Friday comes early..

**I know I promised the ladies their erotica fix on Friday. Well, I guess this week Friday COMES early...**

Flannel-clad in pajamas, she headed for the bedroom door like every other night. The door eased open; and light flickered in the room. Something was amiss. She wasn't a criminal, but she was alone and in trouble.

And she liked it.

A rustle of pant, a clink of metal – the Officer appeared from behind the door. He was in hot pursuit of her criminal copulatory compunctions. His eyes took her in. He smiled as his heavy hand pushed the door closed behind them. With a wicked smile, he locked it.

"You are under arrest." His voice was husky and low. She liked that, too.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, a tight, insistent grip, and then forced her to turn. Palms met paint as he pushed her to the plaster. "Up against the wall and spread 'em," he ordered.

This was a new game, and she adopted her role of Bad Girl with consummate ease.

Next, her night clothes were stripped from her. He tossed them to the floor. They were useless in his form of interrogation. He had better tool to make her talk. To her surprise, and excitement, he then produced handcuffs. And used them.

Naked, wrists shackled before her, she was at his mercy. His hands were firm, she noticed his personal club to be, as well. The reinforced zipper of his BDU's was strained.

She smiled. He liked that.

He patted her down. Then he felt her up, one hand smacked her ass as the other hand turned gentle on her breast, and teased her nipple. Warm pleasure spilled within to mix with her excitement. She sighed. He then spun her about to face him.

"Do you have any weapons," he asked.

"Only my sharp whit," she quipped.

He roughed her around then. Punishment maybe, but she liked it anyway. He walked her back against the bed and then pushed. She tumbled onto the covers, coquettish and eager.

His pants were coarse against her delicate skin as he pressed his way between her thighs. She reached for him then, yet he caught her by the cuffs, slapped her hands and forced her body back and up the bed. He came in close, stole a kiss from her ready lips as he clicked her cuffs through the headboard. Desire flooded her. He was strict – rigid – she was naughty and about to be disciplined.

He stepped back from the bed, ran one hand the length of her body, while the other worked the BDU's down and off. He returned to his dominant position between her knees, his hands on her flesh and his nightstick at the ready.

Bent on elicitation, he came forward, tip of his intent teasing her mischievous lips. He would make her talk. She was, however, determined to force him to use all his tools.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" He asked as he pressed his point of passionate punishment into her.

She moaned. He withdrew. She whimpered, but he smacked her thigh and repeated his penetrative query. She groaned, her hips rose up to meet his. He smacked her other thigh. Once more the question, "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"I plead the Fifth," she moaned. He liked that.

"If you will not talk…" he hinted, and produced a blindfold.

She smiled, only, and then closed her eyes. The blindfold slipped over her head in an inappropriate rush. She heard an unfamiliar noise, a grinding ended with a snap. Then, his lips were upon hers, his tongue pressed sweet nectar in her mouth. His hands once more searched her body. No weapons, but tight nipples and ready flesh.

She sucked the intoxicating liquid from his tongue. He ran his mouth down to her breast, pulling on her taut nipple with his warm tongue as his fingers searched farther, lower, searched her hidden cache of hedonism.

"More…" she whimpered.

"So you will talk," he said. He liked that.

Persecutor became perpetrator, guilty of invasion of her most private property. Her knees held up at his sides, he entered her, making a hasty retreat before plunging deeper in. He pressed her for information, walked the line of good cop/bad cop as he drove his insistence into her.

She writhed and moaned. So, did he.

Hands clutched tight around her thighs, he negotiated her surrender, her passionate release. But then, he withdrew again, to kneel and whisper his own confessions to her ravaged flesh. Tongue in-between her lips, fingers teasing flesh, he gave a full, and lurid confession. Her hips rose, her body shuddered in deliberation of climatic freedom.

Yet, he climbed her body once, more, reinstating her former sentence of climax by copulation. Finally, he beat her into submission and she broke her silence. She pleaded for clemency, he denied, driving her to spill the truth.

"Guilty as charged," she moaned, body imprisoned in orgasmic agony.