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Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 07

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A day in the life of Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings…

Following a call from my boss to attend the scene of an accident – some berk had run his shiny orange Lamborghini into a tree so hard it had pushed the engine into the passenger’s seat – I found myself on the trail of one Mick Worhurst, a lottery winning multi-millionaire who had apparently failed to advise his wife of same.

It seemed that our Mick started his typical work-day kissing his missus goodbye, letting her believe that he was driving his battered old station wagon to a far-distant long-hours telecoms job in the city. But instead of doing that, he would actually scoot straight over to a nearby storage facility where he would swap the wagon for one of a bevy of exotic automobiles, usually choosing the Lamborghini worth twice as much as the dinky little cottage in which he kept his wife and five children; and then he would mosey on over to a secret million-dollar waterfront townhouse and, more often than not, have his wicked way with Trish, his pneumatic teenaged sexual plaything. It’s a tough life for some, no?

As for myself: after a long, slow rogering from my police station’s records keeper; flashing my tits at the manager of the storage facility to score the keys to Mick’s bright red Elfin Streamliner; and surprising Trish at Mick’s sex-pad and pumping her for info by means of subtle sexual torture – I had finally caught up with Mick. Well, after a fashion: we conversed via a webcam link-up which quickly, if not inevitably, turned into a steamy session of cyber-sex. Can I be blamed? The guy was a bastard, all brash and cheek, completely unabashed, and I couldn’t help myself. I’ve always had a soft spot for the cheeky ones – the more brazen, the better. Didn’t hurt that he was sexy as all hell, too.

And having watched my quarry pump long, hard and fast on his cock, spilling his load and making me come simply to watch it via webcam, I’d just barely begun to recover when Pagani – the Euro-trash bad guy who’d tried to have Mick killed, his goons running him off the road and destroying his beautiful orange Lamborghini in the process – sent me a message to let me know he was holding Mick’s floozy, Trish, as hostage. “Come alone,” Pagani told me via SMS, “or she’s dead.”

Twenty minutes later I was standing outside Pagani’s menswear store on the main street of coastal Warburton, hugging the semi-hysterical Trish as she sobbed with reaction and relief, while a squad of heavily-armed policemen pinned Pagani to the footpath. “Fucking bitch!” he was roaring at me even as the SWAT team wrestled him to submission. “I told you to come alone!”

“Oh, but I do hate to come alone, sweetheart,” I returned, with a teasing wink.

Truth was: I had very nearly fallen for it. In my initial rage I had planned to roar on down to his shop, drive through his store-front window, and fill the bastard with a dozen police-issued bullets. Any other day I might have done it, too – except, in my haste to clean up and get going, I had inadvertently alerted Mick to Trish’s predicament and he had point-blank refused to stay clear.

Much as I’d have loved to have gone guns-blazing, loose-cannon-style on Pagani, he wasn’t the main target. I’d made a promise to Mick’s wife – the mother of his five children, totally unsuspecting of his lying, cheating, lottery-winning-hiding ways; I’d promised her that I’d bring Mick home, one way or another. So I let the SWAT team claim the glory of the gun-toting, hostage-keeping Pagani, and I waited for my pray.

And even as I comforted Trish, wrapping her possessively in my arms and squeezing her soft, perky bosom into my own, my jaw dropped as I looked up the street. “Trish?” I murmured.

“Yeah?” she managed, between sniffles and sobs.

“Does Mick own a red Ferrari?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “It’s brand new, he only got it last week.”

Fucking oath it was brand new. It was a gleaming, flawless example of a Ferrari 458 Spider, with its flip-top folding aluminium roof tucked away and its highly-strung, five-hundred horsepower Italian V8 burbling with restrained malice as it idled towards us. There must only have been half-a-dozen 458 Spiders in the country. It had barely even gone on sale – and most Ferraris are sold out eighteen months prior to their initial release, with an additional eighteen-month waiting period after that for the backlog to clear. Mick must have greased some serious wheels to get his hands on one of the first batch off the ship.

Mick Worhurst: you magnificent bastard.

He drove past us, the hand-built engine sounding menacing even at a bare idle as Mick took in the scene at a crawl, agape at the crowds and the cops and the guns.

His eyes met mine for just a moment, and as one we mouthed the same phrase:

“Son of a bitch.”

“Trish: get in the Elfin,” I added, as Mick flicked down a couple gears and opened up the throttle, treating the assembled crowds to a Formula One-style cacophony of air and fuel being converted to mechanical kartal escort bayan energy in the most rousing manner possible.

“It’s Mick,” Trish realised, even as we both broke into a run back to the little red sports car I had liberated from Mick’s automotive treasure trove a few scant hours earlier. “It’s Mick! He’s okay!”

“Only until I catch him, Trish,” I assured her. I fired up the Streamliner’s mighty V8 and zapped the engine, the vibrations travelling deliciously through the frame of the car, up the seats and giving both of our un-pantied boxes a nice little zing. “Only until I catch him.” And we peeled off in pursuit.

Mick had been unable to get far in a hurry, the heavy holiday traffic on Warburton’s main rubbernecking strip slowing him mightily. With the Elfin being considerably smaller and less expensive than his showroom-condition Ferrari – combined with the fact that it wasn’t mine – I had no compunctions over hopping the kerb and nipping up the footpath to close the distance; a few pedestrians had to leap out of the way, but the ripping, snorting blast of our mighty engine gave them fair and due warning, so I was sure no harm had been done.

Mick and I shared another quick glance as I pulled up alongside him, though a line of cars parked on the kerb separated us – I saw him swear, then he tugged on the wheel and sent the Ferrari flying up a side street. With an oath of my own, I managed to get the Elfin back onto the road via a pedestrian crossing, ducking back to the side street and finally giving proper chase.

I followed Mick out of town onto the highway, where we opened the taps and blurted up to dizzying speeds, leaping aboard the brakes whenever traffic or a corner got in the way before snatching a lower gear and beginning the climb to speed all over again. It was intoxicating – the race-car-like snarls and screams of the Ferrari before us, pulling away slowly but gradually despite the lion-like roar and ear-pinning acceleration of our own machine.

The Ferrari and the Elfin were surprisingly well-matched. The Fezza had significantly more power than the Chevy-sourced V8 in the Elfin, but the Elfin was a few hundred kilos lighter than the Ferrari, which evened the score somewhat. And even though the Italian Stallion laid claim to a more sophisticated chassis, wider tyres and millions of dollars more intensive development than our car, this would only have been a benefit on an empty racetrack. On the crowded highway there simply wasn’t enough space or visibility for Mick to exploit the Ferrari’s advantages over our humble, yet highly capable, little Elfin.

“Oh my God…” I heard Trish moan as we leaned hard through an open corner through the foothills highway, holding station a few car-lengths behind Mick.

“Are you alright, Trish?” I asked of her, desperately hoping she wasn’t about to yargle all over my pretty little appropriated vehicle.

“This is AWESOME!” she whooped.

“Isn’t it though?” I grinned. And now, knowing her to be of a hooning spirit similar to my own, I started to show off. I applied some extra throttle around the next bend, causing the tail to step out gracefully, and we both hooted with delight as we had to turn our heads to watch Mick’s car out the side window, drifting sideways behind him.

As we straightened out for a new blast up a short straight, I could see Mick’s eyes in his rear-view mirror – despite the fact I was driving his (illegally appropriated) car in a highly risky fashion, his sexy, manly eyes were creased up in an obvious grin. And sure enough, after braking for the next corner he applied a Swedish flick – cranking shortly away from the corner to unsettle the car, then steering in under excess power to snap out his well-glued tail before cranking it into full-opposite-lock to howl utterly sideways through the next long, luscious sweeper…

…and he looked over to see us doing exactly the same, drifting almost door to door, handle to handle with an elegant – nay, a beautiful synchronicity of which I was rightly proud. Hell, any mug could drift a six-hundred-thousand-dollar Ferrari – here comes Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings in her twitchy, uncooperative, half-sorted eighty-thousand-dollar Elfin, all crossed-up and drifting superbly! All praise due and earned, thank you!

The shambling motoring public coming the other way received quite the show indeed, that day.

Coming back into our hometown, Mick was cavalier enough to pull on his indicators and show that he intended to take us up the road to Mount Kenebo – the very same twisting-and-turning mountain road where Pagani’s goons had shot him up and forced his precious Lamborghini off the road and half-way up a tree.

“Mick, you mug,” I chastised, as though he might actually hear me.

“He’s taking us up the mountain,” Trish observed, with a knowing nod. “He loves to take his ladies up the mountain. We christened the Ferrari just the other day, in the car park at the lookout up the top.”

I escort maltepe looked sideways at her, even as I double-de-clutched to wrench the Elfin back into second gear for a series of redline sprints up a long straight stretch. “Christened it, eh?” I asked of her, with a dirty waggle of the brow.

She affected a blush. “Yeah.”

“Roof up or roof down?”

“Roof down…” she volunteered, bashfully. “I wouldn’t have been able to ride him, otherwise.”

I laughed, and between gear-changes I ran a possessive hand over her inner thigh. “You’re a torrid little slut, Trish,” I told her.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, Detective,” she purred in reply.

I could have pulled the car up short and fucked her then and there, were it not for the Ferrari-bound deadbeat I had sworn to track down, pulling away ahead of me. “Damn how I wanna fuck you, bitch,” I told her, with an appreciative honk on her young shapely boob to boot.

She giggled, and returned fire with the same, running her dainty little hand over my own bosom before her fingers fell to my lap. I grinned as she reached under my short little skirt – riding high as I played the pedals like a pipe organ – and soon she was teasing and fondling my budding, sopping little clit without mercy.

“Damn you, girl…” I growled, marvelling at my own skill as I managed to keep the Elfin close to the tail of the significantly superior Ferrari even despite her distractions.

“You want me to stop?” she teased.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” I ordered, spreading my legs as wide as I could in the cosseting seats. “Though I think our Mick has endangered the public for quite long enough,” I added, and I reached for my police radio.

Five short minutes – and one lovely little orgasm – later, Mick and I barrelled completely sideways through the very same hairpin where he had come unstuck the evening prior in his Lamborghini. Instead of flooring the gas and making that gorgeous V8 scream like a biblical swarm at the corner’s exit, Mick suddenly slammed his brakes, and I also had to do some deft manoeuvring to work my way around him and pull ourselves up to keep from bouncing off the roadblock my colleagues had established.

“Fuck’s sake,” I spat after we finally screeched to a halt amidst a chaotic arrangement of blue-shirted officers and randomly scattered station cars. “Who put the roadblock here? I gave explicit instructions: ‘leave plenty of visibility and a good length to slow down!’ I was chasing a Ferrari, damn it all! Who’s in charge here?” I demanded to know, stepping up out of the low-slung Elfin.

“That would be me,” sneered a familiar voice. I turned, and found it belonged to none other than Detective Harvey Thompson. Literally the only male in the station I failed to get along with.

“I might have fucking known,” I returned, seething, ready to spit. It barely even registered when, in the corner of my eye, I saw two distant officers pull Mick out of his Ferrari and cuff him up. “You need a good solid kick in the balls, Thompson. You call this the work of a competent police officer?”

“Pot-kettle-black, bitch! Have a look at yourself!” he returned.

I didn’t need to look at myself; I suddenly remembered the state I was in. After a hectic day of orgasms left, right and centre – starting with an unfinished fuck in the morning, a long slow seeing-to from Ian the records manager, a quick but frenzied masturbatory session in Mick’s home office, a sordid lesbianic tryst with Trish in the very same room an hour later, and then performing for Mick on the webcam hardly an hour after that, I was in quite a state. My knickers were long gone, I had neglected to replace my bra after another of the encounters, my thighs were slick and shiny with my day-long excitement and my nipples poked dark and proud through my thin, white, half-unbuttoned blouse… and a sudden breeze let me know that I’d neglected to push my short skirt back into place after Trish’s most recent ministrations, leaving my shaved, moistened, puffy-lipped pussy exposed to the world.

“Look at the state of you, Jennings,” Thompson frothed. “You look like a damn whore! Cover yourself up, woman! Where did you get this car from, anyway? Misappropriated – or stolen? I wouldn’t put it past you. Driving it like a criminal too, we heard you coming down the mountain all screeching and howling and high-revs. And what about the slut – where did you turn her up from? Fucking hell!” the man went on, all piety and vitriol – the very same holier-than-thou, patriarchal bullshit that had always made me hate him. “There’s a huge puddle of cunt-juices on the driver’s seat, too! Fucking hell!” he said again, apparently unable to get further than that.

“Enjoy them, Thompson,” I invited him, as a dozen other uniformed policemen gathered to watch our exchange – more than a few of them, I noted, craning on tippy-toes to try to see the aforementioned puddle. “Cos that’s as close to my cunt-juices as you’ll ever get, ya fuck-knuckle.”

I pendik escort turned to go – hitching my hemline back into place with as much dignity as could be mustered – but Thompson wasn’t finished.

“Fuck you, Jennings! I’m putting in another complaint to the Ethics Committee – and this one won’t be swept under the rug. Not again! I have a dozen damned witnesses, and you can’t have fucked all of them, surely!”

I did a quick head-count: “No,” I allowed. “But ten-for-twelve isn’t a bad effort, you’ve got to admit.”

That earned a hearty chuckle from my colleagues, and a brighter shade of beet-red from Thompson’s face. But before he could challenge my purity any further, he was brought up short by a crushing blow.

Trish had just kicked him in the nuts. From behind.

“Who did you call a slut?” she demanded of him – somewhat slow on the uptake, but devastatingly effective nonetheless.

We all had a good laugh as Thompson crumpled comically to the ground, folding in half against the crippling groinal agony.

“Arrest her…” I heard him groan. “Assault on an officer… Arrest that bitch now!”

“I didn’t see it,” I told him. “Did anyone here see an assault on an officer?”

Ten of my twelve colleagues all immediately chorused a grinning “no”; the other two, obviously hoping to one day give me the round dozen – so to speak – chimed in shortly thereafter. Whether they failed to see the assault, or see an officer, was a happy ambiguity that worked either way.

I nodded my thanks. “Right then – we shall be off. See ya, Harvey.”

I’m sure Thompson would dearly have loved to come back with something pithy, scornful or damning, but he was too busy throwing up from the pain so we left him to it.

Trish caught up with me as we headed for the two far-off coppers who had just finished reading Mick his rights in front of a paddy wagon; she was giggling, her bosom jiggling all over the place as she did so, bless her heart.

“You see how we deal with bastards in the force, Trish?” I told her.

“I love it!” she squealed delightedly. “Maybe I ought to sign up at the Academy.”

“I’d gladly sponsor you all the way through, babe,” I assured her, with a possessive pat on her gorgeous little rump. “We could do with a bit more eye-candy in uniform. Speaking of which: mind if I catch a lift into town, officers?” I asked of the pair who were loading Mick into the wagon.

The elder of the officers I’d addressed – old Sergeant Ramkin, gruff and rotund, a career flat-foot and the first superior I’d ever blown in uniform – sized me up in a very short second. “No room in front, love,” he rasped with his whiskey-and-cigarettes voice. “You’ll have to hitch along in back with the perp’.”

“Fine by me, Ramky,” I assured him; I stepped in close for a minute to issue some quiet instructions, to which he nodded happily, before I turned back to my lovely little lady. “Trish: follow us in, will you?”

“In which car?” she asked – having the enviable choice of a little red Elfin or a little red Ferrari.

“The red one!” I suggested, just before Ramkin bolted us in.

And as the paddy-wagon’s engine started and I turned on Mick, I found he was sharing the exact same grin as me. “Detective,” he greeted, with a nod.

“Michael Allan Worhurst,” I returned, with a similar nod. “They read you your rights?”

“They did.”

“Good,” I said – and I took an advancing step toward him. “Now forget all of that shit. That sweet little arse of yours… is… all… MINE.”

Mick actually showed a little concern. The look on my face must have been absolutely ravenous.

“Uhh,” he half-chuckled. “All that stuff we talked about, over the web-cams…”

“Uh huh,” I prompted, as I took another step forward.

“You know: how, if you ever caught me, you wanted to dole out a bit of ‘police brutality’?”

“Uh huh,” I said again, taking yet another step.

“You… umm… can’t actually get away with that.” He paused. “Can you?”

I took the final step towards him. “Honey,” I told him, and paused to show him my most hungry, wanton grin: “I just had my new little lesbo bitch kick my colleague in the balls, and I got twelve police-witnesses to deny police-witnessing it. There’s not much I can’t get away with.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” Mick allowed. He must have ignored his rights in favour of our little show with Thompson. “But still…” and to my surprise, he turned his most charming, dazzling, heart-stoppingly cute and cheeky grin on me: “you wouldn’t want to mess up this face, would you?”

I stopped to consider that. “No,” I allowed. And I swung a boot deep into his stomach, causing him to gasp in shock and double over in pain.

“I’ll leave the face alone.”

Mick was gulping and panting, folding over on himself and settling into a foetal position on the floor of the paddy wagon. This would never do – I’d seen enough of his cock via webcam, and the way his cum spurted sharply out of the huge, rounded knob before cascading out in thick, wadded folds of gleaming white waves, to know that I needed to see it for real. So I quickly shed myself of all my clothes – for what, the sixth time that day? – and straddled his face, grinding my burning, moistened cunt down on his cheek.

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