Controlling the Detectives (The Magic Remote Book 3) (3 page)

She wore her tiny pinstripe suit, the one she put on when she was trying for promotions or when she went undercover to clubs and didn't want any guff from bouncers. The thin material elevated the hot, lovely globes of her tits, and the brief skirt only just covered the solid outline of her athletic rear. Smoky stockings adorned her lovely legs, setting off their terrific shape.

It was just businesslike enough to wear to work, and just sexy enough to get her all kinds of looks from anybody she wanted. Heather felt
good
wearing it. Wearing this outfit, she would think, “Screw it, I'm a hero cop. I do what I want.”

Oftentimes, husbands who felt wronged in marriages wanted to do a little revenge-fucking of their own, and Heather was horribly turned on ever since watching that house.

She hadn't had sex in ages. And as far as being fucked—properly fucked and filled—it had been much longer. Years, maybe.

It did not bother her very much that Russell was only single because of some odd, science-fiction mind control ray gun. She could let him know all of that after she had a good, honest fucking.

Sandra, wearing black jeans, a thin white blouse, and a cute little metallic blue vest, busted into Heather's office, smiling eagerly. Heather felt a stab of disappointment that she was not Russell.

“I've just had five separate sources confirm that . . . um, wow,” said Sandra, openly staring down Heather's cleavage.

The detective knew, somewhat vainly, that it must have been driving Sandra wild to see her dressed up like she was, although that of course wasn't why she had the little outfit on.

Heather smiled. “Your sources confirmed 'wow'?”

Sandra shook her lovely head. “No . . . I . . . it's just your . . . anyway.” She took a breath. “I've got sources on campus that invites have been getting sent around to a super exclusive party tonight. There's some kind of swimsuit competition, and so far as I know, only girls are invited. Only hot, rich girls. They get five hundred dollars just for showing up. First prize is ten thousand dollars. Second prize is a trip to Hawaii.”

“The sorority is funding that?”

“Well, of course not. My bet is it's just a ruse to get the women in that this Jared kid wants. I'm telling you, he's going to be drugging and doping each and every one of them, just like how what he did to that girl you saw.” She shrugged. “Personally, I say screw 'em.”

“Sandra!”

“What? Those girls are born with a silver spoon in their mouths. Maybe getting a little cock forced down there will open up their Daddy's minds to giving law enforcement more of an edge.”

“Come on. You don't believe that.”

Sandra sighed. “No, I guess not. I just get frustrated with this, sometimes.” Her eyes clung to Heather's bosom. “Frustrated with lots of things.”

Heather had not told Sandra her findings of the mind control device. It presented, really, two main problems if she did. The first of these was that Heather was fairly certain that, despite Sandra's obvious affection for her, the younger detective wasn't going to believe in mind control rays.

The second and probably more obvious reason was that Heather hadn't radioed Sandra when she saw the device in action. How could she justify such a lack of action?

Heather was having trouble justifying it to herself.

Perhaps she stayed quiet because of the surrealness of it all—she imagined that someone was going to step out at any moment, someone with a movie camera perhaps, and say, “Nope, do it again. That take didn't look right.”

But the real answer, the one that Heather shuddered to think about, was that she was terrified of confronting such a force because she couldn't guarantee how she would respond to such overwhelming control. Would she just want to crawl and kneel and suck and—no!

She shouldn't even think about it.

So instead, she had told Sandra only that she saw some various sex acts happening, which was true, and she suspected something illegal was the cause. Which, she supposed, was also true.

“We need to be there,” Sandra said. “We could nail this case tonight.”

“It could be,” said Heather. “We'll observe. Look, I've got a map of the house over here . . .”

She slid off the desk and bent over at the map. She could not help, just a little, to bend over more than she needed. She knew Sandra was watching the hot flexing motions her ass made. It was fun to tease the poor girl.

“I'll post myself here,” Heather said, pointing at where she had been earlier in the day. “You should go here.”

She pointed at the opposite end of the house, far outside of the view of the living room. Heather's suspicion was that whatever Jared was doing, it would be in the same spot. He thought he was invincible—why wouldn't he display himself?

“Wait,” said Sandra. “I'll be out of view of everything.”

“You'll have this whole half of the house,” said Heather, pointing again. “If they're over there, we need eyes right away.”

Sandra put her hands on her hips, nodding. “You're right. But, I wonder—”

There was a timid knock at the door.

Mr. Russell walked in. In the day and a half since she had seen him last, he did not seem to have shaved or showered. His blond hair was in a tangle around his handsome face. His shirt was untucked—it looked to be the very same shirt, even, from their prior meeting. One shoe was missing.

“Hello, Mr. Russell,” Heather said.

She moved back to the position in front of her desk, sliding one leg over the other and thrusting her delectable chest out. Sandra stared at her openly. Heather didn't mind.

Just because he was a little disheveled did not mean she wanted to have a nice fuck any less. He still had a dick, after all, and she would bet that there was plenty of it.

But, rather than eye her appreciatively, or even come closer, he stayed near the door. As if scared to come any nearer to Heather's lovely curves.

“I . . . ah . . . hmm. Yes. I have come to . . . ah . . . rescind our arrangment, yeah? I want you to stop. No more looking at Monica. Or Carmen. None of them, please. Work on other cases, okay? Yes. I'll tell the chief if you don't.”

Sandra was taken aback. “Quit? But, what about your wife? Your daughter? There has been some very interesting evidence accumulating in this case, and, if you'll come over here and look . . .”

The young detective stepped toward Russell, who withdrew as if he saw a snake. He would look neither of the women in the eye.

“No, no.” He shook his head. His hand shaking on the knob of the door. “She's much better off without a schmo like me. She deserves someone better. Someone who really can treat her right. Stop looking at them, I said. I've told the chief and now I'm telling you. It was all a big misunderstanding. I have no trouble at all. Nothing is wrong. Everything about Monica is so very right. So good. Don't worry.”

Heather realized that something strange was happening here. At first, she had imagined that he had been drinking, but this seemed . . . more severe. Abandoning her seduction tract for a moment, she stepped forward toward Russell, concern on her face.

“Mr. Russell, perhaps we should talk about this? Talk about your wife?”

“Oh god, I love talking about her.”

Bliss slid over his face. His hand slid off the doorknob and down to his zipper, apparently unable to restrain himself any longer.

“God,” he said, pulling out his cock. “I really hope she's happy. It makes me so happy knowing she's happy. I hope that guy she's with is really fucking the hell out of her. I mean, god! He's so damn good to her! I really need to make more money, so I can give it all to the two of them. She sings when he makes her cums, I saw. It's so wonderful.”

Heather didn't know what to do. He did, as she thought he would, have a substantial cock. He bent over, stroking it furiously, continuing to talk about his beautiful wife.

“What the hell?” demanded Sandra. “You better knock that off.”

Russell seemed not to notice her protests.

“He fucks her so
good
,” he moaned. “He just
ruined
her for anyone else! I don't deserve her, not after him. Don't deserve her. I don't
deserve
herrr...”

Even with the relatively low amount of sex she had been having as of late, Heather knew an orgasm approaching when she saw one. She maneuvered past the jerking-off man and opened the door. Grunting and moaning, he began to shudder orgasmically.

Sandra grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him out of the room. “Get out!” she yelled at him.

They both shut him out of the office, even as he kept spasming and layering the carpet with his cum. She could hear his heavy breathing on the other side of the door.

Clearly, something horrible had happened to this man. Something life-changing and monumental to reduce him from the proud, stern hunk that he was down to a sniveling, helpless, slug of a man.

Someone had completely altered everything this man believed. Something, or rather someone, had wiped out everything that made him who he was, and replaced his personality with something more agreeable to their desires.

She realized, suddenly, that her hot, still-unfucked cunt was completely soaking.

Heather had never been so turned on in her life. She squirmed in her tiny pinstripe suit against the door, struggling with the want—no, the
need—
to drop on her knees and finger her steaming hot pussy until she came again and again and again.

Sandra was still in the room, though, shaking her head in shock, gingerly stepping around the cum that had spilled on the floor.

Heather tried to walk it off and began to move around the office. But her resistance only lasted up until the point that she saw Jared's picture on the desk. Knowing it was him, knowing that he was the mastermind behind all of this, somehow made it all the harder to stop herself from delivering herself the pleasure she so desperately needed.

“I-I ha-have to go!”

Heather rushed past Sandra and hurried across the hall to the bathroom, bumping into a few uniformed officers along the way. They whistled after her.

Inside the bathroom, she quickly found a stall. Pushing herself into a corner, she plunged one dainty hand down her skirt.

In her daily life, her thoughts often turned to her kidnapping. It had lasted only a short amount of time, not even a real kidnapping, in the truest sense of the word. But even so, the experience had stained her.

Most people, when they heard about what she experienced, emitted some noises of sympathy or sadness. Those people never understood. Not even Heather's train of psychologists had understood.

When her thoughts slid back to that time, when she had been held under those ropes, it wasn't fear she felt, really, or anger.

It was arousal. Pure, hot, needy arousal spiraling down every one of her bones, coursing through every single muscle, vibrating every single cell of every bit of flesh she possessed.

The feeling of those tight, coarse ropes on her body excited her. The constraints they provided. The knowledge that, if that gang member had just pushed down his pants and put his cock in her face, she would have had no choice but to comply. She would have no choice but to suck him dry, to give in to this perfect excuse to be the total whore that her body cried out for her to be.

Her entire existence had been, in many ways, living contrary to what her nature told her. She grew up privileged, so she purposefully went to a crappy school to show she wasn't obsessed with status. She was beautiful, so she went into policing, a profession where her looks would never help her and would probably get in her way. Her body was deemed physically unable to do more policing, and still she tried to keep at detective work.

It was only in those bonds, where her choices were completely narrowed down to zero, that she had felt most free to be who she really was.

But, no. The gang member hadn't taken the initiative. She supposed she hadn't looked hot enough that day, or he was busy thinking about something else, like how to not get shot from the dozens of cops outside.

A shame.

So, in the dirty station bathroom, where anyone could walk in at any time, standing in her tiny sexy pinstripe suit, all she could think of as she fingered her slit, her thumb riding hard on her hot clit, was how hot it would be to be back in that situation. To have someone strong and able to just wrap his snares around her and control her every emotion and thought. She would never have to feel any guilt, any shame about what she really wanted ever again.

Her orgasm approached her suddenly, imagining her own big tits on display in an outfit even hotter than the one she had on because someone else commanded it.

She started whispering furiously. “Tie me down! Tie me down! Fuck me rotten! Ruin my fucking mind! Break me!
Break me
!”

Her heels clicked against each other as she came, her plush lips shuddering. All strength had left her legs, her arms. Fuzzy and warm, her thoughts floated across the landscape of her mind, each more distant than the last.

Okay. Wow. Okay. That was one hell of a cum. She really needed to get her mind straight. She had to get some kind of plan into action to stop this kid.

Sure. That was what she wanted. To stop him.

Keep telling yourself that, Heather. Keep telling yourself you don't want your mind coiled up and bound and made to obey everything he ever says for the rest of your life.

She heard someone creep inside the bathroom.

“Heather?” Sandra called out. “Hello?”

Heather didn't answer her, glad for the fact that the walls of each stall went all the way down to the floor, so no one could see what she had been doing, or even that she was there.

She heard the stall next to her open and then close. Pants shuffled downward to the floor. Then, there was the unmistakable sound of fingers inside of pussy—that hot schlicking noise echoing off the tile walls of the bathroom, the same noise that Heather herself had just been filling the bathroom with.

“Oh, Heather,” Sandra whined. “Oh baby. Oh god, your tits! That fucking outfit, Heather! Oh love, love, love,
love!
”