ass, making me squirm and writhe with every blow on my sweet spot, I’ve never felt this. Never felt this merciless rush toward orgasm, as I feel the sudden blows coming faster and faster on my pussy, making me moan, squirm, and lose control.

I throw my head back, my wrists tight in the handcuffs, and wail helplessly as I come. I can feel your cock grinding hard against my body as you spank me faster and faster, forcing my orgasm into the stratosphere. I’m practically in tears from pleasure by the time you slow and then stop, placing your warm hand on my pussy, feeling me shudder underneath you.

I’m mewling wordlessly, my capacity for communication lost as I feel the echoes of the orgasm go through my body. I’m hardly aware of that big belt being unbuckled, your big cock being slipped out of those skintight tan pants. But when I feel you mounting me, feel the thick head of your cock sliding between my swollen cunt-lips, I know what’s coming, and I push back onto you desperately, forcing myself onto your cock.

My ass presses against you as you slide your cock home, pushing it into me until I feel it firm on my G-spot, bringing a moan and a gasp from me as you start to fuck me hungrily, your hands grasping my bound wrists, your hips pumping wildly. Now that I’ve come, I’m your prisoner, a captured criminal, and you’re taking your pleasure with me, not caring if I want it. Maybe that’s why I feel it coming on so quickly — my second orgasm. Maybe that’s why I lift myself onto my knees, ass pressed down close to my ankles, giving me leverage to push so hard back onto you, fucking myself onto your cock as you meet each thrust of your body with one of your own.

When we’re making love, we rarely come at the same time. Now, though, both of us are so turned on that we couldn’t stop our oncoming orgasms if we wanted to. We pound against each other, your cock throbbing deep inside me as I feel your head against my cervix. Then I’m coming, and begging you for your come, which you give me as your body tenses, then releases with a smooth round of easy thrusts into me, making me come harder as I feel your cock pulsing, filling me.

When you pull out of me, I slump forward on the pile of coats, my mouth open, drooling on a faux-fur Nehru jacket. I look back at you over my shoulder, still wanting you, feeling the ache where your cock has slipped out of me.

You smile, those mirrored eyes reflecting the slackness of my face, all resistance fucked out of me. I’m your prisoner, ready for further punishment.

You smile.

“Now that makes a nice mug shot,” you tell me mischievously.

And looking into my own eyes, four of them reflected in your mirrored sunglasses, I have to agree.