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From: al_steiner@hotmail.com
Subject: Going to the Shrink by Al Steiner (FM, psychologist-patient)
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This one is a little different than my normal postings. I’ll
understand if it’s not received well. But I did spend some time writing it.
So, like always, if you want to repost it, archive it, or do anything else
with it, feel free. But please leave intact the author’s name and the
original text. Send comments of any kind to al_steiner@hotmail.com I make a
point of answering all legitimate E-mail, though sometimes it takes a day or
two.
GOING TO THE
SHRINK
By Al
Steiner
It happened so quickly that I never had a chance to be scared, to be
philosophical, to have second thoughts, to do anything but react as I’d been
trained. I had no forewarning that the encounter I was initiating was about
to take a deadly turn.
The car was a 92 Toyota Camery. The license plate, issued in the
great state of Washington, had expired tags on it. Now I’m a patrol officer,
not a traffic officer and enforcement of vehicle registration laws is not my
primary function. But when you see two obvious dirtbags driving around in a
yuppie car at 1:30 in the morning and you have a clear-cut reason for pulling
them over, you do so; at least if you’re not doing anything else at the time,
which I wasn’t. Who knows what they’re up to? The car could be stolen, they
could have some meth or some rock on them, they might have a warrant out.
Anything is possible. So you stop them, talk to them, run their names
through the computer, find a reason to search the car if you feel it’s
warranted. It’s one of the routine aspects of being a patrol cop. It’s
something I do two or three times each shift when it is slow.
While following behind them, I called the license number into our
dispatch. It came back as expired but not reported stolen. This had been
true at the time; the owners had been yet to discover the car missing. I
called in the location that I intended to stop them at and the dispatcher
sent another unit my way for cover, standard procedure when there was more
than one occupant of the vehicle. I lit them up at the next intersection and
they pulled over immediately, as I’d figured they would. There was no way
they hadn’t noticed me following them for the past eight blocks. In
retrospect, I should have waited for my cover unit to arrive but I didn’t
feel that the stop was all that dangerous and I felt pretty comfortable
handling it by myself.
They pulled into an abandoned strip mall parking lot and stopped just
off the roadway. I pulled in behind them, lighting up their vehicle with my
high beams and the spotlight that was mounted on the lightbar. They sat
impassively as I exited my vehicle, sliding my baton into its holder and
gripping my three-cell maglight in my left hand. My right hand dropped
automatically to the butt of my holstered pistol, my thumb nestled on the
quick release snap.
I approached carefully as I always did on every vehicle stop, even
when it was an old lady I’d pulled over. I remember noting that the window
on the driver’s side was rolled down but not attaching any particular
significance to this. I came up behind this window and shined my flashlight
inside, searching for the hands of the occupants first and foremost; it’s the
hands that can kill you and once you know that they’re empty and in sight,
you can relax. Well the driver’s hands weren’t empty.
My standard opening statement to vehicle stop people was on my lips;
‘how you doin’ tonight?’, when I saw the gun in his left hand. It was a cute
little chrome plated .380 semi-auto. He twisted in his seat rapidly and tried
to point it at my head, intending to put one of those cute little pieces of
lead that the weapon fired into my face.
I had no conscious control over what happened next. My left hand,
which held the flashlight, slapped sharply at his gun hand, making contact
with the weapon, knocking the hand forward and down and sending a sharp pain
of vibration shooting up my left arm. The gun went off with a surprisingly
loud report, sending the bullet into the car door. Simultaneously, my right
hand released the snap and jerked my .40 caliber pistol out of its holster.
I brought it up and fired it less than eight inches from my would-be-killer’s
head. This report was even louder, a sound I’d never heard before without
hearing protection on. Brains, blood, and skull fragments sprayed out of the
opposite side of his head, splashing the passenger with gore. The gun-toter
collapsed forward as the passenger began screaming in horror.
Adrenaline slammed into my body as I realized what had just happened.
I took two steps backward and leveled my gun on the passenger, spearing him
with the flashlight beam.
“SHOW ME YOUR HANDS MOTHERFUCKER! NOW!”
He jerked his hands up so quickly that I nearly shot him for that.
Thankfully I didn’t. His hands were empty and trembling madly.
“I didn’t do anything!” He screamed desperately. “It was Dave! I
told him not to try it! I swear! Don’t shoot me!”
“Put your hands on the fuckin’ dash and don’t move motherfucker!” I
screamed at him.
He quickly did as I said.
“If you so much as twitch.” I threatened. “I’m gonna blow your
fuckin’ head off, you got it?”
“Yeah!” He shot back, his voice cracked with fear.
I reached for my radio and put it to my lips. “Alpha twenty-nine.” I
said into it. “I’ve been involved in a shooting. One subject down, one at
gunpoint. I need cover out here now.” When I said this I thought that I’d
been speaking in a calm, rational voice. When I heard a tape of this exchange
later, I found that I’d been nearly screaming, my voice with obvious panic in
it.
It wasn’t long before the parking lot was swarming with Seattle
police cars, Kings County Sheriff units, Washington State Patrol units,
school district cops, and any other law enforcement agencies within thirty
square miles it seemed. The vehicle’s passenger was jerked rudely out of the
car, thrown to the pavement, beat up a bit, and handcuffed before being
stuffed into the back of a patrol car. The gun inside the car was secured
and the driver was checked for signs of life. There were none. Paramedics
arrived and pronounced the driver dead in less than thirty seconds before
they were escorted out of the crime scene lest they fuck it up.
I was sat down in the front of my sergeant’s car and given a cigarette
by him. I took it gratefully even though I’d quit smoking three years before.
The carcinogenic smoke was harsh but soothing as I trembled and sucked on the
Marlboro, wishing for a double shot of tequila like I never had before. First
the sergeant and then the lieutenant got the basic story of what had happened
from me. While the passenger was hauled off to jail, I still sat there,
watching the crime scene investigation take place.
I was numb, trying to cope with what had just happened. I’d just killed a
man, something I’d never done before. Sure you come into this job knowing
that you might have to do it some day but its one of those things that you
simply believe will never happen to you. Someone else maybe, but not you.
In my five years as a cop I’d probably drawn and pointed my gun at people a
thousand times, but I’d never fired the thing before outside of the range. I
used to worry whether or not I’d have what it took if the time ever came.
Well, now I knew, didn’t I?
My gun was taken away from me by the crime scene investigators. I was driven
to our downtown office by one of the homicide cops. I spent the next six
hours in an intensive investigatory interview that was recorded on video and
digital audio for prosperity. We went over my story no less than eight
times, starting with the beginning of my shift that night at 8:00 PM and
ending with the arrival of the first cover unit after the shooting. By the
time I was released to go home at 9:00 the next morning I was buzzing with
caffeine intake and my lungs were sore from cigarettes.
I was driven back to the station that I worked out of. Thankfully all of the
units that worked out of there were already out on the streets and I didn’t
have to answer a bunch of questions asked by my curious co-workers. I
certainly wasn’t in the mood for that just then. I changed out of my uniform
and put on the jeans and sweatshirt that I’d come to work in the previous
night. I strapped the 9mm off-duty weapon that I carried to my right hip and
covered it with my shirt. After five years as a cop I’ve become paranoid. I
carry a gun EVERYWHERE. I don’t go outside to mow my lawn without a piece
stuck inside a fanny-pack.
Our department chaplain was waiting for me at the doors to the station. He
asked how I was doing and I told him I was okay, which was pretty much true at
that point. He noted the bulge beneath the sweater on my right hip.
“Don’t you think,” He asked gently. “That it might be a good idea to leave
your off-duty gun here for awhile?”
This statement genuinely confused me. “Why?” I asked.
“Well,” He seemed uncomfortable. “Just in case, you know, that you feel some
guilt, and well….”
My eyebrows raised. “You think I might shoot myself?” I asked, astounded.
“Well, it’s always a…”
I scoffed. “You gotta be shittin’ me chaplain. I ain’t gonna kill myself
over this. Besides, it wouldn’t do any good anyway. I got five or six other
guns at home that I could use if I felt the need.” I patted him on the back
as I headed for the door. “Don’t worry. I did the right thing tonight and I
ain’t gonna trip about it. I’m cool.”
He seemed somewhat taken aback by my statements so I chose that moment to
make my leave. Twenty minutes later I was home. I opened the first of what
would be many beers that day and sat down to watch TV. I fell asleep (or
passed out, if you like complete correctness) about two in the afternoon.
When I woke up I had a monstrous hangover but mentally, I’d put the encounter
into perspective. He’d tried to kill me for whatever reason but I’d killed
him first. Black and white. Simple as could be. I saw no other alternative
course of action that might have changed the outcome. I was cool with it.
I was of course placed on paid administrative leave while the investigation
into the shooting was underway. It was determined that the man I’d killed
was one David Jorgeson, a twenty-two year old methamphetamine addict with an
extensive criminal history. He’d just been released from prison a month
before after serving two years for armed robbery, his second conviction for a
violent crime. Had he been arrested for a third violent crime he would have
been in danger of being prosecuted under our three strikes law and given
twenty-five to life. Now since this upstanding citizen is no longer with us
we can only speculate what was going through his mind (besides my bullet that
is) during his last few minutes of life. His passenger, John Amsted, a one
time loser in the violent crime department, told our guys that Dave had been
worried about catching that third strike and that was why he’d elected to try
shooting it out with me. If that is so, Mr. Jorgeson was not very bright.
You see, he hadn’t committed a violent crime when I’d pulled him over. He
was wired to the gills on meth and had some in his possession at the time of
the stop. He was driving a stolen car (more evidence that he wasn’t too
swift, if you were going to steal a car, would you steal one that had expired
tags on it?). He was also in possession of a handgun, a felony for a
parolee, but he had done nothing that would have qualified for that third
strike. The most he would have got was another year in the slam. He
probably wouldn’t have even got that. His own stupidity killed him. But,
like many other things in life, it probably seemed like a good idea at the
time. Too bad, so sad for Mr. Jorgeson. The world, I’m sure, is better off
without him.
Three days after the shooting it was ruled justifiable homicide by our
homicide investigators. They passed the case to our internal affairs
department to see if any violations of our shooting policy had taken place.
They found no such violations. The case was then forwarded to the district
attorney’s office for final review. The DA rubber-stamped the previous
findings. I was officially absolved of any wrongdoing. It was a “good
shoot”, as the terminology went.
Captain Jacobs, the patrol division south commander, told me this news.
Jacobs, I was told, had been a street cop for all of ten minutes before being
promoted up the ladder and into management. He is destined, I’m sure, to be
our chief some day. He smiled magnimoniously as he informed me that I would
not be fired, prosecuted, or in any way chastised for blowing away Mr.
Jorgeson.
“Thanks Cap.” I told him, as he slid my .40 caliber, department issue gun
across his desk, officially returning it to me. “So I can go back to work
tonight?”
“Well,” He said, shaking his head. “Not quite tonight.”
“Oh?” I said, confused. What more could they possibly want of me? “Why
not?”
“Well,” He said, checking the time on his watch, probably for his next
appointment. “You haven’t gone through CISD yet.”
“CISD?” I asked. This stood for critical incident stress debriefing, one of
the buzzwords of the late nineties in our field. It looked great in the
recruitment pamphlets and press releases to say that we had a CISD team. As
far as I know, no cop has ever actually asked to talk to this team, they’ve
all been forced to. Apparently I was going to be too. “But Cap,” I pleaded.
“I’m okay with what happened. I don’t have any nightmares or anything. I
don’t wanna come in here with an AK-47 and blow everyone away. I’m cool with
it. I just want to go back to patrol.”
“As soon as you talk to Laura Barrows, the psychologist.” He told me. “You
have a two hour session scheduled for tomorrow morning at nine.” He slid a
card across the desk towards me. “Here’s her address. She’ll help you
through this and give me a report. If she agrees, you can go back to work.”
“And if she doesn’t agree?” I asked.
“Well, then you’ll have to man a desk until she says you’re all right to
return to duty of course.”
Shit. The cynical part of me could see what might happen. Laura Barrows
would be getting paid by the hour by our department. If she cleared me for
work after the first appointment, she would only get two hours of pay. But
if she decided I was unfit to return to duty and I had to keep seeing her,
how much could she soak our department for? Twenty, thirty hours? More? In
the meantime she would give me a reputation as a psycho. I could kiss
goodbye any future promotion opportunities or cushy transfers to the boat
patrol or helicopter detail. But there was little I could do but take her
card and promise to show up at the prescribed hour the next day.
Her office was located in a run-down building on the outer fringes of
downtown. Looking at the sign out front I saw that five lawyers and two
dentists shared the building with her. I walked up the stairs to the second
floor, opening the door of the suite that was listed on the card. An elderly
female secretary was talking on a phone behind the desk. When she finished I
told her who I was and why I was there. She had me sign in and then take a
seat in an uncomfortable chair. A stack of magazines sat on a table next to
me. I looked them over finding that the most current was only nine months out
of date. With a sigh I waited.
Soon the door behind the secretary’s desk opened up and I got my first look at
Laura Barrows. She was attractive I was pleased to see. A shorthaired
brunette with thick glasses perched on her nose. She wore a simple summer
dress that hung to her knees. Her legs, though slightly thick, were nice to
look at. They were bare of nylons. She smiled at me, addressing me by name
and beckoning me to enter her office.
She had an actual couch for me to lie on I saw with disbelief. I’d always
assumed that the couch was just a cliché. It was brown and looked like it was
probably comfortable. It sat before her desk, which was scattered with a few
files, one of which I saw, had my name on it. I recognized it as a copy of my
personnel package from the department. On the wall behind her desk hung
several framed degrees. One was a Bachelor’s degree from Washington State.
The other was a Master’s degree from the same school. The subject of both was
psychology.
“Hi, I’m Laura Barrows.” She said after closing the door. She smiled warmly
and held out her hand to me. “You can call me Laura.”
“Okay, Laura.” I shook with her. Her hand was soft. “You can call me
Jason.”
“Make yourself comfortable Jason.” She told me, waving at the couch. “And
we’ll get started.”
“All right.” I said, wanting nothing more than to just get this over with.
I sat down on the couch, refusing to lie on it. It really was quite
comfortable.
“Go ahead and lie down if you want.” She offered, sitting behind her own
desk.
“If it’s all the same to you.” I told her. “I’ll just sit.”
“Suit yourself.” She said, opening my file and reading from it for a moment.
She discussed my psychological profile with me for a few minutes, pulling her
data from the standard psyche tests that all prospective cops have to take
prior to employment. I fit the general profile of a cop, she told me. I was
aggressive, easily bored, intelligent, with a knack for rapid problem
solving. I had a high level of inherent guilt feelings. I had a tight rein
on my temper with little tendency to panic in extreme situations. I agreed
with the basic assessments.
She went over my personal background for a while. Age twenty-nine. Born and
raised in the Seattle area, the second child of a Kings County Sheriff deputy
and a public school teacher. Father deceased (lung cancer from too many
cigarettes), mother now retired and living in Bellingham where she was
remarried to an investment banker. High school diploma from a public school
in Bellevue. Associate’s degree in criminal justice from a community
college. Was currently halfway through a Bachelor's degree in public
administration at WSUS. Joined the Seattle Police Department at the age of
twenty-four. Worked in a lumber mill prior to that. Married once, just
after joining the department and divorced nineteen months later. No
children.
She was very talkative, this Laura Barrows, but I had a hard time holding up
my end of the conversation. She seemed to be very naïve and I didn’t receive
even the slightest inkling that she would understand where I was coming from
if I opened up to her. Part of that is the typical mistrust that cops
develop for any and all non-cops. But a lot of it was just her. She didn’t
seem like she would be able to catch the drift, if you know what I mean.
Finally she got to the shooting. It was here that the conversation began to
take somewhat of a weird turn.
“So,” She said to me. “You pulled this gentleman over and he attempted to
kill you, correct?”
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“How did that make you feel?”
I looked at her in disbelief. “How did it make me feel? It didn’t make me
feel anything at all right then. It happened so fast that he was dead before
I even had a chance to feel anything.”
“I see,” She nodded, her eyes sparkling a little through the lenses of her
glasses. She made a note on her pad. “But how did it make you feel to have
to kill him?”
“I wish it wouldn’t have happened.” I told her honestly. “I certainly
didn’t enjoy it or anything like that. But he wanted to kill me. I did what
I had to do and afterward I was okay with it. Really, I’m not having any
psychological problems with what happened. It was unfortunate but
inevitable. I’m dealing with it just fine.”
I expected her to go into just HOW I was dealing with it and work at that
angle for a while. But she didn’t. She leaned forward eagerly, staring at
me. “But how did it feel,” She asked, licking her lips a little. “To pull
out your gun and put it to the man’s head? And then to pull the trigger,
killing him? Did it make you feel powerful? Like a God?”
“What?” I was shocked. I noticed that her face was flushing and the she
seemed almost sexually excited.
“Yeah,” She said. “I want to know how you felt when you killed him. When you
ended his life by pulling the trigger on a handgun. He was alive one moment
and then dead the next, dead by your hand.” She took a deep breath, her face
flushing more. “Did it feel good? Did it feel like you were the arm of
justice?”
“The arm of justice?” I said, staring. It came home to me in a big way that
this chick was freaking weird.
“Yeah.” She said, breathing very deeply now. I noticed that her left hand
was below the desk and her arm was moving. Was she masturbating while she
talked to me?
“No.” I said carefully, unable to break the suspicion that she was frigging
herself. “It didn’t feel like that at all. It happened too quickly.”
“I saw the crime scene photos.” She said, licking her lips some more. “His
brains went everywhere. Did they spray out really fast? Or did they just
sort of dribble? Was there any noise with it?”
She now officially appalled me. “Listen lady,” I started. “I don’t know what
kind of…”
“Did it excite you to know that you killed him?” She interrupted. “Was it
sexy?”
“No!”
“C’mon,” She pleaded. “You had to have felt something. Tell me about it.
Tell me how it felt.”
There was no longer any question about what she was doing with her left hand.
It was moving up and down rapidly and I could tell that it was planted firmly
in her crotch though I couldn’t actually see it. Despite my disgust, I felt
myself getting hard beneath my jeans. She was attractive and female
masturbation was a subject that had always held a certain amount of appeal to
me. I decided to see where this would lead.
“What are you doing with your hand?” I asked her pointedly.
“I’m playing with myself.” She told me. “Do you ever think of death when you
play with yourself.”
“No.” I said, shaking my head. “Never. I generally think about women.”
“About killing them?” She asked hopefully.
“No, about fucking them.”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “Would you like to watch me play with
myself?”
“Sure.” I answered.
She smiled, standing up and walking to the front of her desk, so that she was
about two feet in front of me. She raised her skirt above her hips, revealing
first her thighs and then her crotch. She had no panties on. Her vagina was
covered with a thick layer of black hair. Her lips were swollen and wet. Her
odor reached my nose. She dipped the fingers of her hand into her pussy once
more and began rubbing frantically.
“Tell me about the shooting.” She said while she rubbed and panted. “Tell me
how it felt.”
“It didn’t feel like anything.” I assured her, stiffening up completely while
I watched this amazing sight. Would she let me fuck her? Or would I have to
talk about death while I did it? This was without a doubt the most bizarre
situation I’d ever been in.
“Are you wearing a gun right now?” She asked next, continuing to frig.
“Yes.” I told her, reaching out and stroking her right thigh. It was smooth
and feminine, very nice. She made no protest so I started moving my hand
upward.
“Can I see it?” She asked next.
“Why?” I wanted to know.
“Guns turn me on. Especially loaded guns. It’s loaded isn’t it?”
I nodded, my hand now reaching her upper thigh, just below her puss. I
squeezed it.
“Show it to me.” She said, moving her fingers faster.
With my free hand I reached under my shirt and unclipped my off-duty gun. It
was a small 9mm semi-auto that fit nicely on my right hip. I engaged the
safety before displaying it for her. She smiled and reached for it.
“No.” I said, “You can’t touch it.” There was no way in hell I was going to
hand this freak my gun. She could look at it all she wanted but she wasn’t
going to touch it.
She moaned in frustration but accepted this. “Then fuck me with it.”
“What?” This was something new.
“Put it in my pussy and fuck me with it.”
“I don’t….”
“Pleaaaaaase?” She pleaded, in near-desperation.
I gave in, gripping the weapon by the handle and keeping my finger well clear
of the trigger guard. I inserted the barrel into her pussy, wondering in the
back of my mind if this was going to hurt the weapon or not. It slid in
nicely, her lips closing around it. She grabbed my wrist with her right hand
and began pushing and pulling my arm rapidly, which forced the barrel of the
gun in and out of her. She panted and moaned, her left hand still frantically
rubbing her clit.
I have to say in my defense that I was somewhat disgusted by what I was
participating in. But I’d be lying if I said that it wasn’t erotic in a
certain sense too. It was certainly a new experience for me and she was
quite attractive. I was also quite horny since it had been a few weeks since
I’d been laid. Also she had the power to either send me back to patrol or
keep me chained to a desk, answering phones. I figured the best thing to do
was go along with her. So I fucked my gun in and out of her snatch, moving
faster and faster while she rubbed her fingers across her clit, pushing
harder and harder. Her knees buckled and she spun around, sitting on the
couch next to me, legs spread wide. The gun never lost contact with her
during this maneuver. Once she was sitting I was able to move it faster.
With my free hand I pulled her dress upward, over her stomach, until her
bra-clad tits came into view. I pulled the cup nearest to me upward, baring
the breast. Her nipple was standing erect. I lowered my face to it and
started sucking.
This sent her over the edge. Her hips bucked up and down and her hand became
a blur in her crotch. She moaned continuously, though in a muted fashion,
probably in deference to her secretary. When she stopped I pulled the gun
out of her crotch and lifted my head from her tit. The gun was glistening
with wetness and there were a few stray pubic hairs stuck to the sight.
“Do you want to fuck me now?” She asked, twisting to a lying position on the
couch. Her legs remained spread widely, her dress up around her neck.
“Yeah.” I said, reaching towards my belt to put the gun away.
“No.” She said, seeing what I was doing. “Don’t put it away. Keep it out.”
I should have known that a straight lay was not in the cards.
“I want you to hold it to my head while you fuck me.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No.” She panted. “Hold it to my head and tell me you’re gonna kill me if I
don’t do what you say. C’mon, do it!”
Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound I figured. I didn’t really want to do
this but my little head was straining to be released and he was assuring me
that it would be all right. I unbuttoned my jeans and let them drop to the
floor. I pushed my underwear down after them. Most women look at your cock
when you do such a thing. She continued to stare at the gun in my hand.
I mounted her, lying between her soft legs and felt the head of my dick
nestled in her pubic hair. She took my gun hand in hers and forced me to put
the barrel against her temple.
“Tell me!” She panted, her hips thrusting up and down in anticipation.
“If you don’t do what I say I’m going to kill you.” I told her, with all the
emotion of a man reading a passage from a book.
“Say it better than that.” She said, her hands rubbing my ass now.
“Okay.” I repeated it, with more acting this time. At the same time I
pushed forward with my hips, sliding into her warm, tight pussy. Freak or
not, her pussy felt good and she knew what to do with it. Her hips rose up
to meet each of my downthrusts, her muscles gripped me, caressing my turgid
flesh. Her smooth thighs pressed against mine. I could feel them starting
to sweat.
“Keep threatening me.” She commanded, kissing my neck and squeezing my ass
cheeks.
Strangely enough I felt myself getting into the little drama she was forcing
upon me. As I fucked her I began to say things into her ear.
“C’mon you bitch you’d better fuck me good or I’m gonna blow your brains out!”
“Yes!!” She moaned, thrusting back, biting my neck. “Yes, more.”
“You’d better make me come or I’ll fuckin’ kill you you cunt!”
She began panting uncontrollably again. Her pussy squeezed me so hard it
almost hurt. Her legs wrapped around my back. She was slamming into me like
there was no tomorrow. I spit out another crude threat, full of gutter
profanity and she started to come. Her teeth clamped down on my neck almost
hard enough to bring blood, her fingernails scratched me through the sweater I
was wearing.
I wondered if she was done and I could fuck her normally now. She wasn’t.
She pushed me off of her. “Now grab me by the hair and point the gun at me.
Tell me if I don’t jack you off all over my face that you’ll kill me.”
In for a penny in for a pound. I dismounted and grabbed her by the hair,
pulling her towards my crotch. I put the gun against her temple once more
(still keeping my finger well away from the trigger). “Jack me off onto your
face bitch or I’ll kill your ass!” I commanded.
She grabbed my cock and started jacking it expertly. “And shoot some of it in
my mouth. Tell me you’ll kill me if I don’t swallow it.”
Her hand moved faster and faster, her tongue reached out and lapped at the
head. Shortly I felt orgasm approaching. I had to concentrate in order to
keep the gun against her head and my other hand in her hair. The first gob
struck her in the forehead. The second hit the lens of her glasses. “Put it
in your mouth and swallow it cunt, or I’ll kill you!” I ordered.
She engulfed the head, sucking the remaining spurts down her throat. Finally
the flow dribbled to a halt and she released my cock. Her respiration
returned to normal.
I backed away from her and set the gun down on the arm of the couch (keeping
a close eye on it, let me tell you). I pulled up my pants and then stowed
the gun back in its holster, making a mental note to disassemble it and clean
it when I got home. Now that I’d come, I felt ashamed at what I’d just
participated in. I began to worry. She didn’t have a hidden video camera,
did she? If she carefully edited a tape of what had just happened, she could
have me thrown in prison.
She stood up, pushing her bra and then her dress back down. She smiled weakly
at me and seemed to be embarrassed. She pulled a tissue out of a box on her
desk and wiped her face and glasses clean.
Finally she spoke. “I’m sorry.” She told me.
“You are?”
She nodded. “I have somewhat of a fascination with death.”
“No shit.” I remarked.
“I usually can keep it under control but you kind of drove me crazy a little.
You’ve done something that I’ve always obsessed about. I, well, I couldn’t
help but do what I did.” Amazingly, a tear began running down her cheek. “I
can’t believe what I just had you do.”
“It’s okay.” I assured her. “It was…. Well interesting.”
“You won’t tell anyone about this will you?”
I laughed. Telling someone about this was the last thing on my mind. They
wouldn’t believe me anyway. “No.” I told her. “I won’t. But there’s the
small matter of my being cleared to go back to work.”
“I’ll write it up right now.” She said, sitting down at her desk. “It’ll be
on your Captain’s desk in an hour. Just please, don’t tell anyone about what
happened here.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” I informed her.
I left her office a minute later. Her secretary gave me a strange look as I
passed her desk. I ignored it. As I drove home I felt dirty, nasty, as if
I’d done something damning. I tried to shake it off. It took a while.
I returned to work the following night. I never saw Laura Barrows again and I
try not to think too much about that visit. I find it interesting that I was
bothered more in the long term by my encounter with her than I was about the
shooting that I’d been sent to her for in the first place.
A few months later one of our cops by the name of Michelle Lacy walked into a
hot family dispute in a skuzzy apartment complex. The husband in the
dispute, who was quite drunk, decided that he could eject the unwanted law
enforcement presence by rushing at her with a butcher knife. Michelle put
two .40 caliber rounds in the man’s 10-ring, killing him deader than shit.
Like me, she was sent to Laura Barrows. She emerged with quite a tale to
tell. She spoke of sexual harassment, inappropriate questions, and possible
mental illness. Our department began looking into their choice of
psychologist. They brought me in and asked me if anything odd had taken
place during my visit to her. I told them no and they seemed to believe me.
I felt horrible about this, not backing up the word of a fellow cop, but what
else could I do? I certainly couldn’t tell them what had REALLY happened.
In the interests of political correctness however they dropped Laura Barrows
from the CISD team anyway. A few months after that I heard that she’d
committed suicide. She used a gun.
I myself have returned to a more normal and sedate sex life. I just don’t
make a very good deviant I guess.
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