Crime and punishment has never been so throbbingly stiff, or gone on for so long and so hard.
Chloe discovers that when you do the crime, you must be done in every way possible.
WARNING: ‘Bad Girl, Good Cops’ is intended for a mature audience and in no way should be seen as approving of shoplifting. If you desperately need a thong, please, please, buy the thong. But this story should be seen as approving of consenting adults pleasuring each other in as many ways as they find possible, again, and again, and again.
“Do you want anything for breakfast, Philip?” I ask.
We’re in our bedroom. I just rolled out of bed. Philip is just out of the shower. He has a towel wrapped around his middle. Steam is wafting off his body. Hot!
“That’s ok, Jo, I’ll grab something at the hospital,” he says. He doesn’t look at me. Philip manages our marriage like a blind man maneuvering his home by familiarity. He avoids me by habit.
Dr. Philip Williams, Thoracic Surgeon—my husband—is successful, young, and altruistic. He volunteers two months out of the year to charitable works. My mother called him a keeper. I kept him. Who would have ever thought that keeping him could be so lonely?
“It’s no problem,” I say.
I’m eager. I’m happy. It’s a big day for me. I want to share it.
Philip drops his towel on the rug. It’ll stay there until I pick it up. I guess if I didn’t, a mountain of towels would form. He walks into the closet.
“No, really, I’m fine,” he says.
I watch his naked body, appreciating.
“I know what I want,” I say, and I follow him.
He has a nice butt. He’s in good shape. He was a fencer and on the row team in college. That’s where we met. He had it then, and he has still got it. Yum!
I slid off my burgundy silk robe. I’m just in a black thong and slippers. Pink fuzzy slippers aren’t the look I’m going for. I kick them off.
I was a cheerleader in college. You might have looked up my skirt on Saturdays. I was a hottie, thank you very much, and I think I still am. That’s my opinion.
Philip is looking through his dress shirts. I don’t know why. They’re all white, and they’re all the same. I lean against the door, exuding seductive.
“I’ve got something for you,” I say. Meow.
I take a deep breath and squeeze my arms together to make my tits stick out. I arch my back and lean into the doorframe. This isn’t subtle. I might as well put up a sign that says, FUCK ME.
Philip doesn’t look.
“There’s plenty of time,” I say, biting my lip.
Damn it, take the hint.
Philip grabs a shirt.
Hint not taken.
I look at myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Five six and one hundred and twenty pounds of woman. My breasts are 34C. My stomach is flat, with a hint of muscle. I’m blonde—too blonde really, but TV demands a certain look when you’re a twenty-seven-year-old woman. There are probably a million guys in DC who watch me on their nightly news who would crawl across glass to lick my feet, and my husband won’t even look.
What do they say? Familiarity breeds contempt. That’s wrong. Familiarity breeds apathy.
“I miss you,” I say.
“Sorry, honey,” he says, grabbing some tighty whities.
I wasn’t talking to him. I was talking to his swinging dick.
Philip grabs some pants. I go into the bedroom and pick up my phone. Twenty-five messages. All congratulations.
I work as a reporter for a local DC affiliate, and I just broke a story about a standing US senator taking kickbacks from a pharmaceutical company. It’s a cracker of a story and I nailed it, documents and testimony from a co-conspirator. The story is going to be my ticket to the big time. This is my moment.
And I’m frustrated.
I collapse on the big bed.
“What do you have planned for today?” Philip asks, coming out of the closet.
“The Senator is giving his press conference this morning,” I say. “I think he’s going to resign.”
I lie back. Lift a knee. I spread my legs. Look at the ceiling. I look like a Playboy Pinup. I feel foolish. Philip gives me a peck on the cheek. He doesn’t even notice.