"My ass warmed, becoming almost hot, and my cunt felt molten -- melting further with each thud of the whip. Each beat was like a great wave rolling through my body -- starting at my cunt and rippling through my belly, into my deep guts, thrilling my nipples and then out my mouth."
He doesn’t look like much. Still, when I look at the picture he sent me I get a quiet rush, a reverberation of what it was like.
I didn’t feel anything like that when I knocked on his door that night, four years ago. It was routine, a noise complaint. I remember thinking, as I walked up the steps to the little house on 4467 Pierce Street, that anyone who blasted Beethoven couldn’t be a lot of trouble to deal with. I was wrong.
He’d opened the door on the third knock. I sized him up the instant it swung open: white Caucasian male, 35 to 37 years old, approximately 140 pounds, curly brown hair, green eyes, no facial hair or obvious distinguishing markings. He’d been wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a faded orange sweatshirt with the brooding face of his favorite composer on the front – whose 5th Symphony was rattling the windows.
At the Academy they teach you never to make assumptions, that even the most innocent face can hide a nasty perp. “Treat every situation as a potentially dangerous one” -- and if you do you’ll freak out in a matter of months. It had taken me a while, more than anything because of who I am, my size, my age, that I’m a woman, but I’d still managed to develop a set of cop instincts. The Academy would say to watch your ass, but my guts said that he was just some innocent little music fan.
As it turned out, the Academy was closer to the truth.
“Shit!” he’d said, with a comic intensity that made me smile despite myself, “Sorry, Officer.” He dropped back into the place, moving quickly towards a wall-sized stereo set-up, and Beethoven dropped down to just a percussive rumble. “Got a little carried away I guess. You know Ludwig: gets your blood stirred up.”
I can’t remember what I said. I do remember, though, what I was staring at. You see a lot of shit when you’re a cop – but in quiet little Bakersfield you don’t see that much. I knew what I was looking at, of course; I’d seen more than my fair share in the magazines I kept hidden at home. Still, it was one thing to know something exists and quite another to see it personally.
I guess I must have stared for quite a while, because I was suddenly aware that he was looking at me. Shaking it off, I glanced at him and met a sly smile and those sparkling green eyes.
I didn’t say a word as he closed the door behind me.
* * *
My ID says GERTRUDE PARROW. I still hate Momma for that, a name no one – let alone a kid -- should get stuck with. To everyone except the Sergeant it’s Jeri – not Gerty, and certainly not Gertrude. Usually all it takes it a frown and a low growl to get it corrected.
The Academy taught me a lot of things that weren’t on the curriculum. Like female officers will always get the shit work, especially in little burgs like Bakersfield, and that we’re going to get damned little respect – from citizens and especially from other cops. Momma always said I was a fast learner – and that was a lesson I picked up extra quick. After my first two weeks I put aside Gertrude and built up Jeri – a tightly-wound, non-nonsense, ball breaking bitch. Of course being a little over six foot helps, as does carrying 160 in firm muscles. Wasn’t always that way, I had to build Jeri up in more ways than just attitude.
I was strong, I was mean, I was no one -- even my ‘fellow officers’ messed with. I was also lonely.
I attracted some men, of course, and even some women, but you could see in their eyes that they wanted Jeri and not the whole package, Jeri but also Gertrude.
Until that day he played Beethoven played too loud -- and I saw the whip.
* * *
I didn’t ask, “Is it real?” as he got me a drink from the kitchen. I didn’t need to -- it had a very ... lived-in look. Black leather strips, about a dozen or so strands. It looked heavy, it looked mean, it looked ... I felt myself quietly go wet staring at it.
His name was -- is -- Julius. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, old sweatshirt and running shoes, but he’d been doing this kind of thing for a while. Not obvious, but definitely there when he spoke: “So, you want to play?” It wasn’t so much a question as a mocking observation.
All I could do was nod as I sipped my drink.
“Then let’s,” he said, smiling broadly, eyes dancing. “Or would this be assaulting a police officer?”
I smiled back, reached up and plucked by badge from my shirt. Jeri was determined, Gertrude was hungry.
He started with a kiss -- not a polite peck on the cheek, but rather a forceful, hot stab with his tongue. Grabbing the back of my ponytail he jerked me back, hard. Gasping for air, I instead would his firm, soft lips, and strong, passionate tongue. Down deep, I felt myself respond ... on a very primal level.
“You’re mine, slut,” he said with a bass growl. “For the next hour you are mine -- a possession, an object, a thing. You exist for one -- and only one -- thing: to pleasure me. Do you understand me, slut?”
I agreed. I tried to make it sound like “YESSIR!” but I’m afraid it was just little Gertrude by then, Jeri having stepped out with that first hard kiss, and instead it came our “yes ... sir ....”
“Now strip -- show me what you’ve got,” he said, pulling up a battered chair and sitting down, facing me.
Those men, and those few women, they’d wanted me to say those words, to growl commands, orders -- but all that time I wanted to hear them, too; to put aside the badge, gun, the attitude .. to put aside Jeri.
I stood, slowly because my knees were weak, and started to unbutton my shirt. I didn’t intend to do it slowly, but my fingers were shaking. One button, two, three. Shirt off. Then my boots, comically hopping braced against a doorjamb -- but he didn’t laugh. No, he watched. Not stared, just watched, with a gleam in those green eyes like a falcon or a leopard. I didn’t know if he was going to fuck me ... or consume me -- and that made me all the wetter.
Naked, I stood in front of him, my juices painting my inner thighs with a sheen of want. He smiled, cruelly, and stood. He inspected me, looking at my heavy tits, my crinkled nipples, my ass, my belly, my neck, my face, into my eyes. “You’ll do,” he said after a while.
“Thank you, Sir,” I said in a weak voice, the carpet swaying beneath my feet.
“As an object you must meet my needs -- satisfy my every desire. Do you understand me, slut?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, distinctly aware of my throbbing clit, the ache in my nipples.
Then he said it -- and if I was flowing before I practically streamed after. “Suck my cock,” he said, a growl in his words, steel in his tones.
He was impressive -- but I’d seen larger. But it wasn’t just his cock I was begging for. He was hard, a thick length of cock just sticking out of his pants, and that got me even wetter -- not for the sight of it but rather the command, the order.
I got down on my knees and started to suck him like his was the only cock in the world.
Done others, probably will do many others -- but his was my Master’s cock, the cock I’d been ordered to suck, and so nothing could compare to it. Single-mindedly, becoming just an ecstatic sucking machine, I worked on him -- his slight moans and groans a glorious kind of applause for my technique. I wanted more than anything to please him.
I guess I got a little too enthusiastic -- the joy at being pushed down, at being released from my bounds as the dominant Jeri -- was a little too much for him. His small yelp was like glass shattering, as if a part of my ideal world -- the world of Gertrude the sucking slave -- broke, fell apart.
“Bad,” he said, pulling his cock out of my mouth and sticking it back into his pants, “very bad. Obviously you’re in need of some training -- because a real slave, an ideal slut, would never, ever, allow her teeth to even graze the cock of her Master.”
Jeri was frightened of nothing, but Gertrude -- little slutty Gertrude -- was terrified. “I’m so sorry, Sir --” I pleaded in a soft little voice, bowing down towards his simple running shoes. “Please, I didn’t mean to --”
I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the sneer in his voice. “Begging is so pathetic -- even for a slut. Obviously you’re in need of some severe discipline.”
That was it. Right then I knew what was coming next. The magazines I’d bought with their lurid fleshtones and shocking titles had prepared me some -- but not enough. They’d shown me the position, on my hands and knees, head down on the old carpeting, ass high in the air, legs slightly spread to bare the lips of my cunt -- but they never, and never could have, gotten me ready for the first impact of the whip.
I expected pain -- but it was more than that. At first it was a gentle slap, a glancing blow across both my cheeks. That’s it? I remember thinking, almost frowning into the carpet, but then there came the next blow -- harder, faster -- and I knew that wasn’t it. Oh, no, that wasn’t it at all --
The impacts came faster, a pounding rhythm that may have started on my ass but soon became a drumming tremor through my whole body. It was as if my entire being was being beaten with a regular 4x4 beat, a drum in his sensual, masterful concerto.
My ass warmed, becoming almost hot, and my cunt felt molten -- melting further with each thud of the whip. Each beat was like a great wave rolling through my body -- starting at my cunt and rippling through my belly, into my deep guts, thrilling my nipples and then out my mouth. At first I thought the sound was from somewhere else -- it wasn’t until later that I realized that I’d groaned with each impact, an echoing deep rumble to his regular beating.
Jeri was nowhere to be found -- it was just the slut, Gertrude, receiving her exquisite punishment -- and it was wonderful.
He said something, and it stopped -- the cessation almost as shocking as the first impact. Distantly, I was aware that he reached down and helped me up, led me like a sleepy child deeper into his apartment.
After, I looked closer at the room -- noticed the great bookshelf of dusty, and dog-headed volumes, the rack of CD’s, the small pile of dirty laundry ... and the brass bed. But as he led me in, I didn’t see anything but his hard hand gripping my wrists -- then the bed itself, vast and comforting.
“You have pleased me, slut,” he said, as if from a long distance. “You have pleased me with your performance -- but there’s one last thing I require.”
I knew what was coming next, as if a deep part of Gertrude was following some passionate script. Again, my face was down, this time in a soft comforter, arms outstretched to grip the cool metal of the brass bed; again, my legs apart, my ass high -- but this time not to receive the whip.
He entered me, cock sliding effortlessly into my hot cunt. He fucked me -- and again, like with the whipping, time vanished and I became his object, his slut. I lived for his pleasure, existed to service him -- it was wonderful.
We fucked that first time for what felt like hours, his strokes rocketing through me as the whip had, but this time the impacts echoed through my body, not just from my reddened ass. Slowly, he pushed me higher and higher, quickly up a slope I’d only climbed before with one of my forbidden magazines and a vibrator.
Then it happened -- and shortly thereafter for him as well. The ecstasy was like a brilliant light in my eyes, a body rush, and a dreamlike collapse onto the soft comforter, onto his brass bed.
That was the first -- there were many times after. Officer Jeri may have knocked on his door that first time, but it was slutty little Gertrude who returned time and time again.
Fires die, people change -- eventually it faded for both of us: there have been others since, more Masters and even some Mistresses -- but he’ll always remain special, a first step on a long and wonderful road.
Every once and a while, I still take his photo out of my wallet and stare at his face, at those stern green eyes, and Gertrude smiles.
