Stripped Down (26 page)

Her tail was sliding in and out of my wet 'gina at the same time.

This time, we didn't have an audience, but it wasn't changing my reaction. Another cut followed her claw down my back. Her forked tongue darted in and out of me, working around her tail. It hurt like hell, but having wanted it for so long kept me going now. I could feel the scales of her tail rubbing along my 'gina walls. It was like being laid open. I was having a hell of a time deciding whether to pass out or come.

“May I have permission to come?” I whispered. For an answer, she whipped her tail out of my 'gina and slid it as far as it would go into my ass. I 'gasmed hard and sudden, shuddering all over. I'd given up any willpower that I'd had long before this. She could do damn near anything to me and I'd come.

I collapsed onto the dried clay pavement, just barely saving my face with my hands. My back end was still up in the air receiving her tender ministrations. Her tail slid in and out a few more times, then got yanked out and smacked across my ass. That got a reaction. Again. Yow! Then she went back to fucking me with it. By then, I was growling as my scent filled the alleyway. My 'gina juices ran through the coarse hair on my legs and I could see my blood trickling down onto the clay. I smelled so strong it made my eyes water.

I shuddered all over as I came again, then I blacked out for a minute as I hit the pavement. When I came around, she was gone. Shit. Just when we were getting to know each other.

There was something on my back, along with the claw marks she'd put there. It hurt worse than anything else. I knew I'd have to get back to my quarters before I could find out what it was, so I staggered up, grabbing the wall for support, figuring to get home before I passed out. Thank Yonasha for combat training or I never would've been able to stand.

My fur burned where the blood was matted into it, pulling my skin every which way. At least she'd left me the robe that she was wearing to replace what she shredded. I pulled it on, cringing as it went over my back. I felt like something a bearcat dragged home.

It was still night, so I didn't get a look at myself until I had limped through the alleyways back to my planetside quarters. Shango woke up and wandered out of his quarters when I rolled in, so he got the first look. “By the sacred flames!” he whistled. “Oh honey, you did it, didn't you?” He hauled me into the bathing area and cleaned me up, then left me to soak while he got food like the pal he is. I hoped he would want to visit me on Hana-altair, after I broke the news.

I was still lying in the bath when I saw a light sheen of rainbow scales appear under the short fur on my arms. Hauling myself to my feet, grumbling and groaning the whole time, I looked at my back in the mirror. In the center was a bloody claw mark that looked branded into my skin. Scales shone under that, too. The news was going to break itself once he got a good look at me.

I stared at my hands, waiting for claws to sprout like little seedlings. They didn't, but they would soon. I could feel it. Soon I would be going home. Home. The tenth planet from the sun, Hana-altair. I rolled it around my mouth, liking the way it sounded. I wondered what it would be like having a tail.

PHOEBE'S UNDERCOVER BON VOYAGE

Skian McGuire

 

 

 

 

It wasn't hard to take Phoebe down. I had my knee in the small of her back and was slapping the cuffs on before she knew what hit her. Of course, she wasn't really resisting yet. It wasn't any fun until the cuffs were on.

For a moment we just sat there—or lay there, in Phoebe's case, with her face pressed against the pavement—and I looked around. I don't know if any movies were ever actually shot at the Bijou's warehouse annex, but the rich man who built the theater spared no expense in creating this celluloid fantasyland next door. All under one high ceiling is the perfect little city scene, three row houses and an alley with plenty of room for the squad car my boss Verlaine got from a junkyard. The row houses were no mere false fronts, either.
It didn't take much to turn one of them into a station house, right down to an old-fashioned
POLICE
lamp outside.

The doors from the club were closed to the regular Sunday evening traffic. This was a private party, to give Phoebe a good send-off. I hoped she would have something to remember us by.

I managed to get the locks set while we caught our breath, Phoebe and I. Just. Then she went wild, trying to buck me off, swearing and kicking and grinding her head against the asphalt, trying to brace and get her feet under her while her hands were cuffed against her back. Phoebe was a fighter, all right. After she elbowed me in the gut and knocked the wind out of me, I was ready to call in backup. The other uniforms were standing by, grinning on the sidelines and more than ready to mix it up with our little blonde hellion. I called them over as soon as I could suck in air.

Anybody who didn't know Phoebe would see nothing but a sweet, helpless little thing, all pink and pretty. She'd be cute in camouflage, from the halo of pale gold curls and blue eyes down to some size four combat boots. Just five feet tall, she looks like something you could toss over your shoulder and carry away, while her tiny, perfectly manicured hands beat on your big strong back. You can almost imagine her squealing, “Oh, put me down, you brute,” now, can't you?

Nope. No way.

In a short, tight little dress, with bright red lips à la Courtney Love, she can kick off her strappy high-heeled sandals and send two grown men to the hospital with only her bare hands and feet. I've seen it. If Phoebe didn't want to be subdued, I would be missing some teeth before ending up in the cuffs myself. It's a good thing Phoebe likes cops. I mean, she
really
likes cops. Hell, I guess that's why she
is
one.

Between the four of us, we got a grip on her and hoisted her up. She sure as hell wasn't going to walk.

We manhandled the jerking, heaving, spitting, biting one-woman riot up the station house steps, cursing, and struggling to hold on. There was one last thing to make sure of.

“You remember your safeword, don't you, baby?” I asked her, panting.

“Of course I remember my fuckin' safeword, you stupid shithead,” she screamed at me, trying to twist around so she could sink her teeth into my arm. “If I want to use my fucking safeword, I'll use my fucking safeword, you motherfucking asshole. Arrgh!” At this, she kicked one leg free and booted the Sergeant right in the tit. I whistled through my teeth. Phoebe would pay for that later.

We hustled her straight past the desk into the holding pen, where Caine and Walters held her upright against the chain-link while the Sergeant and I messed with the cuffs. It took some doing, but eventually we got her strung up facing us, with a set of bracelets locking each wrist to the mesh, crucifix-style. She never stopped struggling, and she never stopped calling us every vile, filthy, ridiculous thing she could think of. Phoebe has a wonderful imagination.

Caine and Walters backed off her fast; her legs were thrashing out at them the minute they let her go. I surveyed the scene while we regrouped.

Nobody would have mistaken us for real cops, or if they had, they wouldn't have figured us all from the same department. The Sergeant favored a midnight blue uniform, with a cross strap over the shoulder to her basket weave Sam Browne belt. Caine was gaudier, with a broad navy stripe up the legs
of her sky blue trousers, and navy blue epaulets and pocket flaps adorning her sky blue shirt. Did I mention sewn-in creases? Clarino duty belt and chukkas, too. The glare could blind you. Walters and I went for the traditional look, with navy blue trousers and light blue shirts; Walters spiffed hers up with a real NYPD shield. I've got my Bijou Security patches and the badge that Lainey got me. Not very salty, maybe, but I'm the one with the keys.

The Sergeant dusted off her hands. “All right, Officers,” she said. “Let's get this prisoner strip-searched.”

Phoebe blew a wet raspberry at us and brayed a loud, mean laugh.

“You fucking bunch of thumb-twiddling pig-assed twats think you're gonna lay a finger on me, you got another thing coming, you stupid blue-face cuntsuckers!” She kicked one foot out after the other and ended up hanging herself up on the cuffs.

“Grab her legs.” The Sergeant shot a look at Caine and Walters, and they dove in before Phoebe had a chance to recover. I got some Flex-Cufs around her ankles. As Caine and Walters panted and wiped the sweat from their eyes, I doubled the plastic straps, just to make sure.

The prisoner rested against the bonds for a moment and delivered a few desultory epithets, conserving her strength. The Sergeant was unfolding her drop-point blade from its pearl handle. I pointed to the leg of Phoebe's jeans just above the Flex-Cuf.

“Poke a hole there for me, will you?” She knelt to oblige, then started working on the other jeans leg herself, sawing away slowly with that cold shank of steel. My handy-dandy EMT knife was nowhere near as sexy, but it made short
work of the denim, all the way to Phoebe's crotch in one clean swipe.

Phoebe thrashed as best she could to keep me from unbuttoning her fly and yanking down the zipper, but it was no use. I cut through either side of Phoebe's cotton panties and yanked them off her. Then I straightened up and looked her in the eye.

The girl was still spewing insults as fast as she could think them up: full-auto, that is. I waited until she paused for breath, then I stuffed the wadded-up panties into her open mouth.

I'd have sworn that the look on Phoebe's face was nothing short of triumphant. Caine was on the job with a roll of adhesive tape before she could spit out the gag, and we got the thing secured. It was strapped on well enough to hold, but loose enough that she could breathe around it if she had to. She could still make plenty of noise, too. I didn't want to take away all of Phoebe's fun.

“Well, now,” I said. I grabbed a handful of tit and squeezed, none too gently. “Got anything hidden in that bra? Besides a nice pair of hooters, I mean.” The other officers started snickering and snorting. Phoebe's eyebrows shot up. “Let's find out.”

My knife made short work of the T-shirt she was filling out; a shame, because it was a beauty, sporting a cartoon of a cop waving a long-barreled revolver and the legend
It's not how
big
it is… it's what you can
do
with it.
The Sergeant finished slashing off Phoebe's formerly skintight jeans and pulled them free of the Flex-Cufs just as I zipped through her bra straps. I had already released the front hook; I tossed the flimsy scraps and put my knife away.

After Caine thoughtfully removed the prisoner's child-sized Nikes, the little blonde stood gloriously naked, except, of
course, for the bracelets and the wadded-up panties stuffed into her mouth, which hardly counted as clothing anymore. There was nothing childlike about her figure: full, round breasts; a small waist on womanly hips; and a thatch of pale hair that attested to the authenticity of the curly golden locks above. Phoebe was a beautiful woman, even wearing a gag. Perhaps especially wearing a gag. Without the threat of the Sergeant's well-honed edge against her tender flesh, the prisoner had resumed her struggles, issuing unintelligible but loud vocalizations I was glad not to understand. She'd have been spitting, if she'd had the chance.

I stared her down as I took her nipples between each thumb and forefinger, twisting and squeezing until tears came to her eyes. Still, she didn't drop her gaze. I grabbed a curl of blonde hair close to her temple. She winced, shut her eyes and whimpered.

I pretended to look closely. “I think the sleazy whore has lice!”

Phoebe's eyes snapped open, in spite of the pain, and she jerked her head away from my hand. Redoubling her efforts to pull a foot free of the Flex-Cufs, she almost succeeded before Walters dove into the fray and yanked on one more loop.

“Caine, you go get the shaving gear. We'll have to move her again, but let's check those body cavities for contraband first.” I nodded to the Sergeant. “Would you like to do the honors, sir?”

She didn't need to be asked twice. With a self-satisfied smile, the Sergeant pulled a latex glove from the pouch on her belt and snapped it on. I passed the lube to her and she dropped to one knee between the prisoner's legs. Phoebe wasn't in the best position for a thorough search, but as she wouldn't bend
over and spread her own cheeks, this would have to do.

The Sergeant's fingers disappeared between Phoebe's thighs, and I watched the prisoner's face while a diligent probe was made. Her chin tilted up and her eyes closed; her breasts rose and fell.

“Don't need any grease for this hole; the slut is dripping wet,” the Sergeant said, working her fingers in and out. “She doesn't care how she gets fucked.” Phoebe sagged against the handcuffs. For the first time since I stuffed the gag in her mouth, she was actually quiet. “I bet she'd like a nice hard nightstick up her snatch, right about now,” the Sergeant purred.

Phoebe squinched her eyes shut even tighter, then her face went slack and her eyes opened slightly. Her skin glowed with a light sheen of sweat. Her lower body swayed a little, as if moved by a gentle breeze.

I glanced over at Walters, who was stroking the bulge in her pants. “Later,” I told her. I was feeling a little sweaty myself. “Let's wrap this up.”

The Sergeant pulled her hand back out from between Phoebe's thighs and squirted a generous dollop of lube on the end of her gloved forefinger. Then she hooked her other arm around the prisoner's hips. Phoebe bounced a little as the Sergeant's groping hand goosed her cheeks apart. She let out a muffled squeak as the Sergeant's finger plunged past her tight sphincter up to the last knuckle.