Detective Constable Miller was in uber-macho mode, lewdly describing to the other male detectives in his team a recent escapade. Detective Sergeant Roberts and young D.C. Bishop were all ears.
“Then I bent the slut over a chair, and, while standing up, fucked her from behind, in front of a tall mirror. Her huge tits hung down wonderfully. She loved seeing them like that in the mirror. She moaned uncontrollably when I squeezed and pulled her erect nipples. Her cunt was unbelievably wet, and became more so as I thrust my hard cock into her with increasing force and speed ...”
He curtailed his description fairly abruptly as the door burst open. Their chief, Detective Inspector Marcella Rossi, crashed into the room and slammed the door noisily behind her.
D.I. Rossi was far from happy. She had just sat through a stunningly boring admin. meeting with several stuffy superior officers. The meeting had concluded with the Chief Superintendent’s advice that Marcella’s team was way down on several critical KPIs. She hadn’t appreciated the boring old fart’s implication that this under-performance was likely due to Rossi’s gender and youth (she was the district’s youngest D.I. and the only female).
Roberts, Miller, and Bishop sensed they were in for a bollocking. Their unease was enhanced by uncertainty regarding how much of Miller’s noisy, crass description Rossi had heard.
Marcella banged her keys and bag down on the table, and, standing over the trio, launched into a tirade.
“I’ve had it up to here with you useless, lazy bastards,” she began. “You’ve only done half the houses in the door-to-door for the rape case; you’ve only interviewed one of the three suspects for the aggravated burglary; you’re all miles behind with your paperwork; and you sit around relating supposedly raunchy stories like a bunch of soft-cock wannabes.
“Roberts, you’re supposedly the supervisor. Make sure these lazy cunts are at their desks at seven-thirty every morning for the rest of this week. Now get out of my fucking sight, the lot of you.”
They slunk away, all somewhat rocked by Rossi’s forceful remonstrations.
D.S. Roberts was particularly unsettled. He was cruising along, close to retirement. In his private life, he was quite devout, doing a little lay preaching at his local church. He was shocked that a female superior, of Latino heritage, some twenty years his junior could use such vulgar language when speaking to the group.
He resolved that he would no longer fantasise about Rossi when his frigid wife gave him his monthly fuck, or when he occasionally masturbated. He had only started to do so when he had copped a decent look at her more-than-adequate cleavage when she wore a low blouse to a meeting. Italian slut. Roll on retirement pension.
Marcella went to her desk and reached for the bottom drawer. She poured herself a very small glass of single malt to sip while she made a couple of calls, and replied to some emails.
She had soon sorted everything essential and was ready to head home. She was still extremely stressed and tense. What she needed was a couple of glasses of her favourite wine and a bloody good fuck. She’d had no sex for a couple of weeks - far too long to go without.
After a moment’s hesitation, she called her newish young lover, Rory. As she waited for him to pick up she visualised his lovely hairy thick cock, and felt herself moisten.
“The usual wine bar in twenty; then on to mine,” she told him. She deliberately lived on the other side of town, well away from the station. She strongly wanted her private life to remain so.
As she drove across town Marcella distracted herself from her current work stresses with random thoughts about her favourite previous cocks.
There was basketballer Geoff in late high school. She had loved doing handjobs on his lengthy, thin, uncut dick. Marcella could still clearly recall his guttural groans as he climaxed on her bare tits.