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Nichole By Dirty Dawg Standard
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
STORY:"Nichole" by Dirty Dawg
"Nichole"
By Dirty Dawg
Standard Disclaimer : This story's characters are all
of legal and appropriate age...however, one of the
main characters is a prostitute. So, if the selling
of one's body for monetary gain offends you, you
might want to not read this story.
Also, one of the characters has a recollection of
a sexual experience that occured when she was
underage...also, if this kind of thing offends
you, don't read this story.
The stentch of stale coffee, urine, vomit and sweat
hung in the air as I made my way through the squadroom to
the interrogation area. I'd just caught a 187 squeal, and
the uniform boys had picked up a witness at the scene. She'd
seen the whole thing, but was denying it, claiming she'd
been in Phildelphia at the time or some such shit. In a city
with eleven million citizens, each with a story, it was my
turn to listen to her's. After six years with homicide, I'd
heard most of them at least twice.
Stopping outside the interrogation room door, I
opened the casefile and took a quick glance. Nichole St.
Clair, age 29, single. Lived at a fancy uptown address.
Single, no kids. Worked as...a 'personal facilitator,'
whatever the *fuck* that was. She'd been inside a limo
outside the resturant when Johnny "No Neck" DeBargo had
gotten his comuppance from sixteen 9mm rounds fired by some
kid on a motorcycle. The motorcycle killer had used a Tec-9,
and had sprayed the entire area with hot lead while Miss St.
Clair watched from the limo.
Only she hadn't seen anything. Says her.
Pushing through the door, I caught a whiff of the
smoke from her cig, and frowned at her. "Smoking's not
allowed in here, miss." I hadn't even gotten a look at her
yet, just sat down at the table across from her, setting my
machine-generated styrafoam cup of coffee down next to it.
"What are you going to do, Detective? Arrest me for
smoking?" I smiled at her, getting in on the joke, and then
took a good, hard look at her. She was familer, in the same
way that each year's new supermodel was familer. Same strong
facial structure, arrogang cheekbones, aristocratic nose.
She looked and smelled like old money. Dressed for a night
on the town. Slinky blouse, tight black skirt, dark
stockings, heels. The perfume wafting across the table at me
cut some of the smoke, but not much. It was musky and
somehow fit her; it smelled like a jungle cat might, hungry
and on the prowl. She was a blonde, as someone once said, a
blonde that would make a bishop kick in a stained-glass
window. The breasts pushing at her blouse with hard-nippled
urgency weren't the result of some plastic surgeons' magic;
the natural gentle sag and heft of them told me that much.
The legs were long and lean and seemed to go on for
miles. Hours at the gym spent on some new-wave torture
machine had seen to their firmness and muscularity.
Suddenely, I wanted to be a gym machine. I felt an animal,
phermonal attraction to this woman. Something hormonal, in
my sack, grumbling to let me dump a load inside this haughty
bitch. Just the way she was sitting told me this interview
was going to be a huge pain in the ass.
"Miss St. Clair," I said, opening my notebook and
clicking my eight-nine cent ballpoint. I started to write
the time and date and case number on a blank page, but the
pen chose that moment to fail. I patted my pockets, finding
my shield, my own cigs, a couple of crumpled pink telephone
message notes, and thirty-six cents in change.
"Uh, I'll be right back," I said, moving to stand. I
looked up and saw the cool bitch holding out a gold men at
me. A Mont-Blanc, judging by the look of it. I took it,
amazed at how much it weighed. "Thank you," I said.
"Now, you were in the limosuine outside Torturro's
at the time of the...incident?"
"The murder? Yes. I already told that to three
policeman already."
"I know, Miss St. Clair. But I just have a few
questions for you. Formality, really, since you didn't see
anything...?" I let the question hang in the air,
challenging her to correct her statement.
"That's right," she affirmed. "I didn't see
anything. My face was turned away, and the windows were
dark, tinted glass. I didn't see anything."
"And you were there to meet...?" I asked.
I watched as her jaw worked, sucking her tongue
between her teeth, trying to keep her temper. "Is that
really necessary, officer?"
"Detective," I automatically corrected her.
"Detective...?"
"Stone. Dan Stone."
"Well, Detective Stone, is that really necessary?"
"I'm afraid so. We need to talk to him, too. For all
we know, you were there for Johnny "No Neck", and set him
up!" I said it as a joke, and then watched the color drain
from her face. An alarm bell started ringing in the back of
my head, and it wasn't because I could see the sweat
trickling down this broad's neck, heading for the deep,
creamy valley between her tits. *Spectacular* tits.
"This could be a problem," she said. "You see, the
man I was there to meet was...is....married." Ah. Things
were beginning to make a little sense now.
"And his name was?"
Sighing, the lady reached for her purse and
retrieved a small daytimer. Opening it, she flipped to today
and ran her finger down the page. "Kelly. Walter Kelly."
"Phone?" She read me all his information, and I
copied it down with the heavy gold pen. The words flew out
of the tip and across the page. Done for the moment, I
lifted the pen. "How much does one of these go for, anyway?"
"About four hundred dollars." I looked at her, saw
she was serious, and gave a low, surprised whistle.
"Now then," I continued, "The purpose of your
meeting with Mr. Kelly?"
Just then I saw the small green light go on above
and behind her. Someone was in the hallway between the
interrogation rooms, watching through the two-way glass, and
wanted my attention. I excused myself and made my way there.
Capetti, from Vice, was standing there, holding a
thick file in his hands.
"Yeah?"
"Listen, Stone. Figured I'd help you out. The lady
you got is-"
"St. Clair, I know. What's the deal? Got some pull
in the department? Gonna try and wriggle her way out of
making a statement?"
Capetti looked at me for a long, hard moment, his
jaw working in annoyance. I held my hands up in surrender,
asking, "Sorry. What do you got for me?"
"Lady's name is *not* St. Clair. It's Jill Meadows.
And she's a hooker."
Two things struck me at once. The first was the
confirmation of my orginal feeling. I did know her. Or at
least, I had known her, a long time ago. High school, to be
exact. And Jill had been the love of my life. She'd been
brunette, then. Long, soft, wavy brown hair she always wore
around her shoulders, covering that exquisite neck of hers.
How many times had I kissed that neck? I suddenely realised
that I'd had my hands on those tits before, and the memory
of that afternoon blew across my brain at lightspeed.
"Jesus, Jill..." I said.
"You know this ho?" Capetti asked, and I suddenely
wanted to kick his ass across the squadroom.
"Is Interrogation Room Three in use?" I asked. It
was the only one without two-way glass. Capetti nodded, and
then walked away. I knew what he was thinking, and I hated
him for it. Many a cop over the years had taken a lady of
the evening into Room Three and worked out an...exchange, of
sorts.
Fuck him.
I re-entered the room and asked Jill/Nichole to
follow me. She looked relieved, like she was getting out of
here or something. She followed me into three, and then
turned on me, anger written all over her face like subway
grafitti.
"What is the meaning of this?" I explained about the
glass, and wanting some privacy, and she bought it. She took
a chair, and I mine, and I faced her, wondering what the
fuck I was going to say.
"Nichole..." I started, and then decided, screw it.
I knew. The sooner she knew I knew, we could get this over
with. "Jill. Jill Meadows." Jill's face fell, and she buried
her head in her hands. Long, wracking sobs came from between
her arms, and I let her cry. Didn't want to touch her yet,
but God, how I wanted to take her in my arms.
After a good five minutes, Jill pulled herself
together. She dried her eyes, extracted a compact from the
purse, and fixed her makeup. Looking across the table at me,
she gave me a rueful smile.
"So," she said. "You know."
I just nodded. "How long?"
"'Bout five years. If it makes any difference,
Danny, I never forgot you."
"I'm sure you didn't, Jill." My voice was hard, my
face harder still. I knew her game, knew it like the back of
my own hand. She knew that I still wanted her, even if she
was a hooker, and was going to try and seduce me, promise me
the world between her legs, if only I would let her go. See,
it's bad for business for a high-class whore like this to
get nailed by the po-lice. Especially if she had been there
to set Johnny "No Neck" up.
"So tell me Jill, just between us old friends, were
you there to set him up?"
"No. He wasn't the target."
"Who was?"
"Tony. Tony Amaratto. He was in the limo with me. He
was the real target."
"How do you know?" She told me about the meeting
she'd overheard, about the converstations' she'd
eavesdropped on. Tony had a thing for my little Jill, got
off on paying her to do nasty things to him. Things you
don't ask the girl you brought home to meet Momma to do, but
things you can pay a nice looking piece of street meat like
Nichole/Jill to do.
"How much?" I asked.
"Thousand bucks an hour, Danny."
"And how much is he into you for?"
"About three quarters of a mil." I caught my breath.
Seven hundred and fifty hours! Tony liked to p-a-r-t-y.
I was still staring at her when she popped the
question. "Danny. Can we keep my name out of this? I'll...
make it worth your while."
There it was. Out in the open. I sat back and looked
at her. Her face was a mask of self-hatred and hope. Hating
herself to offer herself to me like a cheap whore, but
needing to, having to, to keep it going. Keep the ride
going.
"You into drugs, Jill?"
She shook her head, and seeing my look of
skepticism, raised her sleeves, showing me her arms. They
were clean. "Knees," I said, and she stood, turning to show
me the ass that had turned more than one of the Brother's
heads at St. Agustus fifteen years ago.
Her knees were clean.
"Toes," I said.
Jill sat back down and started to take her shoes
off. "That's enough," I said. "If you say you're clean, I'll
believe you." I thought about it long and hard. I owed her
nothing, and the idea of having her owe me was pretty good.
Prime pussy, on the string. But I couldn't do that to her,
not to Jill. Maybe to Nichole, but not to Jill.
"Ok, here's the deal. I cut you loose, you get gone.
Atlanta, Dallas, Denver, LA. I don't care where. But get
gone, and fast. A prime piece like you can command that much
money anywhere in the world. Fuck, try Japan. They love
blondes like you."
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Send me a postcard from somewhere, Jill."
I stood to leave and the way she said my name stopped me
dead in my tracks.
"Dan."
I turned back.
"Don't you want to know...why?"
I put my back against the door, crossing my arms at
my waist.
"Ok. Why?"
She stood, one hand on the rickety wooden table,
moving towards me slowly. "Remember how we used to neck in
the back seat of your father's car?" I nodded, my mouth
suddenely to dry to speak. "Remember how you used to touch
my breasts, with those sweaty, shaking hands?" As she
talked, Jill mimicked my actions. Cupping her breasts
through the blouse, Jill took another step towards me.
I just stared at her, feeling the hot hardness of my
cock punching through my pants.
"Remember the time I let you touch my naked tits?
What were we fifteen? Sixteen?"
"Sixteen," I managed to choak out. Another step.
"Well, remember when I made you stop? I didn't want
you to stop, Danny. I wanted you to touch my tits all
afternoon. And then I wanted you to kiss and suck them, and
lick my little nipples. And then I wanted you to do
something truly nasty, I wanted you to kiss me between my
legs and make me go. That's what I called it back then, when
I touched myself in the shower. Going. I liked to go a lot,
Danny, and I wanted you to be the first boy to make me go.
But I couldn't...nice girls didn't do that, did they?" Her
voice had dropped a couple of registers, and she was
stroking her own neck with long, slender fingers, fingers
I'd dreamed of having wrapped around my own cock.
"But...even though I didn't let you touch me for
very long, and I didn't let you kiss me between my legs, I
let someone else do it to me that summer. I met him in the
park, Danny. He was older, rode a motorcycle. Black leather,
chin-stubble, the whole bad-boy deal. He liked me, and I
liked him...for what he was. I saw the bulge in his pants,
that nasty lump, and I knew that I was gonna let him do it
to me. He took me into the woods, you know the place, and
took off my panties. He lifted that little stupid skirt they
made us wear, and he did it to me, Danny. He put his thing
inside me and made me go.
"And you know what?" She was about two feet away
now, moving like a snake. "I went that first time, Danny. He
made me go. Hard and fast. And then I started going and
going again, climaxing one after the other, drenching us
both. I found out something that warm summer afternoon in
the park. I found that I liked to fuck, that I was good at
it, and that nearly every man that met me, looked at me, saw
me walking down the street was thinking that he wanted to
fuck me. And when that boy stood over me, zipping up his
pants, tucking that delicious cock away in his underwear, he
stared down at me, and smiled, and took out his wallet. He
threw three twenties on the ground and told me that he
wouldn't mind paying for what I had any day of the week.
"And that turned me on like you wouldn't believe,
Danny." Her face was six inches from mine; I could feel the
hot breath on my face. The blood was pounding behind my
eardrums, and between my legs. "I loved being dirty and
nasty and slutty for him. Before that summer was out, I'd
had two dozen other guys, and had about a grand in the bank.
They just loved me, Danny, because I love it so much.
"I just *love* to fuck and be nasty." Her mouth was
scant inches from mine now. I could see her red, plush lips.
"Do it with me, Danny. Be nasty with me." I snapped.
She was in my arms, my hands grasping her ass,
drawing her to me, crushing her against my body. She was
soft in all the right places, and hard in all the right
places. I felt her breasts flatten against my chest, and I
knew that I was going to fuck this board, screw the shit out
of her right here in the interrogation room.
Jill pulled away from me and walked over to the
table. Spinning on one heel, she started unbuttoning the
blouse, letting me see her in the bright light. I was in the
shadows, watching her, another nameless cock wanting
entrance to her gates of heavan. Buttons undone, Jill let
the blouse fall off of her, showing me the wispy bra that
held her pale, perfect breasts. Her nipples pushed urgently
at the cups, two beacons of pleasure drawing me closer. I
went to the table, pushing her on to it, burying my face
between those tits, smelling her clean, earthy scent.
Jill's hands went to my tie, working it from around
my neck and from under the collar of my shirt. She tossed it
over her shoulder, practiced fingers moving to the buttons
on *my* shirt, opening them quickly and expertly. She buried
her face against my chest, licking my hairy nipples, biting
my lightly as she dragged those bright-red talons she called
fingernails down my stomach. Her hand grasped me through my
pants.
"All for me, Danny? Fuck me, big boy. Fuck me like
you always wanted to. Make it hurt."
I stepped back, kicked off my shoes, and lost my
pants. My gun clattered to the ground, sliding out of my
holster and spinning into a corner. I didn't care anymore. I
just wanted to be inside her in the next thirty seconds.
Jill spread her legs, showing me her tiny pink
panties under her skirt. Pushing the skirt up, I grabbed her
panties and ripped them away, throwing them over my
shoulder. Her cunt was wet and sparkled with her dew,
beckoning me. My cock was pounding, and I dropped my boxers,
showing her my arousal.
"Ahhh!" she growled, reaching for me, grasping me
with one sweaty, smooth hand, guiding me between her legs.
As I felt the moist contact of her mound, my hand reached up
and freed her tits from the bra. They bobbed into view,
showing me pink little erections for nipples, looking itchy
and tasty. I covered one with my mouth and bit lightly as
Jill took the first four inches of my cock into her blast-
furnace cunt.
"That's it," she screamed, "*THAT'S IT* Fuck me,
Danny. Give me your fucking cock!" With a quick snap of my
hips, I buried the last two inches of myself inside her,
feeling the warm, wet walls of her cunt collapse around me
as I began to fuck her. My mouth was all over her: tits,
neck, ears, face. We kissed and sucked and bit at each
other, letting the anger and the hunger take over. Too many
denials in my life. My wife, gone, a casuality of the Job.
My kids, with her, strangers to me, voices on a phone line
on birthdays and at Christmas. My son, growing up calling
another man, "Daddy," acting forlorn and hostile when I
could find the time to visit. All that bubbled out of me as
I began to fuck Jill, grasping her hips in my hands, pulling
her to me again and again. She crossed her legs across my
back, urging me to plunge harder and deeper. She was the
future I once could have had, smiles and promises and meals
at home. But we were both different now; I was a cop, with a
shield and a job and a gun, tracking scumbags that killed
other people. Jill was a pussy-for-hire, spreading her legs
at the drop of a thousand-dollar-bill, grunting and groaning
for the customer's pleasure.
We were both whores, I realized, whores to our
emotions. Jill liked to fuck, liked being the center of
attraction, liked knowing that every man in the place wanted
to bury himself inside her. I liked being a cop, being The
Law, The Man, watching people's faces when I arrested them
for murder.
Pulling out of her, I turned Jill over, putting her
face-down on the table. Her ass was open for me, an inviting
target. Putting my hand at the base of her neck, I wedged
myself back into her cunt and buried my cock with a single
stroke. This violence, this...fucking, was turning me on
like straight sex never had in the past. I wondered how many
cocks she'd taken in this hole. How many men? How many loads
of jizz had been emptied inside her?
My cock popped out of her cunt, and I lined myself
up with her pink, inviting asshole. I pushed against it, and
she gave, gritting her teeth. Her face was turned sideways
on the table, eyes closed, grimacing with concentration or
pleasure, I couldn't tell. As I hunched my cock into her
asshole, Jill moaned and grunted and pushed herself back
against me, wanting it, taking it all in her asshole.
"Oh, use me, Danny! Make me feel dirty and nasty and
slutty! Make me cum, Danny! Make me cum on your cock!" Jill
did a pushup on the table, and I latched my hands onto her
swinging tits, twisting and pulling on her nipples, letting
Jill shove her ass back against me with every stroke.
I started to feel it, the rumble in my balls. I was
going to blow a load in this slut's hole, and love every
minute of it. But she sensed that, somehow, and popped me
out, getting down on her knees in front of me, grasping my
cock with one hand, hungrily licking the top with her
tongue.
"Cum on my face, Danny! Make me sleazy and nasty for
you! Cover me with your jizz!" I groaned, threw my head
back, and then forward, forcing my eyes to open as I watched
the slimy white arcs of my jizz erupt from my cock and rain
down on her smiling, upturned face. She was licking at the
air, trying to get my jizz into her mouth, running my cock
all over her face. I splooshed once across her forehead,
watching my scum splatter her hair and eyebrows, another
shot covering almost one entire cheek. She had cum all over
her face, and I watched it slide in creamy rivultes down her
face, dripping off of her chin, impacting wetly against her
pale, perfect breasts.
Jill licked me clean, mewing like a kitten, slurping
at my jizz, cleaning my cock and balls. Tucking me back into
my pants, Jill stood, grabbed me by the hair at the hair at
the back of my neck and kissed me, deeply.
"Fucking-A!" she shouted.
* * * * * * * * *
Dressed, we faced each other across the table. "Go,
Jill," I said. "Away. Get gone. Hunt a hole and vanish."
She stood, purse slung over a shoulder, one hand on
a hip. "Call me sometime, huh?" she asked, and I just
nodded. She was halfway out the door when I called to her.
"Jill!" She turned and looked at me, one eyebrow
arched. I held the gold Mont-Blanc to her. "You forgot your
pen."
"Keep it," she said, and then was gone, the door
clicking shut behind her with the finality of a jail cell.
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