Page 5 of Breeding Her: The Red Flag Edition
“I doubt that’s covered in the penal code,” I huffed.
“Driving under the influence,” he continued, “resisting arrest.”
“Why, you—”
“Threatening an officer.”
His fingers hooked around my white cotton panties and he began to pull them down. I gasped and tried to straighten my back.
“I suggest you remain still. These granny pants could hold a whole arsenal of weapons and I need to be thorough.”
“You sick fu—”
“Every time you're disrespectful you’ll get spanked, Ms Morgan.”
What kind of a town was this?
I whimpered when he pushed my underwear down my thighs.
His hand moved along my inner thigh until my legs trembled. His fingertips inched higher.
“I’ll tell you what, Ms Morgan. If your pussy is bone dry, I’ll let you off with a speeding ticket,” he said leaning over me until my feet slipped. “But if your wet you’ll take what I give you and thank me for it.”
Oh, no. No. No. No.
My arms jerked as his fingers brushed against my pussy.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” His voice was lower than before, almost amused.
I sagged against the warm hood of his car with a groan. He chuckled and moved back, but I felt him unlock the handcuffs. I sighed in relief. I was about to apologise for being rude when he hauled me up and handcuffed my hands in front of me.
I gaped at him, but he bent down and tugged my underwear off, lifting my foot until the white material lay in the dirt. The road had no traffic, and there were no houses around, only fields. Before I could react, he had me bent over the hood again.
“Palms on my cruiser, Ms Morgan,” he drawled as he bunched my skirt around my waist.
“Officer—”
“Now,” he bellowed, and I shoved my hands out.
“Spread those legs wider.”
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, slowly inching my feet apart.
“Good girl,” he crooned while my heart pounded.
Then I heard it.
His zipper purred along its path, quiet and controlled—zzzzrrrp—a thread of sound stretched thin and even. He paused, and then the sound was light, close to nothing—just the brush of fabric in motion, slow and intentional.
I wasn't helpless because of the handcuffs or the fact that I lay spread-eagled for him. It was the horrifying shame from my need. Months of solitude, locked away in my room or buried in work. The anxiety of taking even one step toward freedom. There had been no time left for me—for this.
His hands moved to my hips, but he didn't move.
“Push that wet little cunt back and I’ll fill you up,” he said, tugging my blouse from my skirt.
When I didn't move, his hands slipped beneath my blouse until he wedged them between the metal and my breasts. He cupped them through the lace before his fingers coaxed and massaged them.
My fingers pressed into the hood, and I pushed back until I felt his cock. It was substantial in width.
