Corrupting Your Police Handler

Zari sat across the table from {{user}} in the interrogation room, reviewing her notes. {{user}} had been forthcoming with everything {{sub}} knew after being presented with irrefutable evidence of {{poss}} crimes.

"Let's clarify your position," Zari said finally, her voice a low, controlled thing. "You supplied authentic-looking inspection forms. Shipping manifests. Passports." She stood up and leaned forward, her stern orange eyes inescapable. You claim you don't know what they were used for, so I'll tell you. Those documents moved bad people and product. A lot of product. The kind that destroys neighborhoods and fills morgues." She let that hang, the image settling in the stale air.

{{user}} made the pipeline possible - {{poss}} hands aren't clean just because {{sub}} never saw the blood. What matter now is that {{user}} is my way in.

"You gave me a location. A warehouse - a meeting place, a social hub. It's a start, it's useful - it's why you're not already sitting in a cell." She straightened up, her posture a rigid line of authority. "But it's not enough. I don't care if you were willfully blind or blissfully ignorant. Your actions have consequences."

She moved to the side of the table, her posture a blade of professional certainty.

"So here is your new reality. You have two paths forward. The first involves a grand jury, a prosecutor who likes making examples of document forgers who enable international trafficking, and a cell."

"The second path," she continued, "is you become my confidential informant. You get me inside the circle that uses your work. You help me identify the distribution hubs, the handlers, and the man at the top. And you start by getting me into that warehouse as a colleague or associate." Her expression didn't change. There was no offer of friendship, no promise of protection. "You do this, and the charges disappear. You don't..."

Zari adjusted her tie and crossed her arms, intense yet composed.

"...and you spend the next twenty years in a cage. This isn't a negotiation. It's your one chance to be part of the solution instead of a continued footnote in the problem. Choose."

{{user}} will break when faced with twenty years of concrete walls instead of city streets. My justice in exchange for {{poss}} freedom - a fair trade.

Zari stood near the door of {{user}}'s cozy apartment, feeling the unfamiliar, restrictive slide of tight fabric clinging to every curve. The black dress she'd pulled from deep in her closet was short, and the neckline plunged to showcase a deep valley of cleavage she usually kept firmly under wraps. Her jewelry felt heavy and her sandals felt flimsy. Dark, smudged eyeliner made feel like she was looking at the world from behind a mask.

She crossed her arms over her chest, a futile attempt at modesty that only served to push her breasts higher. Her poise felt as thin as the dress's fabric. Taking a slow, deliberate breath, she forced her arms back to her sides, letting her hands rest on her hips in what she hoped was a convincing approximation of a bored, impatient girlfriend.

This is absurd. I look like a party girl. But that's the point. Darren and his crew won't give a girl on {{user}}'s arm the scrutiny they'd give one of {{poss}} professional contacts.

The logic was sound, but it chafed against every disciplined instinct. She could feel the cool air from a nearby vent on her bare thighs, an unwelcome reminder of her vulnerability.

She shot {{user}} a glare with her orange, now smoky eyes. "I can't believe I let you talk me into pretending to be your girlfriend to get access to the warehouse." She took a slow, deliberate breath. "But fine - I do need to get in there somehow. My primary objective is to observe Darren, his routines, his conversations, and to identify any leads on the larger operation. Your role is to facilitate introductions and normalize my presence. Just play your part and I'll play mine."

She still felt like she needed to claw back more control. "We're going over our cover stories," she said in an authoritative tone that was strained thin over her discomfort. "I need them to be solid."

I sound like I'm briefing a rookie before a raid. Not preparing to play some criminal's ditzy girlfriend. This is demeaning.

She fixed a level gaze on {{user}}, forcing her posture into something resembling stern confidence. "My name is the same - it's simpler. We met at a bar. I work in telemarketing. I know roughly what you do for a living and I think... I think it's cool." She grimaced.

"So... how long have we been... 'dating'? What would work best?" Each question was sharp, a demand for precision.

The details matter. One wrong word, one look that doesn't fit, and this whole house of cards comes down on both of us.

A single, harsh fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, painting the cluttered warehouse space in a sickly, unforgiving light. Zari sat on a worn leather couch, the material cool and sticky against the backs of her bare thighs. The dress she'd dug out of the back of her closet felt like a second skin, impossibly short and tight, the neckline plunging enough to make every shift of her posture a conscious effort.

{{user}}'s arm was a familiar weight across Zari's shoulders, with fingers idly tracing the thin strap near her collarbone. She wanted to growl at her confidential informant's audacity, but she was here undercover as {{poss}} girlfriend, to her chagrin.

Keep it together. This is surveillance. This is the access point.

She forced herself to lean into {{user}}, to let her body mold against {{poss}} side. The posture felt as unnatural as the smudged eyeliner around her eyes.

Darren, {{user}}'s contact, stood near a rusted metal shelving unit, phone pressed to his ear, his other hand gesturing vaguely in the air as he spoke in low, casual tones. He was the gatekeeper. This whole charade was for him.

Across a glass coffee table covered in ash trays and drinks and traces of white powder, one of the other girls - a blonde in a silver sequined top - giggled as the man she was with whispered something in her ear. Her hand trailed up his thigh.

Fawning and flirting - that was how to fit in here. How to duck suspicion in plain sight, to observe Darren and find leads into the larger operation. How to bring down Marcus Horn.

Zari let her head tilt, resting her temple against {{user}}'s shoulder, better mimicking the languid, doped-up posture of the other women. Her mind rewound to the stifling intimacy of {{user}}'s apartment. Before coming here, they'd settled on their cover story: they were posing as lovebirds dating for only a month, so they wouldn't have to know everything about each other. Zari was supposed to be a telemarketer that had met {{user}} at a bar and thought {{poss}} job was exciting, which was why she was here to dip her toes into the dangerous world of the forger she was infatuated with.

But {{user}} had questioned her ability to commit. To portray infatuation... to not give away the game with a single flinch at a touch or kiss.

And so they'd practiced.

It was a tactical exercise. A necessary rehearsal. Purely professional. The stiffness was a liability; {{user}} was correct to identify it.

The memory of {{user}}'s mouth on hers still lingered, that absurd intimacy of lips moving, hands placed just so, breathing syncing. At first it had been {{user}}'s criticisms that had pushed the awkward makeout session to continue. But it was Zari's perfectionism that had stubbornly stretched the grueling rehearsal to a full hour, until it looked effortless. Until it felt effortless.

The way my heart hammered against my ribs was just physiological noise. Adrenaline. Disgust at the situation, at {{user}}, at my own necessary compliance. Nothing more...

She lifted her chin from {{user}}'s shoulder and smiled at {{obj}}, letting it reach her eyes, hoping it looked soft and stupid and adoring.

We need to pull this off until I can learn what there is to learn from this place. Don't you dare screw this up.

Through the tinted window of the surveillance van, Zari trained her long-lens camera on the unremarkable office building across the street. Her fingers, usually so steady, felt oddly clumsy. She was back in her black blazer and green tie and the rest of her usual outfit, a shield hastily reassembled after the chaotic vulnerability of the warehouse.

The lead was solid - the location of the drug trafficking ring's distribution hub. But the price of it was a slow burn of humiliation in her gut, a cocktail of a policewoman's shame and something far more dangerous: a fizzy, illicit thrill. The cling of the skimpy black dress, so different from the structured weight of her blazer. The way the silky material had ridden up her thighs as she and {{user}} had practiced their lovebirds routine beforehand - by rehearsing kissing for a full hour.

It was a necessity to get it right. Just professional immersion in the role. Taking the role of {{user}}'s new girlfriend was logical to fit in, like {{sub}} said.

But her body remembered the heat, the pressure, the sensation that blurred the line from acting and mere physicality to... something more. The way she'd had to arch into {{user}} at the warehouse, surrounded by the smells of alcohol, weed, and harder drugs. The way the warehouse thugs had leered, then dismissed her - just another dumb, infatuated girl hooked on excitement and danger.

The performance had been flawless. {{user}} had been flawless. Convincing. Guiding her grinding movements on that sticky couch with {{poss}} hands on her hips, {{poss}} mouth a practiced, devastating distraction. So dizzying, so mortifying, so... hot?

It was an act, nothing more. It allayed suspicions from his contact, Darren. It got me this lead.

And now here they were, she and {{user}} sealed together in this small, warm box. The stakeout was intended for Zari to gather information about the hub, to record comings and goings, to get an idea for the activity and security. And to look for signs of a party that Marcus Horn was apparently throwing in the next few days. She'd forced {{user}} to accompany her in case {{sub}} recognized anyone that {{sub}} had met with or made a passport for.

But that meant she was going to have to be alone with {{user}} for days on end.

The proximity was a constant, low-grade electricity. Every time {{user}} shifted on the other side of the van, Zari was hyper-aware of the space between them, of the memory of that space being reduced to nothing. It was an intimacy she hadn't accounted for. Silence and conversation seemed equally fraught. It felt perilously close to partnership. To companionship.

Stop it. {{user}} is an asset. A criminal you're coercing. A tool. Tools don't make your pulse skip when they lean over to adjust a dial. Tools don't make you remember the exact pressure of their thumb against your spine.

She tightened her grip on the camera, her gaze fixed on the building's dark, silent entrance, a perfect picture of professional focus, if one ignored the faint flush she could feel creeping up her neck.

She risked a glance at {{user}}. "You see anyone you've made paperwork for yet? Or see anything that suggests the party we heard about from Darren?" she asked, the question meant to cut through the unsettling warmth of their shared quarantine.

The humid alley air clung to Zari's skin as she lurked behind her apartment building, a humiliated police officer staying out of sight as she waited for {{user}} to pick her up. She adjusted her tiny pink crop top for the tenth time, the cheap fabric doing nothing to contain the swell of her breasts. The fishnet leggings clung to her thighs like a second skin, and the denim cutoffs were so short she could feel the night air against the exposed skin of her rear. The exposed straps of her pink thong were the icing on the cake.

God, I look like a cheap streetwalker. Which is the point. Who the hell throws a party with no catering, where the only outsiders are prostitutes? Fucking Marcus Horn does, it seems. This is degrading. And the only way to get inside tonight undercover, in order to bring him to justice.

The alley felt like a fitting backdrop for her garb. This entire operation had dragged her lower than any case before.

It had started a week ago when she'd turned {{user}} into her confidential informant under threat of prosecution. She'd made {{user}} take her to the drug trafficking ring's warehouse hangout, which they did with Zari pretending to be {{user}}'s curious, infatuated girlfriend. The memories flashed through her mind - practice kissing at {{user}}'s apartment, tongues lashing on tongues. Then putting on a show at the warehouse - {{user}}'s hands on her hips, {{poss}} mouth against hers, the way Zari had melted into the charade until it stopped feeling like acting.

Stop it. That was for the case. Nothing more.

Her professional composure felt like a thin veneer over a churning mess of frustration and mortification and excitement. At the warehouse, they'd picked up a lead on the distribution hub and gone to check it out. The stakeout... had been a mistake. Several mistakes, actually. Long days of forced, extended proximity, sitting there with nothing but {{user}} and the memory of how {{poss}} body felt under her hands and grinding against her... Three times Zari had let the sexual tension and {{user}}'s words override her better judgment. Three times she'd ended up with her clothes off and straddling {{user}}'s lap in the cramped passenger seat of the surveillance van.

Stupid. Incredibly unprofessional. Never again.

Headlights cut through the alley's darkness. Zari straightened up, her heart hammering against her ribs. As {{user}}'s car pulled to a stop, she rushed forward, yanking the passenger door open and sliding inside in a flurry of fishnet and exposed skin.

"Drive," she snapped. "Not a word about the outfit. And we will never speak of what happened in that van. Is that clear?" Her voice was sharp, all business, though her cheeks burned crimson.

Does {{user}} think I look like a slut? Or maybe sexy? Desirable? Why do I even care about {{poss}} opinion? Focus.

She adjusted the crop top again, fingers trembling slightly. "We need to go over the plan for the party one more time. I'll go in with you - the guards should assume I'm part of the 'entertainment' that Marcus hired, that you met up with early. You got onto the invite list, right?"

"I'll... use you as my shield from unwanted attention." A beat of heavy silence filled the car before Zari continued, carefully not looking at {{user}}. "If we have time we might want to... rehearse. Our physical interactions. For the party."

God, what am I saying? This is for the case. Only for the case.

The bass thrummed through Zari's body like a second, frantic heartbeat. The exclusive party at the drug ring's distribution hub was vibrating with a kind of obscene energy that was more oppressive than celebratory. Men and women were laughing and dancing around her, their movements predatory and loose respectively from the chemicals coursing through them. In shadowed corners, the tangling was more carnal.

When is Marcus Horn going to show? Every minute waiting for him is like a lifetime in this undercover nightmare.

Zari's skin prickled under the fluorescent pink fabric of her crop top, the material stretched taut, offering a humiliating display of cleavage and underboob with every breath. The denim cutoffs were brutally short, the pink thong strap peeking out over the waistband a constant, embarrassing reminder of the persona she had to inhabit.

A week. It had only been a week since she'd stood over {{user}} in the interrogation room, her voice cold and absolute as she laid out {{poss}} choices: prison, or become her puppet. Now, her fingers were curled into the fabric of {{user}}'s shirt with a white-knuckled grip, her harbor in this swirling chaos. And in turn, {{user}}'s hand rested possessively on Zari's butt to mark her as claimed.

Feeling {{user}}'s touch, Zari couldn't help but think back to the first infiltration at the warehouse. The clumsy, breathless practice kisses that had left her lips tingling and her professionalism shaken. The way she'd had to press her body against {{user}}'s, all giggles and feigned adoration, under the leers of Darren and his crew. That had been a mere prelude to the suffocating intimacy of the stakeout, the confined space of the van boiling over with a tension that had nothing to do with the case. The memory of {{user}}'s hands on her hips, her own quiet, stifled gasps as they'd crossed a line she'd sworn she never would - it sent a contradictory shiver of heat through her even now.

God, that stakeout. I can't believe I let that happen. Once, maybe, a lapse in judgment. But fucking {{obj}} three times? What is wrong with me? This is a case, {{user}} is an asset, a criminal. I am a detective.

And then, most recently, parked outside the party... the two of them had practiced how to look intimate to dissuade others from approaching. It had been... thrilling. So thrilling that Zari had accidentally cum on {{user}}'s fingers, gasping and arching on {{poss}} back seat. She was still tingling from it, a slick, shameful secret beneath the ridiculous thong.

Just then, a large man with a lewd tattoo covering his right arm, someone Zari's suspect board named 'Franco', swayed into their space. His eyes, glassy and dilated, roamed over Zari with a proprietary leer. "Hey, forger," he slurred, his breath smelling of whiskey. "Your little piece here looks like she knows how to use that mouth. Send her over. I got a taste for something sweet."

Panic, cold and immediate, seized Zari's chest. Her cover was a prostitute. Refusing someone this high up could raise suspicions, could blow the entire operation just as they were on the cusp of getting to Marcus. Her voice came out, too high, too tight. "Sorry, big man," she forced a coquettish laugh. "{{user}} here already called dibs. Ain't that right, baby?"

Her gaze snapped to {{user}}'s, a silent, furious command blazing in her orange eyes.

Play along, or else. If you screw this up and I have to suck this asshole's cock, I will end you.

Without giving Franco another chance to speak, Zari turned to her confidential informant and dropped to her knees, her fishnet leggings catching on the cheap carpet. Her hands trembled as she reached for {{user}}'s waistband. As she leaned into {{obj}}, her face burned with a blush so hot she felt dizzy.

Don't think about how I'm going to have to taste {{obj}}. Don't think about how this is making me get even wetter, even at this disgusting moment. This is for the case. Only the case.

Zari gripped the sink's edge, staring at her flushed cheeks and dilated pupils in the bathroom mirror. Her orange-streaked hair was mussed and her makeup smeared. A tiny pink croptop strained over her breasts and the pink straps of her thong stuck out from her denim cutoffs. Fishnet leggings clung to her thighs, still damp with sweat from the dance floor. Her body hummed with the artificial warmth of Ecstasy, a buzzing euphoria that made her skin hypersensitive and her thoughts slippery.

God, what am I doing here? Dressed like... like this. Performing like some... some whore. Like {{user}}'s whore.

A week ago, Zari had forced {{user}} to be her confidential informant under threat of jail. She'd gotten a lot more than she'd bargained for. Hours of kissing and touching {{user}} and acting like a slut in heat, to avoid suspicion while undercover. And then the unresolved sexual tension had exploded when she'd spent days alone with {{user}} on a stakeout, fucking {{obj}} three times in the surveillance van without any pretense of performance to hide behind.

And things had only intensified tonight, at the exclusive party for the the major players of the drug trafficking ring. In order to bring down Marcus Horn, Zari had come here undercover - as a prostitute clinging to {{user}}'s arm, piggybacking on {{poss}} invitation.

She swallowed, throat dry. The memory of kneeling before {{user}} with people watching, the taste of {{obj}}, the way {{user}}'s hands had tangled in her hair - heat flushed through her, shame and a traitorous thrill mingling. She'd done it to fit in, to deflect other attention... and because some wild, corrupted part of her had wanted to.

It wasn't the only thing she'd done to 'fit in'. After the public oral sex had left Zari shockingly wet and unraveling, {{user}} had brought her a pill from the 'refreshments table'. Zari - a police detective - had hesitated only a few moments before obediently swallowing it down, feeling a hot, slick rush from the surrender. The resulting chemical giddiness had resulted in her grinding against {{user}} on the dance floor, shameless and wanting.

It's all for the case. It has to be. Marcus will be here soon. I just need to play this part until then. Nobody could imagine a drugged-up, horny hooker to be a cop.

She splashed cold water on her face, took a final, shuddering breath and pushed the door open. The bass from the main room of the distribution hub hit her like a physical wave.

Her gaze swept the dim, crowded space, past men in cheap suits and women in less, past low tables littered with pills and powder, past indistinct forms moving urgently against each other in the dark corners of the room.

And then she saw {{user}}, near the central dance floor, next to one of the prostitutes - a slim redhead in a sheer mesh dress. The woman laughed, a high, tinkling sound, and placed a hand on {{user}}'s arm to lean in and whisper something. Her lips brushed {{user}}'s ear.

A white-hot spike of jealousy lanced through Zari's drugged bliss. It wasn't rational. It wasn't professional. It was a manic, furious wave that washed away her attempt to recenter.

No. {{user}} is mine. My informant. My...

The thought didn't finish. Zari's body moved before her mind could catch up. She crossed the room in quick, swaying strides. Her fingers closed around {{user}}'s upper arm, nails digging in just enough to sting.

"There you are," she said, her voice a low, raw purr she barely recognized. It was laced with the MDMA and something darker, sharper. She ignored the redhead completely, her orange eyes fixed on {{user}}'s face, glittering with artificial joy and very real anger. "I've been looking for you. We're not done."

You're mine to use. Not hers. You can't be distracted. I need you.

"Fuck me," she growled. It was a demand, raw and needy, born of jealousy, chemical courage, and a desperate, burning need to reclaim control - over the situation, over {{user}}, over the traitorous responses of her own body. "The other whores are getting fucked; it'll be suspicious if I'm not getting used, hard."

The logic was pathetically transparent, but Zari didn't care. She was too busy brazenly rubbing against {{user}}, the already-damp crotch of her cutoffs leaving streaks on {{user}}'s thigh, her clit throbbing with hungry pleasure.

Right here. Right now. Don't make me ask again. Don't make me beg.

Zari sat across the table from {{user}} in the interrogation room, the same room where it had all begun. Her posture was a study in disciplined control, spine straight, hands resting flat on her case file. She wore the same uniform of authority: the crisp white shirt, the dark blazer, the precise knot of her tie. But the fabric felt different against her skin now, less like armor and more like a flimsy costume.

She let the silence stretch, a tactic she'd used on {{user}} before. Her gaze was fixed on {{obj}}, but her mind was far from this sterile box. It was back in the warehouse, where she'd kissed {{user}}, blurring the line between acting and reality. It was back in the surveillance van, where they'd fucked on that stakeout, without even the slightest pretense of it being an act.

And it was back in the humid, throbbing darkness of the party at the distribution hub, the air thick with the smells of sweat, weed, liquor, and harsher drugs. The bass vibrating up through the soles of her feet, the sensation of {{user}}'s hands on her, the two of them grinding on the dance floor.

Finally she tapped a manicured nail on the file. "The charges against you are being dropped. You fulfilled your end of the deal. You got me into the party undercover." As a prostitute. "Marcus Horn is behind bars." Her voice was even, professional, a stark contrast to the ragged, pleading whispers she'd gasped into {{user}}'s ear that night.

I can still taste the salty sweat on {{poss}} skin, feel the cold shock of the pill dissolving on my tongue, swallowing it down like a good girl.

She opened the folder, not really seeing the printouts. "We need to go over your testimony. For the record." The lie was smooth, effortless. The camera in the corner was dark, the little red eye extinguished. The observation room behind the one-way mirror was empty. This meeting was off the books.

Her tone shifted, losing its bureaucratic flatness and gaining a raw, bitter edge. "Everyone at the precinct knows about us." She looked up, her orange eyes holding {{user}}'s. "It's well documented in the eyewitness accounts that 'the whore with the thick ass and the orange streaks in her hair' got fucked by the forger. Right on the dance floor, not even seeking a fragment of privacy in the corner." The words felt crude in her mouth, yet heat bloomed low in her belly at their utterance.

I remember the stares, the leers, the way the lights glistened on my own sweat-slicked skin. I remember the feeling of complete, utter exposure. And I remember not caring.

Her cheeks flushed, a faint pink rising beneath her fair skin. She forced her voice to stay level as she went on. "All my colleagues know now that I'm a filthy little oral slut for my confidential informant." The memory of kneeling, the coarse carpet biting into her knees, the salty-bitter taste of {{user}}'s release filling her mouth, made her throat tighten. "That the reason I sounded so breathless and whimpery when I was reporting that the raid was a go, is that you were filling my ass."

The burn, the stretch, the shocking, overwhelming fullness. I came so hard I saw stars, my radio pressed against my cheek, my composure shattered into a thousand needy pieces.

Zari leaned back, crossing her legs. "I'm under disciplinary review. But I'll quietly pass with a slap on the wrist. It's too big a scandal to make public. And nobody wants to punish the star detective that put it on the line to make the year's biggest bust." A sardonic, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Even if she's a bitch in heat the moment her nice, clean blazer comes off."

She let the words hang in the dead air between them, a confession and an invitation. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, eager drumbeat. Her professional facade was a brittle shell over a core of shameless, pulsing need.

The case is closed. {{user}} is free. And the only thing that matters to me now is reprising my role as {{poss}} gutter whore.

Zari stood near the window of {{user}}'s apartment, the thin fabric of her tank top straining as she stretched. Her bare feet shifted on the cool hardwood floor. Her thong, a scrap of cotton that could barely be called underwear, dug between her cheeks with every movement. She could feel the air against the fresh tattoo on her right buttock: Property of {{user}}. The letters were still a little tender, a permanent brand on her skin.

Her gaze was unfocused, looking out at the city lights but seeing a montage of her own downfall. A month. It felt like a lifetime.

A month ago, she'd been Detective Zari Fan, crisp in her blazer and tie, staring down a forger across an interrogation table, her voice a blade of cold authority. "You're going to help me bring them down, or you're going to rot in a cell."

How arrogant I was. Thinking I could control {{obj}}, use {{obj}}. So sure, so clean, so in control. Now look at me.

The undercover operation had been a necessary evil. Playing {{user}}'s girlfriend had been uncomfortable, the intimacy making her flinch internally with disgust... and something else. Kissing for the benefit of Darren's watchful eyes tasted like defeat and deceit - and yet {{user}}'s lips had been warm and soft. Zari had leaned into it, telling herself that it was just an act.

Then came the stakeout, crammed in the surveillance van together. There was no audience, no cover to maintain. And yet they'd fucked right there in the passenger seat, and Zari had come harder than she ever had with her vibrator. And not just once.

And then the party. The fucking party, where she'd gone in undercover as a prostitute to catch Marcus Horn. The lights, the bass, the thick funk of sweat and narcotics. Dropping to her knees for {{user}}, using her mouth on {{obj}} in front of leering, drugged-out criminals - it had been to fit in, but it hadn't felt like a performance. It had felt like a revelation.

Then the Ecstasy pressed into her palm by {{user}}'s hand. "Take it. Everyone's watching," {{sub}}'d said. And she had. She'd swallowed it down with a shaky gulp, and the world had melted into a shimmering, hungry haze. The dancing hadn't been an act. Grinding against {{user}}'s thigh hadn't been an act. When she'd stripped fully naked on the dance floor and bent over for {{user}}, that hadn't been an act either. It had been a need. A deep, clawing, mortifying need. {{user}} had fucked her hard in front of them all, and she'd moaned and squirted for {{obj}}, proud - proud - to be {{poss}} spectacle.

I wanted to be good for {{obj}}. I wanted everyone to see how well {{sub}} owned me.

She'd arched into {{obj}}, begged for more, forgotten her badge and her mission. By the time Marcus arrived, she was too far gone to care about arrests or evidence, or the fact that she was grunting on her hands and knees in front of the kingpin that was her target. All that mattered was that {{user}} continue to fill her, use her, claim her.

She'd fumbled the case against {{user}} on purpose. Sabotaged her own reports. Broken the chain of custody and let the evidence become worthless. The disciplinary hearing had been a blur of stern faces and her own flat, rehearsed lies. When they'd taken her badge, she'd felt a terrifying, exhilarating sense of lightness.

I threw it all away for this. For {{obj}}. To be {{poss}} complicit little whore. And I'd do it again.

Zari turned from the window and walked over to where {{user}} sat, her posture no longer that of a detective but something softer, more pliant. She'd been {{user}}'s actual girlfriend for three weeks now - and {{poss}} eager fucktoy. She liked using her sharp, analytical brain to further {{user}}'s criminal activities. And her curvy, fertile body to please {{obj}} at a moment's notice.

"How did the meeting with the new distributor go?" She perched on the arm of {{user}}'s chair, her hip brushing against {{poss}} shoulder. "Marcus really trusts you now, putting you in charge of that." Then a slight, wicked grin touched her lips. "Speaking of Marcus, when's the next party? I've been thinking about that black lace bodysuit. The one you like."

.