You’re Nicked Sunshine

I had nearly reached home on a Friday afternoon. After another long, hard week at work, I was looking forward to wine-o’clock, a good dinner, and an indulgent weekend of what my wife and I call ‘S&R’ – sex and recreation.

We’d had it planned for a while, because both of us have high-pressure jobs and we agreed some time ago that we need to start scheduling ‘us-time’ into our busy lives. Day-to-day pressures had been pushing togetherness, intimacy and excitement into the background and it concerned both of us. This weekend was the one on which we’d agreed to focus on each other’s fantasies, choose one each, and act it out. My mind was wandering; thinking about what might lie in store.

I was so absorbed by what I might actually want do for my S&R that I had to brake hard when a policewomen suddenly appeared in front of me on the road. She had her hand up to stop me. It gave me quite a shock; a split second more and I might have hit her.

I struggled to regain composure as she walked slowly around to my side of the car. I wound down my window and tried to smile at her; tried to turn on some charm. “Yes officer, can I help you?” I asked innocently. Actually, I was a bit turned on. I know that seems strange, but the combination of what I’d been thinking of and the sight of a woman in a power uniform was arousing.

Abrupt, humourless and efficient, she just asked for my driving license and compared my face to the photo as I looked up dumbly, not knowing what else to do. Why is it that I always respond this way to authority figures? I feel guilty and jump to the assumption that I must have done something wrong, even when I had no idea what it might be. Any vestiges of arousal quickly retreated.

“Thank you sir,” she said, handing my license back. As I started to open the car door, she added: “Stay in the car please.” It was a polite enough request but issued as an order. She walked slowly around the car, inspecting it. My eyes followed her in the rear-vision mirrors. She paused and spoke into her lapel-radio. Returning to my side of the car, she asked: “Did you know your car’s out of registration, sir?”

I stammered an unconvincing response. “Is it? No… surely not… it can’t be… no… I always pay my bills on time… but then again… if you say so.” I attempted to make an apology for the oversight, which I’m sure came out sounding awkward and lame, promising to attend to it as soon as I got home.

She cut me off with a sharp “Sir!” Then went on: “It is an offence to drive an unregistered vehicle. What’s more, it’s dangerous. Your insurance will be invalidated. What if you were to have an accident?”

I knew better than to continue to argue, and decided that obsequious acceptance would be a better strategy. “Yes officer. You’re quite right. It’s serious, of course. I know it is.”

Unfortunately for me, I continued by trying to appeal to her lenient side, if she had one: “Look, it was an honest mistake, and I really am a trustworthy person. I’m nearly home after a stressful week at work and I want nothing more than for this to be over with. I realise you are just doing your job, but surely you have some flexibility here. Can you perhaps be lenient, on this occasion? What can I do to convince you? Or perhaps there’s an on-the-spot fine I could pay.” I smiled again, and reached for my wallet.

It didn’t get the response I was hoping for. Instead she glowered and said: “Are you attempting to bribe a police officer? That’s an even more serious offence than the one you’re already looking at.”

Groaning at this turn of events, I stammered: “No, no, I wasn’t. I wouldn’t. I promise. I was just trying to understand how much flexibility you might have when you...”

Once again she cut me off. “Flexibility?” she repeated ominously. “Let’s find out about flexibility shall we? Get out of the car sir.”

Of course I did as requested. She grabbed my shoulder very roughly and turned me to face the bonnet, and then shoved me hard in the middle of the back, doubling me up over the front of the car.

“Arms out to the sides!” she ordered, as if repeating a much rehearsed training exercise. Then she spread my legs apart by kicking the inside of each foot. It hurt. When she was satisfied that I was immobilised, she proceeded to search me, thoroughly, from ankles upwards. It was more than just a pat-down. If I hadn’t been so worried, I might have called it a “feel-up”! I fancied she spent more time and exerted more pressure on my stomach and chest than was needed, and she even reached right up to my crotch as she was checking my inner thighs, grazing my balls as she did so. I jumped, and wondered if she might get her thrills from body searches. I also wondered who in the street might be watching, hoping that it was still too early for the neighbours to be home. But then there was Mrs Parker. She had her nose in everything.

Obviously the policewoman found nothing untoward, but I was sweating nonetheless. She allowed me to stand up and face her again, asking: “Is this your car sir? Do you own it?”

“Of course I own it,” I replied angrily. “I’m not in the habit of stealing cars.”

“Very well then, can I see your registration papers?”

A little panicked, I reached in and rifled desperately through the glove compartment. I was pretty sure they were not there, but in the filing cabinet in my study. Cursing myself, and realising that it would sound suspicious, I had to admit that they were not in the car. “But I can get them from my house,” I added quickly. It’s just over there. I can be back in a minute.”

I started walking round to the driver’s side, to get back into the car, but she quickly stopped that. “You can’t drive the car sir.”

“OK then. Just wait here, I’ll run over and get them.”

 “Is that your house over there?” she asked. “Number 12?”

I confirmed it. She continued: “I will have to accompany you sir.”

As we walked across the road, I tried to make small talk. Ignoring it, she followed me in stony silence right to the front porch and waited whilst I found my keys and unlocked the door. Not having any idea of the protocol of dealing with a police visit, I said awkwardly: “Would you like to come in?”

She followed me inside and up to my study, watching while I sifted frantically through my files, hands trembling. I chastised myself. Why am I so disorganised? Why didn’t I tidy up the house before I left for work this morning? Eventually I found them. Quickly checking the expiry date, I found it was actually current, not expired. I experienced a flood of relief. “Here they are,” I said, almost shoving them into her hands. “Look! You were wrong. My rego has not expired at all.” Feeling vindicated and more courageous, I added: “So you can go now. And I think you owe me an apology.”

Calmly she inspected them and handed them back, unapologetic. “But that’s not why I stopped you sir. Your registration papers just confirm your name and address and car ownership. The drug squad has had your house under surveillance for several weeks now. We had a tipoff that a major drug supplier in this neighbourhood lives here. Do you deny that you are a drug dealer?”

I seethed and spluttered, “Of course I deny it! It’s preposterous. How could anyone have got that idea? Who told you that fabrication?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge our sources, sir,” she replied, in an official tone. “So, you are telling me that if I were to search your house, I’d not find any evidence of drugs. Is that right?”

“You bet that’s right,” was my irritated retort.

“Well, I’m going to have to search your house,” she replied.

Thinking clearly for the first time that afternoon, I challenged her, a bit uncertainly: “D… d… don’t you need a search warrant or something?”

“No sir, I don’t. If you remember, you invited me in of your own volition. Please sit down and wait here in your study sir.”

Finally I was getting properly pissed off; indignant at this invasion of privacy. And it was starting to ruin the weekend I’d been looking forward to and mentally preparing for all day – all week really.

“No I won’t,” I said firmly. “If you’re going to search my house, I’m coming with you. And I’m calling my neighbour to come over too, as a witness to what you’re doing.” I reached for my mobile phone.

She looked angry. “Oh no you’re not,” she snapped, reaching one hand behind her as she spoke. Before I could blink she had locked a handcuff around one wrist, pushed me back onto a chair, and handcuffed the other hand behind me, with the chain through a rung on the back of the chair.

“Hey!” I protested. “That’s a bit rough. That’s ‘police brutality’. Let me go.” It was only then that it dawned on me that I hadn’t even asked to see her ID. My wife Grace would call that a ‘rookie error’. How did I know she was even a cop? “Show me your ID,” I demanded. “And what’s your name?”

It was way too late for that by then, of course. I was not in a position to be demanding anything. She just looked at me coldly, unclipped the baton from her belt and replied menacingly: “You can just call me Officer Virago. Now you just sit tight and keep quiet and all might be OK”.

She reached into her pocket and brought out a pair of blue latex gloves, her baton firmly clasped in one armpit. She pulled the gloves tightly over each hand in turn, wriggling and pushing her fingers firmly in so the latex of the glove stretched nearly transparent over each finger tip. “Stay there!” she ordered. As if I was going anywhere.

I sat, frustrated, straining my ear to try to interpret the thumpings and rustlings that came from various rooms in the house. I could also hear my heart pounding. She returned, after a while, with a small zip-lock bag containing a white powdery substance and declared, in a triumphant tone: “So what’s this then?”

Now I was really worried. I broke into a cold sweat. “I’m being set up,” I blurted out. I’d heard of this sort of thing happening, mostly on TV probably, where the police plant drugs on some innocent person, just because they need to show they’re being tough on crime".

I never imagined in my wildest dreams that it might happen to me. Me, a humble school teacher. But what could I do? I took a deep breath to calm myself.

“I’ve no idea what it is,” I replied as evenly as I could. “None at all. Whatever it is, it’s not mine. Where did you find it?” I was sure she had planted it herself. “This can’t be happening,” I added out loud, shaking my head in disbelief. “Honestly, I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

“That’s as maybe,” she responded, as she slipped the plastic bag into a brown envelope. She peeled off the gloves and wrote something on the envelope. “Now… tell me where you were today.”

“Where I am every day – every weekday that is – at the Ashford School in Marylebone.”

“Oh, so that’s it,” she concluded, knowingly. “Pushing to posh school kids. You’re the worst of the bad. Are you carrying any drugs now?”

“No, of course I’m not. I don’t know anything about drugs. You searched me at the car, remember?”

“I didn’t search everywhere,” she said ominously. “I’m going to need to do a full body search.”

She unlocked one of my wrists, shook the handcuffs free of the back of the chair, and then ordered me to stand up. Pushing me roughly to the door, she locked the handcuff back on my free wrist, kicked the door closed, and had me loop the handcuff chain over the hook on the back of the door.

“Step back from the door.” As I did so, I realized that my raised forearms were now supporting my weight against the door and in this position I couldn’t possibly unhook the handcuffs. Taking advantage of this position, she unbuckled my belt and pulled it sharply through the loops, then unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them down, along with my jocks. Now I really was in a very vulnerable position.

I felt her hand on my sides, sliding up my ribs and round my chest. Scratching through the hairs, she found my nipples, nipping them sharply. “You get turned on by a woman in uniform, don’t you?” she asked. I shook my head. “Yes you do. I saw the way you looked at me when I stopped you in the car. You’re the type who likes to be dominated by a female authority figure. Well, today your fantasy comes true.”

My heart pounding, I felt relief when I heard this. I quickly revised my assessment of what was going on. Or maybe Grace had organised it as a S&R surprise. No… this was the sort of thing that might happen to a bridegroom-to-be on his stag night; something his so-called mates would think of as a great lark. She’d just got the address wrong and come to the wrong house.

I was starting to protest and explain her mistake, when her hands moved down to my hips and then around to my groin, one cupping my balls and the other grasping the base of my dick. I swallowed. I could feel my dick twitching against the grasp of her fist and thought: “Oh god! There’s a real danger I’m going to give in to this. Tempting though it would be to benefit from some other guy’s stag night prank, I had to stop her before it was too late.”

“Stop!” I said urgently. “You have the wrong person, the wrong address. You’re not meant to be here. I’m already married, and my wife will be home soon.”

She stopped what she was doing, and withdrew her hands. My relief was short-lived, however, when she said: “No, I have the right person and the right address. So, I shall continue my search.”

I could hear her putting on another pair of latex gloves and snapping the latex against her wrists. It was a sound that reminded me of my last prostate exam.  “Oh God no,” I groaned, “How can this be happening to me?”

“Shut up!” she snapped. “You pushers think you can hide the stuff inside you. You think we don’t know your tricks. How stupid do you think we are? Let’s see how you enjoy this search.” Using her baton she pushed my legs as far apart as they would go, against the crumple of clothing around my ankles. Then she pressed and poked the cold, blunt end of the baton firmly, too firmly, against various parts of my body, saying things like “Shall I try this out here,” and “what about here?” Then she slid it between my legs, pushing against my scrotum from behind, causing me to jump and cry out.

I tried to crane my neck around so I could see her face as I challenged her: “You’re not really a policewoman are you? What are you really doing here?”

“Shut your trap and we’ll find out, shall we?”

She slipped a gloved digit up my bum. I couldn’t tell from the feel which digit it was; possibly her thumb, because I could feel fingers probing my balls from behind. It was rougher that any prostate check I’d ever had - and much more confronting, more demeaning. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, it was arousing me. I was getting a hard-on.

My brain kicked in, willing my dick to go down. “Please go down,” I thought. “What’ll happen if she notices?”

She did notice.

“What have we here?” she asked rhetorically. “You are turned on after all. So you’re into a bit of backdoor stuff.” All I could do in response was shake my head miserably. However, in a way she’d put her finger right on it. It was one of my fantasies, to be penetrated from behind, but not like this; not in this situation. I had no control over this, and her thumb was starting to probe deeper, her fingers massaging my perineum and balls. I could feel her other hand coming round my hip and encircling my cock, grabbing tight and pushing in hard to my balls and pubic bone, stretching all the skin around my erection, like pulling the latex glove tightly around her fingers.

“Now,” she whispered in my ear, “you can make all this punishment go away. You just have to say: ‘Officer Virago, it was me… please stop,’ and I will. Go on… say it.”

My brain was screaming out: “Say it!” but in a weird way I wanted to feel her hand pull the skin of my cock up around its head again. I wanted her thumb to push back into me. I didn’t want her to stop. I shook my head silently.

“OK,” she said, “then there’ll be worse to come.” She started masturbating me very slowly, at the same time sliding her thumb in and out in time with her hand strokes, causing a tightening of my erection each time it penetrated deep inside me. As she did, she repeated: “Remember, a few little words is all it will take. ‘Officer Virago, it was me… please stop’, and there’ll be no more handcuffs, no more baton, no more drug searches. Say them!”

I couldn’t. Regardless of what pain and suffering was still in store for me, my cock was longing for the next stroke, and the next, and I was willing her thumb to slide in further, to explore, to press that spot deep inside that felt like the very origin of ejaculations. It didn’t many more strokes until I came, my contractions squeezing her thumb and spunk squirting out onto the floor.

She slipped her thumb back out and pulled the gloves off. “I see you get off on the rough stuff,” she declared. “You just passed up your only chance to stop all of this. You couldn’t bring yourself to say my name! Now let’s see how rough you actually like it.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Anything I said was going to cause an unpredictable and most likely unpleasant reaction, and lead to more pain, more ignominy. I just shook my head, wishing that it could be all over, wishing it could be a bad dream.

“Cat got your tongue?” she observed. Again, it was more of a statement than a question. Then she added: “What about pussy? What if a pussy got your tongue? Would that keep you just as quiet? Let’s see, shall we.”

Prodding and slapping the backs of my calves with her baton, she made me shuffle back in towards the door. “Unhook yourself,” she ordered. I was relieved to be able to lift the handcuff chain up off the hook on the door, and let my aching arms drop down in front of me, the cold metal of the chain sliding over my now flaccid dick and making me jump a bit. Now there was nothing arousing about my situation.

“Lie down,” she ordered. “No… on your back.” She pulled off my shoes and socks but left my pants where they were – around my ankles. She grabbed my shirt in both hands, near the collar, and just ripped it open - I could hear buttons skittering across the floor. Standing astride me, I could feel the cold leather of her boots digging into my sides. Then she dropped down onto her knees, hitching her uniform skirt up to free her thighs. My eyes widened when it dawned on me that she was not wearing anything beneath her dark-blue skirt. She wriggled forwards on her knees to position herself right above my head.

Everything went dark when her skirt lowered down over my head and her pussy started inching down towards my face. I can’t begin to describe the sensations, the claustrophobia, the sweaty humidity of being under her skirt, the feeling of hot thigh against my ears and cheeks as she lowered herself, the wonderfully heady smell of arousal, the taste of sex juices, and then her pussy lips against mine – pressing, moving, grinding, sliding. I couldn’t resist licking and sucking. She seemed to lose herself in the sensations she was getting, moving quicker and quicker. The lack of oxygen was getting to me. My head was spinning, hearth thumping and cock swelling. Then, all of a sudden, she tensed up and held her breath. I could feel a sort of pumping against my lips, contractions pushing against the tip of my tongue, a flooding of warm juices over my face. I came out gasping for breath when she stood up; drips of my saliva mixed with her juices were dripping down the insides of her thighs.

“OK, so you’re a dominatrix.” I thought to myself. “I can go with that.” I’d read about BDSM and always been intrigued... and aroused, if the truth be told. But I’d never dabbled in it. I’d never explored what it would be like to be dominated, how I’d respond to pain… and humiliation. “Pretty well so far,” I thought to myself.

Finally I spoke out loud. “I get it. You’re a dominatrix. I don’t know who organised this, but I’m ok with it. I’ve read about it. Shouldn’t I have a safe word?”

No response.

Trying to be funny, I added: “something like ‘Red’ like in 50 Shades, or ‘Code Red’, or ‘Pineapple’ – no, too many syllables, or ‘Mum’…. or ‘Mother’? Yes, that would be sufficient to stop anything!”

She was silent through all this. Maybe she was still recovering, I thought, but no, she just continued quizzing me about drugs, as if nothing had happened.

“Where do you keep your stash?” she demanded.

“I already told you, I don’t have a stash. I don’t have anything to do with drugs.

“So you still won’t talk,” was her response. “We have ways of making you talk, you know, and they’re not pretty.” Dragged by the handcuffs, now chafing a bit on my wrists, I was up against the door again, my back to it this time. She lifted the handcuff chain around the hook again, leaving me fully exposed… with not a hint of an erection.

Reaching into her pocket, she produced two clips, like little vices with screws to tighten them: nipple clamps. She put them on my nipples and started screwing them up, first one then the other, until they really gripped, causing me to cry out with the pain. Looking down, I could see the exposed tips of my nipples turning white. Curiously, I felt the pain diminishing a bit and giving way to stimulation. My cock started responding again. She saw it too. “Ahhh… so you like that,” she observed. Another half-turn on the screws; it was as much as I could bear. Through clenched teeth, I said hoarsely: “Red! No more please. Pineapple? Mum?”

“Where’s your stash?” she asked again. I just shook my head. She prepared to tighten the screws again. Breaking into a sweat, I spoke: “I told you… I don’t have a stash.” A thought emerged through the fear and pain that she might not be a dominatrix; that this might indeed be a misdirected drug bust. How should I respond now?

She searched my face for a few moments, perhaps trying to assess whether I was telling the truth. To my relief, started unwinding the clamp screws. I could feel the blood flooding back in to my nipples. And into my cock! “How can pain like this be so arousing?” I wondered.

She unhooked my arms from the hook on the door, and pulled me down onto my knees in front of her. “You want this to stop?” she asked. “Then lick my boots. Yes… now.”

It wasn’t easy to balance, with the handcuffs still on, but I managed it, leaning on my elbows. I leaned down, bum in the air, and tentatively licked the leather toe of her boot. As I was focusing on this, heard a loud swish and slap, followed instantaneously by an agonising pain across my bum cheeks. I yelped and moisture welled up in my eyes.

“Not slick enough,” she hissed. “Try again. I want it shiny… patent.” I licked again, inwardly cringing with the anticipation of another slap.

“Now the other one,” came the order. As I started licked the other boot, apparently not quickly enough, I heard the loud swish again and felt the accompanying sharp pain.

“Owww! That hurts.” I cried. I tried all the safe words I could think of, to no avail. I was subjected to several more slaps with the belt before the job was completed to her satisfaction.

Apparently she was finally convinced that I had no drugs and I wasn’t lying about it. She disappeared into my bedroom and came back with one of my shirts. Unlocking the handcuffs at last, she said: “OK, now I have to take you down to the station; put this on, and your pants, and get yourself cleaned up.”

When I was dressed and partly recovered, she snapped the handcuffs on again and marched me out of the house back towards my car. I fancied I could see the nosy neighbour across the road watching from behind the curtains, and started thinking about how I might get her attention, to get her to call a lawyer or something. Anything to help get me out of this. Before I could do anything, she bundled me into the passenger seat.

She drove my car while I tried to quiz her about where we were going. As usual, my questions met with silence. We drove up into the hills, nowhere near the local police station. Now I was getting really worried. She finally stopped in a small clearing at the end of a remote, bumpy track somewhere in a pine forest. We seemed to be miles from anywhere.

“This is not looking good,” I thought to myself. “Maybe I can make up story about where I stashed drugs, just to buy me time?” I tried, but she was no longer interested in drugs. She just unhooked her baton, unlocked my handcuffs, looked menacingly at me, and ordered me to strip. Standing naked in the middle of the forest, with my hands modestly covering my private parts, she looked me up and down, licked her lips as though she was relishing the thought of more torture, and put a blindfold on me.

“This is it,” I thought, despairingly. “It’s an execution.” I had no idea what I might have done, or whether it was simply a case of mistaken identity. I started pleading with her to let me go, to let me prove I wasn’t who she was looking for.

“Be quiet and lie down,” she ordered. “Lie still.” Becoming resigned to my fate, I did as bidden; there was no point in doing anything else. I lay still and listened… and waited. After hearing some rustling, the next thing I felt was a warm naked body sliding onto mine. She was kissing my neck, my lips, and grinding her pubic bone into my cock, which jumped immediately to attention, and found its way between her legs. My god she was juicy. She slipped down on me, hot and slippery, squeezing deliciously. Then she propped up on her arms and started riding me… up and down, balancing herself with hands on my chest every now and then.

I was in a rhythm, my hips pushing up in time with her bouncing, which was driving my cock deeper into her. Then I felt something cold on my chest, around my nipples. She was applying the clamps again, to my tender, aroused nipples. It was a wonderful mixture of pain and overwhelming pleasure as she slid herself up and down my cock, squeezing her internal muscles tight as she moved. Quickly she pulled off the clamps and, as the blood rushed back in, she rubbed and pinched my nipples as she ground onto me, bringing me off in an amazing orgasm.

Pulling off my blindfold, I blinked with the bright sunlight and waited for my eyes to adjust. I could see her face, smiling at me. “How was that, lover?” she asked. “You always said you sometimes fantasized about rough stuff – was it rough enough for you? Was it too rough? Did you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy it?” I repeated. “That’s an understatement! It was right at my limit at times but I’m starting to understand how pleasure and pain can be such a stimulating mix. Especially when someone else is in control. Grace baby, you can do something like that again. You were so inventive, so tough, so believable. You are an amazingly creative role-player. For most of the time I didn’t even think of that policewoman as you. In my head you were the drug squad, for real, and at times I was actually frightened. Where did you get the gear? And how did you play the part so well?”

She laughed with the compliments. “Yes, it was rather good… I thought so myself. I got the handcuffs and nipple clamps at a great sex shop I discovered – Sh! We must go there sometime, because I found a few other things I’d like to try too. The uniform was more problematic. Most of what I could find in costume shops and sex shops were flimsy fantasy versions of female police uniforms, but then I found The Patrol Store, which sells authentic stuff on-line. Not only the clothes but also the webbing belt, baton and hat. I already had the boots – thanks for cleaning them, by the way!”

“I tried to script it out a bit during the past week – that got me hot ­­– but when I got started I found the role starting to take me along. And I got off on it!

I must admit that when you first brought it up, I didn’t really believe that being restrained and having pain inflicted would be arousing for you, but I was willing to give it a go. It obviously was! But what really surprised me was my own response. I wasn’t expecting to get such a sexual surge out of being the dominatrix – handcuffing you; hooking you up to the back of the door; penetrating you; the nipple clamps; making you lick my boots and slapping you with your belt. It was all designed to feed your fantasy, but it made me horny too. That’s why I just had to go down on you in your study and have you suck me off. That wasn’t scripted at all, but I just I had to do it.”

She turned serious for a moment, and asked: “Do you think I should be worried? About finding it stimulating to wield such power, to inflict pain, to watch you squirm? Maybe I’ve got a problem. Maybe you’ve unleashed a monster!”

“Worried? No, I don’t think so at all. It was my fantasy, remember. It’s not as if you forced me into it. And I find it incredibly arousing to be part of helping you to explore your fantasies, so why wouldn’t you in return? It’s the intimacy that’s so very stimulating, and exposing vulnerability by handing over control. If it clearly had been distressing me, it would have lost its allure and you’d have stopped, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes of course I would,” Grace agreed. “Actually, several times I was expecting you to call out the safe word we agreed: Virago. She laughed, recalling something. “Did you like my attempt to trick you into saying the safe word when I was actually pleasuring you? That would’ve been a hoot; if you’d missed out on an orgasm by using the word when you didn’t need it!”

“I got close to needing it once or twice,” I admitted. “Those nipple clamps were excruciating when you first tightened them up. And the slaps with the belt… they were painful. But I distracted myself with a few fake safe words – did you like that? Then I found myself getting aroused by the pain. God, the feeling of blood flowing back into my nipples when you released them was orgasmic in itself!”

“Well then,” she said. “Shall we call that a success? Time to go home now, for dinner. And the whole weekend’s still ahead of us.”

As we drove back up to our house, Mrs Parker, our nosy neighbour, was out like a shot. She just had to find out what had been going on. She came over to my side of the car as I got out. “Are you OK?” she asked with feigned concern. I don’t think she’s ever really liked me. “What was that policewoman doing at your house?”

“Oh that,” I replied lightly. “She just picked up that my car was out of rego and I had to find the papers. It’s all good now.”

“You were inside a long time ‘finding the papers’,” Mrs Parker observed suspiciously. Turning to Grace, she added: “They were gone a long time. And when they came out, I think he was handcuffed.”

“It took me ages to find the papers,” I explained limply. “What with the state of my study and my poor memory.”

“Yes, but why were you handcuffed?” she asked.

Before I could make up an answer, Grace cut in. “Actually Mrs Parker, the police found out he has been illegally supplying Viagra in this neighbourhood. They found his stash of blue pills while they were inside. I had to go to the station with a lawyer to bail him out. But he didn’t tell me about any policewoman. If I’d known, I might have left him to stew in jail a bit longer.”

Turning to me, she added in a whisper, calculated to appear private yet be loud enough for Mrs Parker to overhear: “What was she like, this policewoman? Hot? You always said you like a woman in uniform, was she your type? Would she be my type? I’ve fantasised about being handcuffed to the bed by a policewoman. Perhaps we could arrange a threesome!”

Mrs Parker gasped and blushed. “Dear me,” she said, and she turned and scurried back across the road.


Some of the ideas for this story came during a visit to a wonderful sex shop in London – called “Sh!” It was started by two women and is run by women. Coming through their attached coffee shop, it’s like entering an Aladdin’s Cave of try-before-you-buy sex toys, lingerie, books, and bondage accoutrements. They design and make their own ‘artisan’ bondage gear in their workshop. They’ve even been a case study in the academic literature on business and marketing, with the clever title “It’s Business Doing Pleasure With You.” Sh! was on the forefront of the transition from seedy Soho sex shops, which reinforced the view of pornography as a male domain in which women inspire lust rather than experience it, to a domain catering for women’s desires. It worked for me!