Sgt. Briana Jameson


I am hungry and when I am hungry I go to a bar to drink. Thursday nights are best. Always it’s in a wealthy suburb north or west of town.

Never the same place twice. Tonight I was heading to Weston. It’s a thirty-minute train ride to the city which means lots of bankers and lawyers. A newish bar with leather furnishings for an “Old-World Feel.” That’s what the website says. “Old-World Feel.” Photos of smiling twenty-something men with good hair and great teeth in suits with white shirts and red ties. Tall ladies in sparkling dresses and just the right proportions of jewelry and just the right lift in their heels and, surely, just the right dabs of perfume. All laughing about a jointly shared, inside joke.

I have a nice car. An Audi S4 convertible. Red. When I’m hungry, though, I drive an Accord. Cream. I never use valet parking when I’m hungry. I park on the street. Close, but not too close.

It was 9:23 when I sat at the bar. Just like in the picture. Class. The bar itself a wood with a burgundy flavor to it. Taps with either local IPAs or foreign brews. It’s never Miller Time in this place. The bartender, in black trousers and white shirt with the top three buttons undone, is immediately asking me what I’ll have. “Ginger ale in a wine glass. No ice.” Looks enough like a white wine to pass. It attracts them.

By “them” I mean the three or four gentlemen who eyes kept returning to and lingering on me. Helped by my little black dress with an extended slit and thigh-high black stockings with a hint of lace at the top. Louboutin 4-inchers. I need to wear black gloves because of an allergy. Blonde with blue eyes—neither the hair (wig) nor the eyes (contacts) are naturally what they appear but that’s what they’ll appear to be tonight. Nor is my bust real; my cleavage is enhanced by my bra.

Back to the “gentlemen” eyeing me. To be clear, I’ve had more than my share of ladies doing the examining but while I’ve come close I’ve not yet had the pleasure of one. No, tonight it’s the “gentlemen” eyeing me that get my interest. Each wondering how he got so lucky that someone like me walked into his bar in his backwater, suburban town. Wondering if this is their lucky night. A fantasy walked into a bar . . .

One approaches to say hello-may-I-buy-your-next-one and I thank him but say no because I never take the first nibble. A trip to the Ladies’ to give the others time to muster the courage.

No, not the first. It’s the I’ll-show-her-a-real-man second one I want. And he comes. Of course he does.

“Financial advisor.” They’re usually “financial advisors.” Sometimes a “lawyer from Harvard,” neither of which is likely true but to him it doesn’t matter because he’ll be gone before I have time to check his CV. But tonight it’s a “financial advisor.” Probably spends his days executing other people’s trades. Surely someone’s flunky. He is not unattractive. Tall and looks like he spends more time at the gym than a secure man would. Top button of his shirt undone. Tie loosened.

Tomorrow is Friday and he has a the-market’s-up flush. I let him pay for my second glass of “wine” and our dance begins. He’s very interested in the fact that I’m very interested in him. I let him pay for my third glass, which is actually Chardonnay. I am who he wants me to be and where he wants me to be and I saunter again to “the Ladies’” to let him mull it over. And to fix my make-up and make sure my wig is perfect. It always is.

“Oh! Is that the time? I have to get up early for work.”

“What do you do?”

“I have my own firm.” Usually unspecified but if asked I say it’s “high-end computer software”. He doesn’t ask.

“May I walk you to your car?”

“I’d like that. I’m just down the street.”

I reach for his hand as we walk. It’s sweaty. He’s in a fantasy. It’s just not his.

I rub his cheek when we reach my Honda. A bit of stubble.

I correct myself. “I don’t have to get up that early.” I raise my mouth to his. Nothing but a peck, but it garners his first moan.

“I’m . . . I’m not far.” I feel his hand on my waist as he says this in an almost mockable tone.

“I don’t want to go ‘too far.’” Smiling as I drag my hand down his cheek before reaching behind his head and pulling it to me and my lips. This one not just a peck.

He hurries back to get his car, bouncing from foot to foot as he waits for the attendant. Who’ll get a nice tip. He pulls next to me and I wave and nod. I follow him, parking on the street a few doors down from his little apartment-building. We enter the lobby and I reach for his waist as the elevator takes us up. Fifth floor. Fumbling for his keys until he gets it right and we’re in his living room. He was not expecting company. Luck be a lady tonight. I decline the proffered water as he rushes to make his bedroom presentable. “I’ll be right out.”

A quick stop in the bathroom and he comes for me, his shirt’s top button no longer undone and his tie tightly at his neck. Jacket on. Going with the Cary Grant look. I run my hands down his sides and accidentally cross his crotch. He is happy to see me.

“Take me.” That’s my trigger, my words like a starter’s pistol.

He pulls me into the bedroom and it takes no time for him to get himself down to his boxers. He’s expecting a slow striptease from me when he is done.

“Let me see him.”

He is proud. Pushes his hips forward ever so slightly. Very erect. I approach. Hips gyrating. One. Two. Three. I am inches from him. And from “him”.

“Let me get something from my bag. I’ll be right back. Wait for me on the bed.”

When I return, still dressed and with my hands behind my back, he is on his back, fully erect. Probably more than he’s ever been. Probably more than he’ll ever again be.

I lean to kiss him and he opens his mouth and sees the gag too late. I am good at this. It’s in and secured before he can register the first thought of what I am doing to him. And that first thought will be that I’m playing a game and he gets even harder. If that’s possible.

If a cat plays a game with a mouse, I am playing a game. He is now compliant. “It’ll be fun,” he’s thinking. And it will be. I pull out four scarves. Generic, untraceable scarves. “You like?” He nods. They always nod. I secure his wrists. I secure his ankles.

I take some ice I got in his kitchen and apply it to him. He softens. When he does I place a cage over his dick and lock it. I exchange handcuffs for the scarves. Generic cuffs. I dangle the keys. Over my mouth. And I swallow them. I’ve learned how to do it. I open my mouth and show him it is empty. They are gone. His brain struggling to grasp the trouble he’s in.

I strip. Slowly. I let the dress drop. His head is turned so he can watch. I step out of the little black dress and fold it neatly, carrying it to his dresser, letting him see the ass cheeks and the strip of my black thong as it caresses my crack and bisects my ass cheeks. His breathing is labored into the gag, spit escaping its sides. I take a handkerchief from my bag and clean his lips, removing any traces of my own then returning it to my bag. His dick is turning red. The poor thing. All that blood and no place to go.

I turn and reach my hands behind my back to undo the clasp to my bra and I remove it, covering my tits with my hands and again turn to place it on my dress. When I turn back his eyes bulge. They are not big, surely not as big as he was led to believe by my cleavage, but they are spectacular and they are real. I saunter back towards him, exaggerating my hips’ motion in my Louboutin 4-inchers. Now he is flailing, desperate to get relief for his trapped dick. I am down to my silk thong and my long gloves and shoes and stockings. All of them black. I spread my legs as I stand before and facing him. I remove my thong and turn and place it on my other things.

Again I face him, now naked for all practical purposes. Only my long Audrey Hepburn gloves, my stockings, and my Louboutin 4-inchers.

I reach into my bag one final time. I stand in front of him with my hands behind my back, on full display to him in his agony. More spit sliding from his mouth, sweat pouring from his forehead. His head bouncing off the pillow, his eyes registering, and his mouth trying to say something. “Please” perhaps. Maybe “Why?” I want him to enjoy looking at me for a minute more. His eyes are getting larger, his dick locked in place torturing him.

“Just one more thing baby.” And I pull a blindfold from behind my back. He lifts his head so I can secure it.

“I have enjoyed this. More than you will ever know.”

*     *     *

I enjoy my game. I think most of them do too. When I close his door, I tape an envelope to it with five small keys. At about 6:30 the next morning, before anything truly bad can happen, I find a public phone—not that easy these days—and call the police department in whatever town I was the night before. They don’t record calls like 911 centers do. A desk sergeant will pick up, half-awake since nothing happens in these towns at 6:30 in the morning, and I’ll say someone needs help in apartment whatever at address whatever. I don’t want them to have to break the door down, so I mention that “the door is unlocked,” and I hang up.

*      *      *      *


“Morning Columbo.” Sgt. Brianna Jameson was not Italian and rarely wore a raincoat but she got that nickname when she cracked one of her first homicides as a sergeant by leading the suspect to confess unknowingly to kidnapping a business rival. She was a Metro PD sergeant. Now she’d been called in the handle a series of kidnappings, none of them fatal, that plagued outlying towns. The kidnappings were in several jurisdictions and the various police departments agreed to bring in Metro PD, which had far more experience with that sort of thing.

“How many is this, Jonesey?”

Jonesey was Billy Jones, a detective who worked regularly with Jameson.

“Four. That we know of.”

“Great.” The crime scene was the guy’s apartment. He sat in a t-shirt and shorts, no shoes. Looking real embarrassed. He’d been found at about seven that morning when a local officer showed up. He was buzzed in by the super and when he got to Apartment 504 he found an envelope taped to the door. When he got no response to his knock, he opened the unlocked door and upon entering the bedroom found the tenant/victim cuffed to his own bed, a cage on his penis, and gag in his mouth, a blindfold over his eyes. Otherwise naked.

The officer ripped off the blindfold and pulled the gag from the mouth. The tenant could barely get his breath. His eyes looked terrified.

“She took the keys,” he said as he shook his cuffed hands. The officer looked at the envelope he held and found five tiny keys in it. He undid the cuffs, first the wrists and then the ankles. The tenant could barely walk. The townie handed the fifth key, but the tenant was too upset, and the officer delicately removed the lock from the cock-ring and pulled it away.

While the tenant was in the bathroom, a second car pulled up and the officer went to the apartment. One of the responding townies recalled a departmental memo about a woman who was kidnapping men and, well, doing what just had been done to this guy. The instructions were to immediately contact Metro PD, which was in charge of the multi-jurisdictional investigation. And that is why Eugene Dellers was sitting in his living room waiting to be interviewed by two Metro PD homicide detectives.

“I assume it’s too much to hope for fingerprints?”

“Probably, but we’re checking.”

Jonesey gave a run-down of what they’d found so far. Last seen at a supposedly classy bar not far away. Bought a woman a white wine. She went to the Ladies’ and the pair left together. Bartender gave ginger ale that looked like wine. Nice tits, but definitely a wig. Real fuck-me heels. Expensive. Strange about the long gloves, like Audrey Hepburn. They all said “like Audrey Hepburn.”

Said “no” to first guy who hit on her. Yes to the second. Real sweet. Might have been a professional except that she turned down the first guy.

Her car down the street. His in the bar’s lot. Attendant says he was super pumped, saying he was getting a “fine piece of ass” that night. Big tip. Didn’t see her car, but seemed ordinary. The victim never remembered the car either. Some kind of light-colored Japanese or Korean sedan. It didn’t get much attention.

“So pretty much same-old, same-old?”

“Pretty much same-old, same-old.”

Both detectives found a bit of humor in the situation, cruel as it was to Mr. Dellers. Why were homicide detectives on the case? The second victim was the son-in-law of the local mayor who was a political ally of Metro’s mayor and inevitably he volunteered his PD to help and after the third victim the mayors in the towns outside the city where the kidnappings took place used the Bat Signal to get Metro’s Mayor’s help.

The Captain assigned this one to Jameson to be the point person. It was politically hot enough, with blaring headlines and live shots from outside Metro PD’s headquarters, that it could make or break her career. If she fucked it up, she’d be at vice until she started collecting her pension. She was thirty-five with pale skin and fiery red hair. She was not thin but the other cops had long since learned to keep their distance. Her father was a retired Lieutenant but she took care of herself very well, thank you very much. She made sure everyone knew that when she kicked a detective in the balls with her knee a month or so after she got out of the Academy. Word got around.

Once that was taken care of, she was just another cop scratching to stay alive and keep her arrest numbers high. After three years, she was out of uniform and a junior detective. Bounced from robbery to vice to a short stint with narcotics before finding a rabbi in homicide. And then that big break she caught with the businessman who took the antitrust laws into his own hands and capped the CEO of a rival. So arrogant that he looked at Jameson as a woman and not as a detective. Which is why he’s doing twenty-to-life in State Prison.

The squad room was crowded. Detectives from all four of the towns where the known kidnappings took place were there as were the usual members of Homicide. Every one of them trying to balance their job with the sense that the victims got what they deserved, with more than a few cops thinking he got what he wanted.

“I don’t want to have to give this speech one more time so let’s catch this woman. Let’s walk through the similarities.”

“Sergeant, are you sure it’s a woman?”

“Well, either that or a guy who knows how to dress like one. Look, this is someone, male or female, who really knows how to exude femininity. The victims are not completely stupid. One or two might, but not four guys. And who knows how many more too scared or smart to report it. No. Four plus guys would not leave the bar with a guy who couldn’t pass as a woman. So it might be an experienced cross-dresser or tranny, but my money’s on a natural woman. Which may be the only thing natural about her. Remember, no one said she had big feet.”

“Just fuck-me heels.”

“Yeah. Those fuck-me Louboutins. People, those are the ones with the red soles. Pay attention. So the outfits are pretty much the same. Especially the gloves. I’m thinking it’s to avoid fingerprints.”

“What about kidnapping women?” This was from a detective from the town with the most recent kidnapping.

“No. Just men. Remember in that one town a few months back where the second person to approach her was a woman and she said, ‘I don’t swing that way’? Well she may actually swing that way—”

“Maybe she only swings that way.”

“Yeah. Maybe she only swings that way and is taking revenge on men. That’s one of our theories. Anyway, that at least was her line. So we’re pretty sure it’s men she’s after.”

Jameson looked out.


“Always Thursdays.”

“Yet. Different gaps between kidnappings?”

“Yup. Fourteen days. Thirty-five. Longest was sixty-three.”

“And this last one?”

“That was the thirty-five.”

“Right. Random bars?”

“They all cater to the millennials and they’re all in towns with easy access to commuter trains into the City. So the bars target young, single professionals who come into town. The vics tend to live in a new apartment building.”

“Any video?”

“Nothing we can use. We’re checking last night’s, but don’t hold your breath. And even if her call is recorded, she knows how to disguise her voice so no luck there. We don’t know the suburbs that well. Can any of you guys from the burbs think of similar towns that haven’t been hit?”

Two raised their hands. The first said, “Ellisville” and the second said, “that’s what I was thinking.”

Jameson asked whether there were any others. She was told there may be, but that was the best guess.

“And did the bartender at this most recent bar save the suspect glasses the way we’ve asked them to do?”

“They don’t do it because it’s a pain in the ass. So her glass was cleaned within hours of when her DNA was on it. Way before he was found. We have to get them to do it.”

“Tell them they’ll be heroes if they’re the ones who help us grab this asshole. Tell their bosses too. Make sure the owner of places in Ellisville knows this, but don’t tell him his place may be targeted. I hate to say it, but we have to let her make a move before we do anything.”

Jonesy piped in. “So we’re going to stakeout these places?”

“I don’t see we have a choice. Can’t be every bar in the region. Harris. I need you to go town-to-town and identify any other places she’s likely to go to. She hasn’t done it in the same place twice, but we can’t take that chance. I’ll clear the OT with the powers-that-be. But, Harris, get me that list. And if anyone else can think of a place, throw it in the hat.”

“What about the City?”

“There are too many. We have to hope she doesn’t change that part of her pattern. For now, just the northern and western burbs.”

She broke up the meeting after arranging for one of Metro Homicide’s people to work with detectives from the Four Towns to do on-scene canvassing and follow-up interviewing.

When they were gone, she sat with Jonesy at his desk.

“At least we have some time. We have to recheck the crime-scene stuff. I’ll run this by the Loot and see if he’ll give us the bodies we need.”

A Tip

“Sergeant Jameson.”


“Sarge. We just got a tip from a bartender. Woman ordered ginger ale in a wine glass.”

This was the Thursday five weeks after her last appearance. Jameson put the address in Waze. She was floating in her Department SUV, waiting for a report to direct her to a possible appearance of the woman. The bar happened to be about three miles from her. Waze said it’d take eight minutes. Waze doesn’t account for lights and sirens. She’d make it in three. She smiled. Normally she only gets to use them when there’s a body getting cold and from all reports this woman’s body was far from that.

Jameson got details as she raced through the Thursday night traffic. Johnson was in the place. He was good. Young and handsome. Calm. Excellent bait. He’d be the lucky Man No. 2.

Jameson turned off the siren about four blocks away and the lights as she approached. She slowly drove past the bar and parked after taking the next right, her SUV out of sight from the bar’s front door. She reached for her purse with her badge and her gun and for her heels. Not things to be worn around a cold body, but definitely right for a warm one.

She put the heels on after swinging  her legs out the door. She wasn’t very good in them, particularly since they were the tallest, showiest ones she had. She’d worn them once before, to a wedding, and took them off after two dances. They were three-inchers. Not only did they look good, and made her legs look very good, they were the only ones that went with her best dress, a package of azurial specter.

For a moment she thought of what would happen if she had to chase her down but laughed, noting the comedic possibilities of a woman in three-inch heels chasing one in four. No. Sensible pumps would not do for this outfit. Johnson, of course, could handle it.

The detective wobbled across the street quickly and through the front door. She was hit with the closing refrains of “Don’t Stop Believing” as she adjusted to the flashing but tasteful lights adorning the bar. With no time, she grabbed an open stool at the bar. She didn’t see another woman there. Fuck. Was she gone? She picked up Johnson, though, sitting alone at a small, round table. He nodded and then motioned with his head towards the Ladies’ Room. Jameson returned the nod and placed her purse on the bar. Mindful that her small revolver was in it.

When the bartender asked her what she’d have, she asked for ginger ale.

“Regular glass?”

“Regular glass.” He nodded to get it. As he was walking away, she saw someone returning to the bar from the Ladies’. As she neared, Jameson was stunned. She was without question the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. She knew she was pimped up but it wasn’t that. Jameson had carefully studied many women in her life, with and without clothing, and for the first time her heart skipped a beat.

If the Suspect, because that’s who she was, noticed Jameson at all, she gave no hint of it. She carefully and sensually sat on the stool she’d recently vacated. Jameson had an urge to push her from it so she could feel the warmth that a perfect ass had injected that bit of leather with. She was quickly snapped out of her pussyworld when she sensed movement, and discretely turned to see Johnson stand. She decided to make a show of displaying her own potential interest in the striking officer. For baiting purposes.

As her eyes passed the Suspect to reach Johnson, she saw that the woman’s eyes did not join hers in evaluating her prey. Playing coy. Until Jameson realized she was not looking at her drink as a coy woman would. She was looking directly at Jameson’s face. When the Suspect’s eyes locked on Jameson’s, like a fighter jet locking on a target, the Sergeant’s heart skipped another beat.

The bartender thankfully intervened, placing the ginger ale in front of her. She reached for it, staring down, ignoring whatever the fuck Johnson was doing. She could hear the tinkle of the ice in her glass as she lifted it to her lips to regain control, fearing that her nervousness echoed throughout the damn bar. The moment the glass had returned to the bar, she felt a hand on her right shoulder.

“Do I make you nervous?”

The slightest whisper. Jameson wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Turning her head slightly to its source, she said, with a rare hitch in her voice, “Excuse me?”

“Do I make you nervous?” Punctuated with the slightest breath on the ear lobe.

Jameson couldn’t, wouldn’t, turn to see what Johnson was doing. She guessed he’d retreated to his seat to wait for what happened next. She feared what happened next. What if she were the victim? What if it was her apartment the woman wanted to take her to? Whose bed she’d be cuffed to until being discovered by a superintendent with bad teeth? Which cops would respond to the call and witness her humiliation?

“There’s an open table. Let’s sit.”

This was not going according to plan. Plus she never sits with the Victim. She once was approached by a woman and turned her down, waiting for a male of the species. But she never sits.

Without knowing how, Jameson was sitting with her ginger ale and purse at the small table. The Suspect brought two glasses of red wine from the bar. It was definitely red wine and this too was at odds with all of the intel they had on her. And she had two. When Jameson regained her senses, she scanned the room, quickly picking Johnson up. He shrugged his shoulders in a what-the-fuck way and remained seated waiting to see how things unfolded.

“Ginger ale? Are you pregnant or an alcoholic?”

It was such an unexpected, disarming question that Jameson said “neither” without thinking. What was she supposed to say? “I’m on duty”? Her brain was overwhelmed as she tried to spontaneously come up with a cover story in order to answer the inevitable “so what do you do?” question.

“I’m sorry?” She’d been so discombobulated that she hadn’t heard the question.

The Suspect moved the half-empty ginger-ale glass to the side, replacing it with the Pinot Noir. Without thinking, Jameson reached for its stem and found herself savoring her first sip. It was like a bit of color dropped on an otherwise plain canvas, completely altering itself.

The Suspect leaned closer. “I asked whether you’ve ever had a woman make love to you.”

How did she know? She choked on her response, not believing she said it. With an assertiveness completely lacking in her, she said, “I’ve been fucked by a lot of women but none has ever really made love to me.” The words were gone and could not be recalled. She felt a hand rub across hers.

“I promise that I will really make love to you.” The hand lifted her hand and the proverbial spark shot through her when the lips, which a tongue moistened, touched her.

It was true. She’d slept around a fair amount but never felt another woman felt enough for her to make love to her. She rarely stayed the night or let the other woman spend the night, and were she honest she’d confess that she’d never made love to another woman and that she never wanted to make love to another woman. Until this moment. All of her senses wanted to know the Suspect. Her eyes feasting. Her ears rhapsodized by cooing and murmurings. The touch of fingers against her clit. And more than anything the smell and the taste of her pussy. God, more than anything the smell and the taste of her pussy.

Jameson’s pussy was wet just at the touch and the lightest brush by her lips. On her hand. Imagine what would happen were those lips to touch Jameson’s. Her mouth and, more frighteningly, her pussy.

“Have you eaten?”

Jameson wasn’t sure whether the Suspect was reading her mind but recovered enough to shake her head. The Suspect signaled a waitress. “May we see a menu?” She turned back to the homicide detective. “My treat.”

After they ordered something, Jameson didn’t know what she had asked for since all she wanted was the woman across from her, Jameson excused herself. As she headed to the Ladies’ with her purse, Johnson came up to her discretely.

“I don’t know what’s going on. Order dinner and just see what happens. Give the Lieutenant an update.”

In the stall, she found she was almost dripping. She wiped herself dry, though not before she’d inserted her middle finger, which elicited a moan. Thankfully she’d checked the other stalls to be sure she was alone. Suddenly she heard the door open. She held her breath until hearing, “Do you need a hand?”

The Suspect.

“No. I’m good. I’ll be right out.”

She heard the door open and close. She gave herself a final, frustrated wipe, flushed and open the stall’s door. Shit. She’d not looked under the door. The room was not empty. The Suspect was standing, legs slightly spread, hands on hips, in front of her.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’m not saying I’m who you think I am. I’m not saying I recognize the guy sitting at the table drinking club sodas as anything but a guy sitting at a table drinking club sodas. I’m not saying that if I am the person you think I am that I only go after men. I’m saying that I want to make love to you more than I have wanted anything else in my life. I’m saying that I’m not bullshitting you.”

The Suspect reached her hand out. Jameson thought she wanted to check the purse for her badge and gun. When she hesitated, the Suspect reached for her empty hand. She jacked up her skirt and placed the detective’s hand on her panties. They were drenched.

“Tell me yours are dry and I’m gone. And perhaps we’ll meet again on another Thursday night at another pretentious bar with overpriced drinks and horny bankers. Just tell me.”

Jameson could only shake her head.

“Show me.”

Jameson was shocked at this order but complied. She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing silk panties discolored by her juices. She dropped the hem.

“Where do we go from here?”

Suddenly the door opened and the waitress came in. “Sorry.” She went into a stall. When the two emerged, together, Johnson was staring at the door. He’d sent the waitress in to check. Knowing the jig was up, for reasons she’ll never know she stopped when she reached him and said, “it’s not her. I think we’re on a wild-goose chase here. Stay for a while, have your dinner and get a real drink on the Department, and I’ll see you in the Squad Room tomorrow.”

Johnson nodded. Suddenly, learning that the Suspect wasn’t the Suspect, he regretted not at least having had the chance to make a play for her as he watched her ass walking away, embarrassed by the sudden erection it generated.

When the women returned to their table, their food was there. It turned out she’d ordered a salad, as did the Suspect.

“I should tell you who I am. I’m Esther—it’s a family name. And do you go by Brianna or prefer just Bri.” She reached across the table. “I’ve seen you on the news. I assume you keep that purse close to you. I don’t know if I’ve ever slept with someone who carries a gun before.”

The use of her name snapped Jameson out of her haze. She should have realized the Suspect would recognize her. Still. It made things more interesting. If this were to be a game of cat-and-mouse, she’d play along. If it weren’t a game, she didn’t know what she would do. But for the moment, playing along was the order of the day.

“My colleagues call me ‘Columbo,’ for obvious reasons. My friends call me ‘Bri.’” She paused. She leaned forward. “My lovers call me the best lay they’ve ever had.” The Suspect, who we shall call “Esther” for the duration since she’s outed herself, nearly choked on her lettuce. Oh, my, this was going to be enjoyable.

“So you are gay?”

“With one or two forgettable, or at least I wish I could forget them, exceptions, a card-carrying Lesbian.”

“I told you I wouldn’t bullshit. I’ve never been with a woman. I’ve had a host of bad experiences with men though. I’ve thought about it. You’re the first woman I’ve ever known I wanted to make love to.”

“Because you know who I am?”

“That may be part of it. But seeing you and knowing who you are two different things.” She leaned in again. “You shot something straight into my pussy and that’s never happened before. Male or female.”

They were mostly quiet during the rest of dinner. Jameson glanced at Johnson every once in a while, her cover already blown, and he was trying to look natural but was plainly trying to figure out what the fuck was going on between his sergeant and a woman who he thought might need a ride home.

Esther pointedly paid attention to no one but Officer Johnson’s sergeant. When their plates were cleared and the offer of desserts declined, Esther spoke. “Look, you’re not going to take me to your place and I’m not going to take you to mine. Let’s split a hotel room. Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are. Maybe you can turn me.”

“What? Turn you gay and turn you straight.”

“Only one way to find out.”

After splitting the check—with cash—and with a final wave to Johnson, the two left. They’d found a hotel not far away and made a reservation. Fifteen minutes later, Sgt. Briana Jameson and Esther Summers stood, each more nervous than she’d expected, in a suite on the sixth floor of a hotel that catered to the conference-center crowd.

“Wait,” and with that Esther went into the bathroom. Jameson, after closing the room’s blinds, sat on the sofa, trying to get her head around what was going on. But Esther was right, she’d never been more anxious about a woman in her life. Her logical pleas that her body get up and leave before it was too late ignored. It was already too late. She reached under her skirt and removed her panties. She placed them on a side table, expecting Esther to notice them. Hoping.

Jameson heard the water run in the sink. After ten minutes, Esther emerged. She was naked. No wig. No fake contact lens. All of her paraphernalia, all of the tools of her seduction, gone. She looked completely different from what she had. A witness would never be able to pick her out of a line-up. She had nice, short light-brown hair. Her eyes were hazel. Her boobs were a little on the small size but were perfectly placed on her chest, with nipples already jutting out against the flush that covered her pale skin.

Her pussy hair was neatly trimmed and noticeably damp around her mound. Moving down, her knees were a little wobbly and her feet a little small. Also noticeable was the slightest shaking of that body and of her lips.

“This is me, who I am.” She put her hands in front of her, their heels touching. “If you want to arrest me, I’ll confess.”

Jameson, still in her finest finery, except for her panties, which sat delicately folded on a table, and the heels, which were sitting neatly on the floor, stood. She walked toward the woman, not able to formulate a response as she neared her. They were about the same height. Jameson put her arms around Esther’s lower back and bent her head to the side so their noses would not interfere. Her lips encircled that quivering lower one of the other woman and she removed them so her tongue could run along it. She could hear Esther’s breath and feel it just above her own lips.

Whatever her plan was ended when she felt Esther’s hands grab her head to pull her in and Esther began to inhale her tongue, both of them moaning.

Jameson pushed away. Esther was not anywhere close to the prettiest woman Jameson had slept with. She was, in fact, incredibly ordinary looking. Yet the flush that had cut to Jameson’s heart and pussy the moment her eyes hit her in the bar was even more pronounced seeing this woman literally in the flesh. It was as if this most ordinary of features had come together, in Jameson’s eyes, into the most extraordinary of specimens.

Jameson’s initial arousal proved not to have come from the get-up. The fake blond hair and blue eyes. The enhanced cleavage. The fuck-me heels or simmering lipstick. She needed to inhale the body before her. She pulled Esther’s hands away from covering her pussy, where they had gone when their embrace was broken. They were unceremoniously placed on her side, and the hint of nervousness was now obvious, Esther wondering why she exposed herself to a stranger with a gun and a badge in a way she’d never exposed herself in any of her twenty-eight years. She feared her effort and her body would repulse the woman she desperately wanted to call the best lay she’d ever had.

Jameson calmed her with a light peck on her left neck. “Please allow me to enjoy discovering you.” It was a whisper that sent a chill through Esther and another hot bolt to her pussy. She steadied herself as Jameson ran her hands delicately along her sides, beneath the other’s hands as she passed them, down until they reached the tops of her thighs. Her eyes closed as she felt those hands reach up to knead her ass cheeks, Jameson smiling at the moan that simple act generated.

For her part, Jameson was not nearly so calm as she wanted the other to think. She, too, snapped her eyes shut as she gently jiggled the ass and pulled herself closer, reaching for Esther’s hands and placing them around her own ass. Esther moved her hands quizzically and then pulled back when she realized that Jameson wore nothing but her dress. Perhaps a bra. But definitely no panties.

Jameson pulled her back to her, advising the Suspect that they were getting too wet “to be comfortable.” And, after a pause, “they’re on the table.” She gave Esther a light kiss. “You can have them if you want.” She hastened to add, “don’t worry, I won’t take yours.” Kiss. “I left my evidence bag in my other purse.”

Esther felt a strange combination of disappointment and relief, a feeling promptly overwhelmed by Jameson’s tongue’s invasion.

Jameson again pushed away. She pointed to a chair. “Sit.” Esther ignored her, rushing into the bathroom and emerging with a small towel, which she placed on the chair’s cushion before sitting. Jameson faced her. Her hands reached behind her and she pulled her zipper down. She spread the dress over her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She looked somewhat absurd, in nothing but a small bra and thigh-high stockings. Neither woman cared. If they even noticed. Jameson stepped towards Esther, leaving the dress in a puddle behind her.

Her hands moved to the front of her bra and undid its clasp. It was a dark blue, which complemented the dress. While Jameson could not have conceived of anyone seeing her underwear that night—the panties were a matching shade—she wore them because they seemed the right thing to wear under her favorite dress. For a moment she regretted promising her panties to Esther. She’d have to replace them.

Before that thought could take up much room in her brain, the bra was tossed back onto the pile that was her dress. She, too, had small boobs and, as such, they shared the benefits of complementing and not overwhelming her chest. Her nipples, too, were extended.

For her part, Esther had not ever looked at a woman’s body in any but a clinical way. She had no frame of reference, but viscerally knew how beautiful Sgt. Briana Jameson was. She found her eyes roving down below the boobs and to the other’s pussy hairs. She, too, could see moisture. She also knew that Jameson was accustomed to displaying her nakedness to another woman, that Jameson knew how enticing her nakedness was.

Yet Jameson felt strangely awkward about doing this. She feared that Esther would not find her desirable. Not because she purported to be straight—she’d already proven with her pussy’s reaction that she was not completely straight—but because Jameson wanted to make a good first impression. It was absurd. Jameson never gave a shit about the first impression she made beyond whether it would get the other woman into either of their beds. A woman in heat would make certain allowances for the many imperfections that Jameson knew she had.

These feelings were simply combining with the whole insane premise that she was naked in front of the Suspect, who was herself naked in a suite on the sixth floor of an anonymous hotel room but they were quickly overcome by deeper feelings that were even more confusing and more complicated than the others.

Jameson reached her right arm out. The other woman stood and reached for it with her left hand and was led into the bedroom. After Jameson stripped the bed of its cover, she turned. Now it was Esther who did the pulling, feeling the wonderful smoothness and softness of ass cheeks. All was lost as they resumed their kissing, broken when Esther begged, “please, Bri, make love to me.”

Jameson rotated so Esther’s back was to the bed. She gave a light shove and Esther sat on the bed and then scooted her ass to the middle, never removing her eyes from what she hoped would be her first woman lover. While Jameson often smiled when she looked down on a woman waiting for her in the middle of a bed, this was far too serious for that. It seemed her mouth was immobilized by the emotions that were churning in parts of her body she hardly knew existed.

Esther hesitated before laying fully down, with again a visual shaking. Jameson crossed over her with her left leg and placed her left and right knees on either side of Esther’s hips. Silently she bent down. She pecked, and only pecked, Esther’s lips before moving to kiss each of her eyes, eliciting another moan. She ran her tongue down the nose and across the lips to Esther’s chin. After a peck there she darted down to the left nipple.

“You need to be careful.” Esther shot her head up to look at what was clearly her first lover. Not “female lover.” Her first lover. Full stop. Now Jameson couldn’t resist a slight smile. “You could put someone’s eye out with this baby” and then her teeth were kneading the nipple as Esther’s head bounced back onto the pillow. Already falling, it accelerated when she felt gentle fingers caressing her right breast, circling until they too were stimulating the nipple.

Esther’s hips began to move. She fought the temptation to push Jameson down between her legs. She’d not had many men there, and those that were made it clear that it was payment for services they expected she would provide to them. More often than not she pretended to come when they deigned to do it, wishing it and the whole experience to just be over. The men mistaking wanting-to-get-over-with-it boredom for enthusiasm when she bobbed up-and-down to provide the requisite blow job.

No. Esther knew that Jameson knew what she was doing. She’d defer to her, to her doing to her what she never expected anyone would ever do to her. Of course, Esther made clear what she wanted Jameson to do and where she wanted Jameson to go. Her shortened breath and gyrating hips did that.

But now Jameson was in the moment and was able to smile notwithstanding the intensity she felt course through her simply by suckling on this woman’s perfectly shaped nipple, an intensity supplemented by the reaction she was getting. Suddenly she let go and Esther felt a breeze of disappointment brush across her. She opened her eyes as she felt Jameson move up to her again.

Jameson gave Esther a kiss. She’d done this often and it was usually followed by her boasting of what she was going to do when she kissed “your other lips.” In those cases, the woman beneath her would be close to the edge by the time her mouth encircled her clit.

She fully expected she’d use that line that night. Without knowing the source, though, she found her mouth begging, “please let me taste you.” When she did, she heard, “God, yes. A thousand times yes.” As she adjusted her position, Jameson hoped that she would have the chance to do it to this woman a thousand, a million times. It was only a thought. Neither woman would ever know that they shared it.

In fact, Jameson had herself been pushed over the edge. She couldn’t do her normal slow march to the pussy. She threw her face directly into it, lapping the inner and outer folds like a thirsty animal and it started with her being nothing but an animal, satisfying a primal urge. That was something she’d often felt when her lips came into contact with a pussy. But she suddenly calmed. This was a pussy that deserved adoration. She might not have the chance to taste it again.

Her tongue danced around the nether lips, avoiding the clit, already engorged.

“Fuck me. For the love of—”

It echoed throughout the room and stopped when Jameson’s middle finger crossed into Esther. She was so wet that that finger soon was joined by two more, crooked so Jameson could increase the pleasure. Even before Jameson could do more than brush against Esther’s clit, Esther started to bounce and shout, her hands gripping Jameson’s head almost into her.

By the time Jameson had moved to be lying with her face next to Esther’s, her lover was bawling. As Jameson stood so she could lie down with Esther, her phone rang.

“I have to get this.”

She hurried off the bed and into the living room.

“Columbo, where the hell are you?”

“Sorry, Loot. When the deal at that bar busted I shut it down.”

“Johnson said he thought we had her.”

“Not her. I sat with her. I think she was trolling for a woman. And we know our suspect doesn’t do that. She came up to me, but we never had a report of doing anything with a woman before. So I figured I’d play along and see if it might be her. Turns out she’s not even local. In town for some convention or other. I left with her and drove her to her hotel.”

“You let her into your unit.”

“Loot. No big deal. She was so horny for a woman she made a pass at me on the way. I went with her to her room to, you know, make sure she wasn’t prowling for a man. Got her name and address. She’s from outside Boston. Turned her down at her door and was gone. I stopped at a friend’s and we’re just relaxing. I’ll update everyone tomorrow.”

“As long as you’re sure.”

“Loot. I’m sure. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Jameson placed the phone down. Esther was standing at the bedroom’s door, naked and unabashed but visibly worried. Jameson looked at her.

“Now you know. I won’t even be walking a beat if this blows up. We’ll be cellmates.”

Esther was shocked. She’d gone out planning on satisfying her kink and, perhaps, satisfying some asshole’s ultimate fantasy. Two hours ago and her world bore no relation to the one she unhappily occupied then. It was one thing to fuck with an ego-enhanced guy who thought he was god’s gift to womanhood. Now she’d fucked with someone for whom she felt something very, very strong.

She beckoned with her arm, and Jameson followed her back into the bedroom. It had the odor of a bed well-used. The pair sat on its side.

“No more games from me. I—”

“Stop. Do not tell me anything. That’ll just hurt us both.”

“Assuming I care, how many men were reported?”


“That means five who didn’t. If I had anything to do with it, I’ll give you a full confession for them all. All nine of them. If that happens, you can tell your bosses that you were working an undercover trap, gaining my trust until I broke. You didn’t turn me down, you came in as part of your plan.”

“Speaking hypothetically.”

“Speaking hypothetically.”

The heat was sucked from the room, replaced by a nervous chill. Jameson got onto the bed and told Esther to join her. She reached and pulled the cover over them.

“Let me just hold you.”

“But I haven’t done anything to you.”

With a kiss, Jameson whispered, “we have the rest of our lives for you to pay me back.”


Jameson gave the team a summary of the prior night’s events. They had the one lead, but it turned out not to be her. She’d never approached a woman before, always waiting at the bar for a man to come up to her.

“Maybe she thought you were a man, Columbo?”

“There may be people as blind as you are, Ellis, but she made it pretty clear she knew I was a woman.” She turned back to the group, “Especially after she followed me into the Ladies’ Room.” That got a cascade from the group and a silencing of Detective Ellis. “Look, she definitely wasn’t looking to cuff some poor schmuck to a bed to get her kicks. She was looking for a, well, different kind of experience. She didn’t get it from me, but I played along. Got her name and address. She’s from Boston so no reason to suspect she was anything but in the wrong place for Johnson and me. I’ll keep track of her, but for now it’s a dead end.

“So that’s it for last night. I’ll thank the bartender for the tip. We’ll reassemble next Thursday afternoon to do it yet again. I know how frustrating it is, but we will stop it. Thanks everyone.”

When she finished, her lieutenant signaled her into his office. He closed the door.

“This is bullshit, Bri. We both know that. And I’m not losing my pension over this. You slept with her, didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“How did you let this happen?”

“Loot. I didn’t let it happen. It just did. Johnson told you. She was all dolled up. That wasn’t it. You know I’ve never crossed the line. But she’s a million times more attractive without clothes or makeup—”

“Jeez, don’t go there.”

“I mean, it wasn’t the get-up. We both know men are animals and it doesn’t take much. Well, a certain type of man at least.”

“Thanks for that.”

“It was like I fell over a cliff and it got better all the time and I never crashed. I never hit bottom.”

“But what about your job? Your career?”

“I didn’t decide that either. It just happened, OK? She’ll make it so that if it doesn’t work she takes 100% of the fall. I’ll be the undercover sleuth who uncovered her secret and you and I’ll get an award from the Chief. Will I let that happen? I don’t know. But, remember, we don’t have a piece of physical evidence that ties her to any of the kidnappings. Throw her in a line-up and, face it, a guy won’t be able to pick her from a bunch of other women in wigs and heels and pushed-up tits.

“The only proof we have of her is that night with me and Johnson and she didn’t do anything illegal. In the end, there are two ways it can go. Either she goes straight—yeah, I know the irony—or she does it again. If she does, she knows I have her. The thing is, I think, or at least hope, that I will fill the gap that led her to do what she did to men.

“So that is where it is.” She paused.

“Bill. I think I’d take a bullet for this woman. That’s all I can tell you. I don’t understand it. But I think I would.”

He thought. “As far as I’m concerned, we still don’t have anything to tie this woman, who did not commit a crime on the night you met her or, as far as we can tell, since, to whoever it was that cuffed those assholes. So we have her name and address—we do don’t we?”

“We do.”

“So as far as the Department is concerned, we have her name but have zero to tie her to any known crimes in the City or its environs. Because of that, we will need to continue our efforts to locate the perpetrator of the crimes. And we hope that the added police scrutiny and activity might prove deterrent enough to lead whoever the person who did those things to accept the inevitability of her eventual apprehension and imprisonment to cease those activities.”

“May I pass that along to the team, sir?”

“Yes, you may. I just hope, for all of our sakes, you’re right. Now get the hell out of my office. I have work to do.”

As her hand reached the knob, she turned, “Thanks, Bill.” He waved her away, not bothering to look up.

“What was that about?” Jonesy was waiting for her.

“The Loot just wanted to make sure I knew what I was doing with that woman.”


“And I told him I did.”

The partners returned to their desks. Bri hoped to God she was right.

*      *      *      *

Before the weekly status meeting four weeks later, Lt. Halder called Jameson into his office.

“Let’s pull the plug. We can’t afford the overtime. You know what to say.”

“Thanks Loot.”

When the group assembled, Jameson announced that since it had been over two months since the last sighting of the devil woman, they were putting the active surveillance on hold. It wasn’t worth the resources for guys getting what, frankly, they probably deserved. “Let this be a warning to all of you.” Some of the younger officers moved awkwardly in their chairs. “If a beautiful woman wants to walk out of a bar with you, be real. Is she really going to do what you want to do?” After some nervous laughs, “We’ll keep in touch with the various departments, keep asking bartenders to be on the look-out. But for now, we’re putting this case on the not-quite-so-active pile so we can focus on other crimes. Thanks for everything you guys have done.”

When she got to Esther’s apartment that night, she let Esther know. “It wasn’t me. It was the lieutenant. And you’re keeping your word.”

“Sometimes I feel like the girl in ‘Pride and Prejudice’ who marries the nasty soldier and they can’t go out in the street.”

“Lydia. And that was before they got married. It was Mr. Wickham.”

“Oh, I didn’t like him. Were I the sort of woman who cuffed a man to a bed and left him, he’d be just the type I’d like to do it to.”

“If you were that sort of woman.”

They smiled, and Esther held tightly to Jameson. “Thank you for everything.”

By then, Esther had long since repaid Jameson for the first orgasm she’d received at her lover’s fingers and tongue. She’d even become somewhat accustomed to Jameson getting a call in the middle of the night and having to leave their bed—they had two beds, one at each of their places—for hours and hours and at times days and days, coming home—there were now two of those as well—for a quick shower and change of clothes. When Jameson was thrown into a case, Esther moved into her apartment so she would be there when she was needed. She learned quickly how she could relieve Jameson’s tension when they shared that quick shower and she wrapped her arms around her sergeant and placed fingers in her sergeant’s pussy until she had a soft orgasm as the water dribbled over her head and down her shivering body.

Well before Jameson reported that the case was moved to the semi-active pile, a Friday, Esther put all of her outfit into a black bag and placed it among a random pile of similar bags for pick-up in the City. They’d cost a fortune, but she was glad to be rid of them. The contact lens had been flushed down a toilet. Anything that might hold a fingerprint or a hint of DNA was wiped and some of it was boiled.

Apparently You Can Make Some Stuff Up

“Come here.” Bri was on her tablet in their apartment. Esther had long since given up her own. Bri had long since given up her freedom.

“I was doing some, um, research on Literotica and came across this.”

Esther took a look. “Research in BDSM?” Bri turned a little pink as Esther began to read.

“Fuck. It’s either one of your cops or one of my guys.” She poured over it.

“Oh. He says he was the one who asked the woman in the heels to satisfy his deepest fantasy. Bullshit. Oh, and he was the one who asked her to keep the gloves on. How cool he was with the parking valet. And ‘she’s’ driving a Mercedes S-Class convertible. Eastern European accent.”

Bri was laughing. “That’s the fourth one of these on the site. Two say ‘she’ has nipple rings, one that ‘she’ has a pierced clit too, and they all agree that ‘she’ has huge tits and that there’s a tattoo on ‘her’ stomach, although they disagree as to what it is. One has “her” only pretending to leave and releasing him and giving him a blowjob after an hour. While he was still cuffed to the bed.

“I checked their profiles. All list ‘Metro area’ as where they’re from. One even says he likes being a ‘dom.’”

“My favorite, though, is the one where “she”’s six-two and Asian with a—”

“With a dick.”

“With a dick. But not your ordinary dick. A ten-incher ‘when hard’ and a two-inch circumference. His heroine makes him give ‘her’ a blow job and he struggles and almost chokes but takes it all and ‘she’ explodes in his mouth.”

“Wouldn’t that leave DNA?”

“He thought of that. He’s a clever guy.”


“No woman would ever write this shit. After ‘she’ comes ‘she’ makes him swallow it all and then, it gets tricky, ‘she’ makes him rinse out his mouth with Listerine before putting the gag in. By the way. We didn’t necessarily exclude the possibility that it was a transwoman or crossdresser.”

“This story’ll be flooding those BDSM pages for years.”

When they recovered from laughing, and the two were on the sofa, Esther asked, “Seriously. Why are you looking at that stuff?”

Bri stood and straddled her wife. Running the back of her hand along Esther’s cheek she leaned in. “You’re not the only one who knows how to use cuffs, you know.”