NYPD RIM —
By Nellskitchen
There is no explaining these things. Either appetite is—or it is not. That day, it was.
The happening happened at Mulligan’s Pub on Madison Avenue, the place where the unlikely couple stopped for a drink after the game.
Sitting at their usual place near the front window, the sultry Noreen Turk, diligently sipping her straight-up martini, permitted her eyes to do what women’s eyes do. And despite the busy place’s busyness and the myriad of faces and bodies falling within her highly-skilled viewfinders, her inspection of him endured, returning time and again to the stupefying if out-of-place character standing at the bar.
Noreen wondered at his presence, at its unlikeliness. What, she asked herself, is a cowboy doing in Manhattan? Glancing out the window, she half-expected to see his get-away stallion champing at the bit out on the sidewalk, but alas, nothing but the usual midtown traffic filled the street.
He was blue-jeaned, mustached, booted. Leaning the way lean men lean, with their butts daringly if only slightly pouting, he looked neither left nor right, yet somehow projected a hint of arrogance directed at watchers, women like Noreen.
Scrutinizing him, she was careful not to give herself away, a tactic giving her a rush, and she searched his blank eyes, just then staring straight into the mirror that acted as a backstop behind the array of whiskey bottles positioned above the cash register.
Unlike her, the sandy-haired man was, as far as Noreen could tell, alone. He appeared to be killing time, and with Budweiser in hand, he nonchalantly sucked at the bottle’s long neck, right then nodding to the bartender to bring him another.
Wondering the one-thing a girl wonders when observing a handsome man who happens to be unaccompanied in a busy place, she wondered one thing: was he waiting for someone? With no way to be sure, she kept her eyes peeled.
Complete with an off-white cowboy hat, he was as close to the classic Marlboro Man as she had ever come upon, and returning to her original inquiry, she asked herself what the dazzling creature was doing here at the epicenter of New York’s wimpy girly men. The question intrigued her and cried out for scrutiny.
The clueless Eddie Haskell, Noreen’s off-and-on again, boyfriend, if he even noticed the stranger, did not say anything. Of course, he did not. Regular guys are not mindful of other men; only gay guys are. Eddie, experience taught her, was altogether straight. So was Marlboro Man, a feature telecast by the fog of testosterone surrounding him.
Noreen stayed quiet, even as Eddie, obsessing over popping popcorn into his mouth dikmen escort between sips of pink sangria, bored her with the day’s market’s fluctuations. “At the close of trading,” he absent-mindedly said, “the fucking NASDAQ was down six fucking points! Can you fucking believe it?”
Nodding, but otherwise detached, Noreen kept her eyes glued to the mystery man, surveilling him as he nudged his just emptied bottle in the direction of the bartender and pulled a roll of bills from his pant pocket. Dropping onto the bar what appeared to be a fifty, he turned on his heel, a few strides later, making his way to the recesses of the place, to the back steps, the ones leading downstairs to the restrooms.
“Could be a sign of a market correction,” Eddie continued, even as Noreen, without taking her sharp eyes from the cowboy’s butt, hastily pulled her hair into a double ponytail. “If the Facebook strike doesn’t end soon, the DOW will…”
“…I need to pee,” Noreen interrupted. Standing up, she slung her purse over her shoulder and marched toward the stairs.
Eddie called to her as she walked off, asking, “Hey, Hun? Want another dirty martini?”
“With an olive,” she ordered.
The prospect, meaning the stranger, was too mouthwatering to mire herself in Eddie’s market minutiae, and a moment later and just as the cowboy reached for the men’s room door, Noreen was on him. Flashing her badge, she pulled her weapon and called out, “DETECTIVE! NYPD! HANDS AGAINST THE WALL!”
The cowboy stopped, coolly looked back over his shoulder, glanced around, saw that she was alone, relinquished the door handle, placed his palms firmly against the wall, and said in a low voice, “What the fuck, lady?”
II
“And don’t call me lady,” the detective gruffly ordered.
With her left hand, she frisked him for weapons. Pressuring his muscular back with her palm, she simultaneously jammed her Glock 17 into the base of his skull. Discovering a firearm lodged in his waistband, she lifted his jacket, jerking free a Colt .45 revolver with a pearl grip.
“You’d better have a Big Apple permit for this firearm,” she warned. “Manhattan isn’t the Wild West.”
Looking around and with a patronizing smile, he sarcastically said, “You could have fooled me.”
Pulling cuffs from her purse, the detective expertly wrapped his wrists in the steel bracelets. Once accomplished, she returned her hand to the small of his beefy back, this time aggressively bullying him with her upper body as she crushed her ample breasts against him, in the process, raking her nails the length of his shoulder blades.
“What’s this all about, lady,” he asked, emek escort his voice showing less agitation than expected.
“I’ll ask the questions, cowboy,” she shot back. “Got anything else on you that can hurt me? Got a knife? Drugs?”
“Just my cigarettes,” he mildly answered. “I take it Marlboros are a crime here in New York these days?”
“Don’t get smart with me,” the detective insisted. With her weapon still pointed, she pressed against his backside with her pelvis, reached around him, expertly yanked his belt buckle, wrenched free the snap of his jeans, and drew his zipper down.
“What you doing, lady?” He repeated, obviously amused. “For that matter, give me your badge number. I’ll need it for the complaint I mean to file with the department.”
Smartly refocusing the subject, she snapped at him. “Like I said, I’m checking things out for bad stuff, cowpuncher, so don’t try anything funny.”
With the stranger securely cuffed, Noreen slipped her weapon back into her purse, and with both hands, she pulled at the belt loops of his jeans, urging them to his ankles and revealing he was not wearing briefs.
Once down, she fell to one knee, gazed at the tightest ass cheeks ever, and without saying more, she spread them, revealing a snug, hairy butt-hole and an equally hairy ball sack. “There’s only one way to be sure you haven’t shoved drugs up here, so don’t move while I check,” she ordered.
Leaning in, she touched the tip of her tongue to his tight rosebud, and when she did, she felt tenseness exit his body. Moving her hand between his legs, she grasped his heavy testicles and alternately tugged at his engorged cock, feeling its tip moisten with precum.
Her surprising moves filled him with desire, prompting the stranger to lean fully forward; his butt shoved into Noreen’s waiting face. “If you’re really checking for what you say, better do it thoroughly. Stick that sharp tongue up my ass, po-leece lady. Do it harder.”
Refusing compliance, Noreen grabbed for her Glock and forced the muzzle against his anal opening just hard enough to let him know who was in charge. Turning the weapon half a turn, she heard him groan, not in pain, but in pleasure. “Do it more, girl,” he urged.
Feeling zero resistance to her intrusion, Noreen shoved it harder, more roughly, turning it another half-turn, and prompting a second, even louder growl. He pushed his ass more confidently into her face, and in a controlling voice, he gave her a direct order: “Tongue it hard, law-dog bitch. If you’re one of New York’s finest, you’ll tongue it hard!”
After an additional thrust, Noreen ceded power. She withdrew the weapon eryaman escort from his exposed butt hole, set it down on the floor, pried hard at his ass cheeks, and forcing them apart a second time; she tongued his anal ring. His taste, manly and clean, pleased her.
“Feels good,” he said, grinding his bum against her practiced tongue. “Back home,” he grunted, “lady cops never done it better. Now tell me something, do you always tongue-lash out-of-towners? Is this here, the mayor’s campaign to clean things up around this Big Apple of a city?”
His witticisms, coupled with her failure to intimidate him, half-annoyed and half-attracted the detective, and she stood up, and jerking hard at the chain of his handcuffs, she strained against his strength, forcing his elbows upwards.
“Cut the backtalk, cowboy. NYPD doesn’t answer to Lone Star drifters!”
“Nevada, ma’am,” he wisecracked, a half-smile crossing his face. “This rancher’s a Nevadan.”
By then, Noreen had done what she had set out to do, and standing up, the stunning blonde smoothed her skirt, wiped her lips hard against the back of his jacket, and skillfully keying the cuffs, she freed his hands.
Calmly turning his face back toward the wall, the out-of-place wrangler warily tugged his jeans up, efficiently buckled his belt, and turned to face her.
“You taste good, cowboy,” Noreen, looking up at his smiling face, warmly declared. With her eyes riveted to his, she drew lipstick from her purse and touched up her swollen mouth. Then, as if nothing happened, she turned away and headed back upstairs.
Three paces later, she hesitated, and turning to him; she warned, “Oh, and in case you have ideas of reporting this, you’re not some kind of victim, ranch hand, so keep your mouth shut about my little…preference. NYPD Blue can make big trouble for bad boys who make up stories about girl detectives.”
Grinning, he said nothing, but in a gentlemanly gesture, he tipped his hat and, pulling at the men’s room door, disappeared inside.
A moment later, Noreen, sitting back at her table, savored her second martini. “That took for fucking ever,” the clueless Wall Street financier observed. “You were gone for hours.”
Noreen, indifferent to his exaggeration, and sipping a sip, drew a tooth-picked olive from the dusky liquid, and sucking on it, let its taste intermix with the cowboy’s rectal juices, his manly sweetness merging with the drink’s pungent dirtiness.
“There was a line backed up from the ladies’ room,” she explained. “Everybody knows these places don’t give women enough toilets. It’s such sexist bullshit.”
By then, the cowboy was back, standing at the top of the stairs. His eyes, searching, panned the crowded room. Falling upon hers, he tipped his hat a second time, nodded, walked past her, and exited to the busy street.
Noreen ignored him. Eddie, chattering nonsense on his phone, failed to notice.
End