I pecked Rob over the breakfast table and left for work, shooting him a smile when I reached the kitchen door. He puts up with a lot; late nights, early starts, the general stress of having a workaholic wife. I’m a detective for the Metropolitan Police, which is a lot less sexy than it sounds. Budget cuts mean that instead of spending quality time with my husband I work all hours doing the mindless paperwork that would have been done by office staff a few short, Tory years ago. Not that I’m bitter, where was I? Ah yes, the day of the incident in question.
I kissed Rob and flew out of the door onto a bus, falling straight into my standard Miami Vice daydream as I held onto the greasy overhead rail. The fat orange sun was still low between the buildings, drenching everything in an almost Floridian tangerine glow. I wasn’t in a white Ferrari though, and instead of healthy tans I was surrounded by pasty Anglo-Saxon office worker whites and pinks. Jostled off the bus, I made my way through the automatic doors and up the escalator, the golden glow of the sun filtered to a murky green through the toughened glass.
Collapsing into my chair, I made eye contact with the girl working opposite and squeezed out a little smile. The slog began with finishing off some interview reports from the previous day, then I moved on to some background research for a robbery case I was working on. I was on autopilot from about ten thirty, the only thing keeping me going was the fact it was date night. Every Thursday Rob and I head out into town for a meal, drink some moderately expensive wine, then head home and have our weekly dose of docile sex. It doesn’t sound like the stuff dreams are made of but it does us fairly well, and I spend most Thursdays in a warm fuzzy haze. Four thirty ticked by, and I had pretty much ground to a halt; I was unusually bored and had fantasised my way into being quite aroused. A warm tingling spread through my lower back and core as I imagined pressing Rob against the wall, kissing him deeply and feeling him grow hard against me. I was slowly dropping to my knees and working on his belt buckle when a file dropped onto the desk in front of me.
I jumped and looked up into my supervisor’s grinning face. “Earth to Lucy!” he said with his characteristic chuckle. I tried to steer my expression from open disdain into wry amusement and probably failed. “What’s up McGowan?” I said stiffly. “Well, we’ve got a suspect waiting in Room 2 and Tony fel-”
“Felt like he wanted to skive off, so I’ve got to interview his suspect?” I finished for him with my best Technicolor smile. “Uuh, I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that but… yes?” he mumbled hopefully.
My fuzzy pink bubble burst and I fell back to earth, through the earth and into purgatory. “Fine.” I said, reaching for the file. “Great! Knew I could count on you!” he chuckled, weaving his way through the desks. I quietly considered which part of his body I’d most like to slowly saw off, settled on his head, then opened the file.
It seemed like a standard van theft, I glanced through the particulars then flipped over the page to the suspect’s information. Perhaps it was the fact I’d been off in a sexy dream world for an hour or so. Perhaps it was the way he seemed to be glaring out of the photo and into me. I don’t know what happened but some biological switch flipped inside me, and my breath caught in my throat. I turned the page back to the case details, took a couple of breaths, then turned the page onto his picture again. He had high cheekbones and a strong chin, a mess of short hair and a two day stubble. A tattoo of a rose wrapped around his neck and he glowered out of the page; those eyes had seen a lot, a fierce energy burned behind them.
“Don’t be so fucking stupid…” I muttered to myself as I walked down to the interview rooms, putting on my best bad cop face. I opened the door, and sat down opposite him.
“I’m DC Cross 45831, conducting an interview with Thomas Kelver, case number 4390173. The time is 17:45 on the 15th of August 2019.” I rattled off the spiel, busily shuffling paperwork and trying not to make eye contact with him.
“Mr Kelver, can you please confirm your name for the record?” I said, finally looking up at him.
“Call me Tom.” he said with a grin. He spoke with a thick east London accent, and he lounged back in his chair, the embodiment of a bad attitude.
“Please confirm your name for the record.” I said, closing my eyes and forcing away a blush. What was wrong with me? I’ve interviewed hundreds of scumbags like him, and never once felt a flicker of emotion. There was something in him that spoke to some part of me; that hot, slippery animal that writhed around in my belly and made my knees feel unsteady.
He leaned forward to the microphone and I caught an aroma of mint from his breath. “My name is Thomas Kelver.” he said, enunciating every syllable like a sixties radio announcer.
“Thank you,” I said, “where were you on the morning of the 15th of August?”
“You mean this morning?” he sneered.
“Yes, this morning.” I said, gritting my teeth.
“No comment.”
I fell back in my chair with a sigh. How could I prevent Thomas Kelver from stretching this interview out into the small hours of the morning? Especially now that he’d thrown me off and got the upper hand. The solution came to me and I grinned, blushing deeply.
I hit the stop button on the recorder and leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “How would you like to get out of here nice and quickly?” I asked, looking into his piercing eyes, letting the energy roll over me. It felt like a boiling liquid pouring into my body, filling me with tingling warmth. He shrugged, twisting a corner of his mouth up.
I got up and moved around the table, then dropped slowly to my knees in front of him. He laughed quietly, and ran his fingers through my hair as my hands moved over his thighs. My scalp felt hot under his palm, and I squeaked slightly as his fingers curled, gripping my hair. He lifted his weight in the chair slightly, letting me pull his jogging bottoms down to his ankles. Of course he wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and immediately his musk rolled over me. I moved my hands over his pale thighs as he spread his legs slightly, and I saw his cock start to twitch. I started to gently work his cock with one hand, and squeezed his balls with the other. They felt heavy and full, and moved easily under the soft pink skin of his scrotum. I squeezed his cock in a gentle rhythm, in time with my breathing, speeding up slowly. I felt it begin to engorge and throb under my warm palm, until I could roll his foreskin back and see his pink cockhead.
I took the very tip into my mouth, and began to swirl my tongue gently around it. I kept the rhythm going on his thickening shaft and balls, and it wasn’t long until his dick was stiff and twitching in my hand. I kept teasing his head, kissing and flicking over its contours with my lithe tongue until I was rewarded with a small pulse of precum into my mouth. The taste set my body on fire, and I could feel the walls of my pussy tremble slightly, squeezing against my own moisture.
He got tired of being teased and, tightening his grip on my hair, pushed me down until his cock hit the back of my throat. He groaned slightly as I choked, then pulled my head back up. He paused for a second, let me catch my breath slightly then pulled me back down onto his pulsing cock, slick with spit and precum. This time his dick hit the back of my throat but he kept pushing, his muscular hand tightening its grip on my head. I felt his cockhead force my throat open, and I gargled around the encroaching meat. Inch by inch he pushed me down, I struggled for breath as I took him further than I’d ever taken a man before. Each time I gagged my throat contracted around him, making him grunt and push deeper until my lip touched his balls. He held me there for what seemed like hours, struggling for breath until I heard my heart beating in my ears. With each beat a fresh surge of arousal hit my trembling pussy; it felt so right to be filled by, used by, dominated by a man like this.
I retched slightly as he pulled my head up, and when I was clear a string of drool and precum hung between my chin and the tip of his cock. I grinned up at him through watering eyes and he laughed cruelly; another slut broken. He released his grip on my head and I filled my mouth with his member again, taking him as deep as I could, down to the balls, bouncing my head there and massaging every inch of his cockflesh with my throat. He groaned and leaned back in the chair, letting me release all those years of boring missionary position sex with boring boyfriends. I was choking down his cock, feeling myself become hotter and wetter with every surge of precum that coated my tongue.
When I came up for air he pulled my head away and grinned at my gasping breaths. “Do you need this inside you?” he asked, eyebrows raised slightly. I just smiled and nodded, slowly getting to my feet and dropping my sensible suit trousers down to my ankles. Before I could get out of them completely he grabbed me by the back of the neck and bent me over the small table. With one hand he pressed my face into the cold wood; with the other he stripped away my underwear, revealing my soaking cunt. I gasped and shivered slightly as the cold air hit my sensitive lips. “You really need a good fucking don’t you?” he said, lining himself up with my eager hole.
“Y-yea-” I started to reply, but got cut off as he pushed his thick cock into me. It was already slippery with my spit, and the walls of my hungry quim were soaked, so he easily rammed it in up to the balls on the first thrust. I was overwhelmed, squeaking and clenching my fingers and toes was all I could do to respond. My walls twtiched and rippled around him, frantically trying to accommodate the new invader. He grunted quietly, enjoying the sensation then pulled out slightly and started a slow, deep rhythm. Each time he slammed home into me a burst of stars appeared in my eyes, and I finally managed to let out an animal groan, releasing some of the tension in my body.
As I relaxed, it felt less like he was splitting me in half and more like waves of pleasure with each thrust. Soon I was moaning like a pornstar and begging him to fuck me harder, deeper. He obliged and I was getting stretched in ways I didn’t know were possible, taking a brutal fucking, absorbing all the energy he was pushing into me with each stroke.
“Fff-fu-” I whimpered as I felt myself drawing close to orgasm, then lost the power of speech as he smashed me over the edge. My whole body shuddered, and the walls of my cunt clamped down on his cock like a vice. This fresh sensation made me ride the incredible orgasm like a wave, and pushed him over the edge too. He broke his fierce rhythm and his thrusts grew spasmodic, until he buried himself in me with an animal groan and I felt his cock throb against me. I reached through my legs and gently massaged his heavy balls as he came, feeling them jump as he pumped rope after rope of thick cum into my sloppy twat. He pulled out with a slurping noise as he softened, then pulled his trousers up. He left me there, sated and used, and I reached for the tape recorder with a trembling hand.
“Interview concluded, suspect free to go…”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/cub4h3/the_interview_fm_deepthroat_creampie