Cop Killer, Killer Cop
Keywords: Cop, Killer,, Killer, Cop,
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It's amazing how sharp your senses get when death is in the vicinity.
Christine Reynolds could hear clearly the sounds of far-off coyotes and the whistle of a train from many miles away. She could smell the smoke from the pistol she still held in her hand, and the blood of the man lying on the ground in front of her. The echo of the gunshots still reverberated in her ears as she stared numbly at his dead body. A light desert breeze caressed her naked body as she stood in the moonlit darkness trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Suddenly, a burst of noise came out of a radio from the direction of the highway, some 100 yards away, and it jolted her back to reality. The enormity of what she had just done hit her then, her legs went rubbery and she sank to her knees on the hard-packed sand.
She had just killed a man. No, worse, she had just killed a cop, albeit a cop who had just finished raping her and who was going to kill her. Her chest heaved as she absorbed that information. Then her training kicked in, and she forced her mind to clear. She knew there was only one way she could get out of this without a capital murder charge, and that was to come absolutely clean, prove to them that he'd attacked her, raped her and that she'd shot him in self-defense.
Christine dropped the pistol, and looked for her clothes. They were in a neat pile, all except her bra, which he had ripped off in his impatience to get at her. She put her panties on, hoping that they would trap enough of his semen to prove rape, then slipped her dress over head. It was ripped down the front a good foot. She put her sandals on, then stumbled back to the patrol car, which was parked silently behind her own little sedan. As she walked, she felt the warm, slow trickle of blood from her nose, where he had punched her. She dabbed it with her hand as she reached the highway. She climbed into the front seat of the patrol car, on the passenger's side, and thought about how she needed to do this.
She gave a short scream and jumped as the radio crackled again.
"Unit 21, do you copy?" the dispatcher at the county sheriff's office said. "Come in, Unit 21, what is your situation?"
Christine looked at the dashboard and saw the number, 21, his unit. She picked up the microphone and pressed the send button.
"This is Unit 21," she began. "I'm on Highway 61, about 20 miles north from town. You need to send a detective, a coroner and an ambulance to this location. I just shot your cop."
"Come again?" the dispatcher said, in a voice that was equal parts hysteria and disbelief. "You say you shot him?"
"Yes ma'am," Christine said. "I shot him. He'd dead. When you send that ambulance, make sure there is a female EMT on board and that she has a rape kit."
"A rape kit?" the dispatcher said.
"That's correct," Christine said. "A rape kit. I'll explain it to the detective when he gets here. But your officer stopped me for no reason, raped me, he was going to kill me and I shot him."
At that moment, Christine's professional facade broke, she buried her face in her hands and she wept. She ignored the cacaphony of noise that broke out from the radio. How could this have happened to her? She lost herself in the bitter memories of the previous half-hour, and tried to piece together exactly what had happened.
Christine had heard stories about running into rogue cops at night on lonely stretches of Western highways, but she had just figured that they were urban legends, the paranoia of city dwellers.
She was on her way to spend two weeks with her family in Montana. Her little brother was getting married, and she wanted to be there. Christine was a 36-year-old divorcee who worked as an emergency room nurse at a large hospital in suburban Los Angeles. She had chosen to start her trip at night, because that was her normal work shift, and because it was cooler driving in the summer through the long stretches of desert she had to pass to get home.
She had stopped in a small town to gas up and grab some refereshments - water and chips. She had seen a sheriff's patrol car in the parking lot of the convenience store, but had paid him no mind. She was a law-abiding citizen, an Army veteran, and she believed she had nothing to fear from the police.
Christine had seen him in her rear view mirror coming up fast with his lights flashing. She was startled when he came up behind her, rather than passed her, so she slowed, pulled over to the side of the road, and he came to a stop behind her. She was puzzled, because she hadn't been speeding and she was stone sober, as always. He'd turned his lights off, which Christine thought was unusual, but shrugged it off as she fished in her purse for her driver's license.
The deputy was a big man, lean and powerful-looking. The moment she rolled her window down and got a good look at him, she started getting bad vibes. He was looking at her in a way that sent shivers of fear down her spine. He looked over her license with his flashlight shining on it, then turned the light on her face, blinding her with the light.
"L.A., huh?" he grunted.
"Officer, what is this all about?" Christine asked. "Why did you stop me?"
"Please get out of the car, ma'am," he said.
"What?" she asked.
"Out of the car," he said again, more forcefully. "We got a report that this vehicle might have been involved in a burglary. Now get out of the car. Now!"
"That's absurd," she said with fear in her voice, as she looked desperately for her cellphone. "I haven't anything wrong, and you have no right to..." She looked back and found herself looking into the barrel of an automatic pistol.
"I said, out of the car, bitch," he said.
"Y-y-yes sir," she said. Now Christine was truly afraid. Something was way wrong here.
Deputy John Milton had played this game before, three times since moving to California, and twice before that, in his native Idaho. He had it down to a science now. He'd stop single women late at night on lonely stretches of highway, intimidate them into getting out of their vehicles, force them to walk into the desert, where he'd have them strip, he'd rape them, then blow their brains out and leave them for the coyotes and the buzzards. He could feel his big cock swelling in his pants as he relished the thought of once again playing God with these whores.
He'd spotted this one back in town, getting gas. She was a fine one, all right. Christine was of medium height and slender, with curly blonde hair that didn't quite reach her shoulders, and very pretty. He'd have fun with her, then he'd make her un-pretty in a hurry.
When Christine was out of the car, John turned her around so that she was leaning forward against the car, in the classic spread position. Still keeping his gun at her back, he reached in and turned her engine off, then refocused his attention on the trembling blonde.
He holstered his pistol, took his night stick from its holder and ran it up the inside of her legs, up under her long, peasant-style dress, until he came to her crotch. He ran the thick, black stick between her legs several times, as Christine squeezed her eyes shut in fear and humiliation.
"You like that?" he whispered in her ear. "I'll bet you'd like me to fuck you with it, wouldn't you."
"No, please, don't hurt me," Christine pleaded. "I haven't done anything. Please."
"Oh, I'm not going to hurt you," John said. "I'm gonna make you feel real good. But first..."
He pulled Christine's arms back and handcuffed her, then pulled her skirt up to her waist. He pulled the crotch of her panties to the side, revealing her pink pussy, framed with dark blonde fur. He leaned her over the trunk of her car, then slid the night stick back between her legs. He pushed it past her lips as Christine gave a painful squeal, since she was dry as a bone.
Kneeling down, he pulled the night stick out, knelt down and pressed his mouth to Christine's pussy. He licked up and down her furrow, swirled his tongue around her clit and back up her slit. Christine squeezed her eyes shut as spasms of pleasure roared up her spine from the officer's oral assault. She felt the blush of shame cover her face as she felt herself responding in spite of her best effort.
John chuckled as he felt her pussy moisten. When she was reasonably wet, he stood back up, slid the night stick back up her cunt, and this time it went in much easier.
He fucked her with the long fat stick in steady rhythm, and Christine had to bite her lip to keep from moaning in pleasure. There was no way she wanted to enjoy this, no way she wanted to give this pervert cop the satisfaction of knowing he was arousing her with this vicious assault.
But she couldn't help but give a lustful gasp when John reached around with his other hand and strummed her clit in tandem with his work with the stick.
"You do like it, don't you," John said. "You're just like all the other whores. You're all scared and shit, then you get a taste of pleasure and you turn into sluts. Well, baby, If you liked that, you're gonna love it when you get a big dose of Big John's cock."
Christine was sobbing, tears of pain, humiliation and terror rolling down her cheeks. But there was another emotion building in her gut, as well. Rage. This sorry bastard was going to use her and try to make her like it, and it infuriated her.
She had spent nearly 10 years rebuilding her tattered self-esteem after her divorce, which had been precipitated by her catching her husband fucking her supposed best friend. And now this cop, this out-of-control cop, was going to wash away all of her hard work. No, she wasn't going to allow it. She wasn't going to play the victim. She was going to keep her wits about her, and stay alert for any chance of turning the tables and extricating herself from this situation.
Christine gritted her teeth and tried not to think about the sensate pleasure radiating from where John was slowly, but steadily fucking her with his night stick.
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Keywords: Cop, Killer,, Killer, Cop,