Five minutes later, a patrol car drew up, blue lights flashing, and two cops sauntered in, reassuringly mean in black combats, boots and bulky protective vests. They wore peaked caps with checkered bands, each with a black baton jutting by his hip. Karen grew moist at the sight of those batons.
The morning got really exciting when forensics came along and the gallery was cordoned off to the public. “Crime scene. Do not enter” read the yellow tape. Stuart left for college and Alicia began to cry. It fell to the female officer to comfort her and get busy with the kettle and the tissues. In the main gallery, crumpled white creatures in head-to-toe plastic swept dust into little pots, swabbed canvases and took measurements, photos and videos. If it hadn’t been for a minor royal due in town that day to open a new conference center, they’d have been ignored. But in a state of heightened security, anything suspicious required prompt investigation. The gallery bleeped and crackled with radio messages, there were mutterings about bioterrorism, and a general air of indecisiveness hung about the place, although the latter wasn’t, in itself, unusual.
Eventually, Karen approached the three male cops who were in the long gallery, clustered around a painting entitled “A Study in Blue.”
“Color’s this one meant to be, then?” asked Bryn, a freckle-faced man with barely visible eyelashes and pale, ginger brows. A copper copper, thought Karen.
Bryn’s colleagues laughed at his feeble joke.
Karen cleared her throat. “You should take me in for questioning. I know something about this.”
The policemen got suddenly serious. The sexiest of the bunch, Sol, a dark-eyed guy with a hard, straight nose, instinctively rested a hand on his baton and glared, his body tensed for action. Karen’s cunt tingled.
“What is it you want to tell us, eh?” asked the third cop, a barrel-chested man who looked ready to burst out of his protective vest. Karen hadn’t caught his first name and knew only that he was Sergeant Carter.
She chewed her lip, thinking, I want to tell you the colors have vanished because I’m desperately lonely and I’m not getting any cock. Instead, she said, “It’s private. If you don’t want to take me to the station, there’s a room in the basement we could use.”
The three men exchanged glances. Karen edged closer. She could practically smell the testosterone. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’m not dangerous.”
Sol narrowed his eyes at her. “Well, that’s lucky,” he said. “Because we are, ‘specially if you don’t cooperate.”
Sergeant Carter smiled. “But let’s start off with a friendly chat, eh?”
Ah, good cop, bad cop, thought Karen, pleased she had the measure of them.
“I’ll wait here,” said Bryn. “Radio if you need me.”
The Cellar Gallery downstairs, a room at the far end of a perfectly smart basement, was a poor exhibition space, prone to damp and rarely used. It housed the gas meters in a cupboard that was difficult to disguise, and its floor was cobbled. The gallery was a former bank built on the site of a workhouse, and rumor had it the cellar’s thick metal door with its small, prison-bar window was a remnant from an age of Victorian cruelty. A patina of verdigris mottled its surface, a sea-green wash in a basement leached of color. Karen pushed the door shut as Sol and Sergeant Carter entered, their boots heavy on the cobbles. Soft circles of halogen overlapped on the white walls, illuminating emptiness and picture hooks. Karen leaned seductively against the door.
The men were unmoved. “What’s this about then?” demanded Sol, his hand still on his baton.
Karen couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with a fit, handsome stranger, and now she had two of them in uniform, all epaulettes and steely power. Their presence was intoxicating. Karen didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t thought this through. She glanced from Sol to Carter, bad cop, good cop, her heart soaring with so many wants. After a year alone, love, intimacy and warmth ranked high on her list of needs but right now, shut away in a cellar echoing with lost histories, Karen’s most pressing need was for a double dose of dick. She stumbled forward, half mad with hunger.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “The colors. Sometimes I make things happen. Weird things. I can’t help it. It’s because…”
She lunged for Sol’s crotch, fumbling for the bulk behind his flies.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, then it was all stations go. Sergeant Carter leapt to Sol’s defense, wrestling Karen to the cobbles with a deft tackle. He acted as if she’d assaulted a police officer, which upon reflection, she probably had, and he made no concessions for her being a member of the fairer sex. He was rough, fierce and surprisingly fast for one so burly. Within seconds, Karen was pinned to the ground, Sergeant Carter’s knee wedged between her shoulder blades, the stone cobbles cold on her cheek. Ignoring her cries, Carter twisted Karen’s arms to draw her wrists together and lock them in a pair of rigid cuffs.
“Get up,” he huffed, yanking her into a kneeling position.
Karen gasped for breath, her mussed-up hair strewn across her face. So much for good cop, bad cop, she thought. Outraged, she tossed her head and spat dryly, trying to blow strands of hair from her lips. “I only wanted some cock,” she snarled. “Jeez, talk about police brutality!” She glowered at the two men, her breath fast and shallow. “Well, don’t stop now, will you?”
Sol unzipped with an angry tug. “Hold her,” he barked, shuffling closer.
Carter swept Karen’s hair into a tail, twisting and gripping to make a handle for her head. “Now do as we say,” he warned, giving her head a little shake.
Before her eyes, Sol’s big cock bounced, his swollen end a dark, furious flush. He butted at her lips, and Karen engulfed him in one greedy, sloppy take. Sol groaned, angling himself into her reach while Karen gobbled and slurped. She wanted to open up to him, to feel him driving into the depths of her throat. Again Sol groaned. In the dank basement, his noise, so rich with dirty pleasure, was music to Karen’s ears.
Carter waggled her head then forced her against Sol’s body, her lips wrapped around his root. “Go on, take it,” he jeered.
Karen couldn’t hold Sol for more than a few seconds. She sprang back, gasping for air. Her heart flared at the sight of two cocks in front of her, both eager for attention. Good cock, bad cock, she thought as she bobbed from Carter’s length to Sol’s then back again. But no, it was all bad—bad, nasty and rough—and it was all good, so wonderfully good.
It got better and badder when Sol decided he needed to check if Karen’s cunt was as greedy as her mouth. Sergeant Carter hooked his hands under her armpits, maneuvering Karen so they were both seated on the ground, Carter behind Karen, Karen in the gap of his thighs. Karen kicked and squealed as Sol reached beneath her skirt for her knickers. She squirmed as he tugged them down her legs, all three participants getting off on the fight.
“Tiger, ain’t she?” chuckled Carter. Behind her, Carter’s protective vest was as solid as a superhero’s chest, and his naked cock nosed insistently against her trapped hands. He tucked his ankles under her legs, and with a shift and a twist he spread her wide, her shins trapped under his big, shiny boots. Spots of halogen gleamed in the leather toes, each black boot holding a miniature moonlit night.
Sol withdrew his baton from his holster. “Perfect, Sarge,” he said. His baton was long, black and menacing, a short handle
