Bea Arthur as Dorothy Zbornak and Betty White as Rose Nylund in The Golden Girls episode entitled Scared Straight, originally broadcast by NBC on December 10th, 1988. Both actresses were strong gay allies in real life, as were series co-stars Rue McClanahan and Estelle Getty. After Bea lost close friends during the 1980s AIDS crisis, she became very involved with fundraising and left $300,000 in her will to the Ali Forney Center, a New York City organization which provides safety and shelter for homeless LGBTQ+ youth. In 2017, The Bea Arthur Residence was opened in her memory, an 18-bed shelter in Manhattan for young LGBTQ+ people, most of whom are sadly rejected by their families and kicked out of their homes after coming out. In addition to her well-known and admirable work as an animal advocate, Betty was also a vocal proponent of gay marriage, going on record stating: "I don't care who anybody sleeps with. If a couple has been together all that time - and there are gay relationships that are more solid than some heterosexual ones - I think it's fine if they want to get married. I don't know how people can get so anti-something. Mind your own business, take care of your affairs, and don't worry about other people so much."
JMSN's Scared Straight Tour - Dark Rock Experience
JMSN displayed a once in a lifetime experience for his newest album – The tenured artist, born in Dallas and raised in Michigan, put on a sensational thematic show with such prestige and experience.
About 5 months ago, during my first few training shifts at the venue, my trainer recommended JMSN. The artist was coming to the small room to perform, having a unique cover photo for the show: A sheet with a logo, a round circle with many arms coming out of it, and the same logo tattooed on the back of his head. It was bound to be a truly unique experience, one that I had several months to get hyped for.
You can imagine my excitement when I saw I was scheduled for that Monday, as November pulled around. I was scheduled outside – I live by the saying learned on the job “Closed mouths don’t get fed,” which led me to yearn to be inside for the performance. After my due diligence with processing people in, we finally broke down and I was sent inside, let off the clock.
As I walked into the beginning of the show, the room was packed wall to wall. The widely diverse crowd lit the room with a familiar haze. The wretched smells accompanied the feedback-heavy start to the project.
The stage presence was very unique to the album ...it’s only about u if you think it is., one that created eccentric elements to it. All of their attire was white tights and a white long sleeve tee, all fleece, seemingly a little too tight on them. It looked like it would be uncomfortable, exposing. It felt naked in its combination of bald heads and mid drift peeking through. Every member was dressed to be clones of him, signifying the multi-instrumentalists’ creation of all the parts. In a sense, his fashion choice looked freeing, as if performing for the sake of the music alone, discrediting any fears of perception. It felt like a display of craftsmanship and importance.
I loved that all of the instruments were some shade and form of wood. It felt grounded in nature, expanding upon the nature of the human body. The sounds to come were heavily distorted with a high amount of gain – a beautiful abomination created from the tools of man-made nature. Their stage presence was surrounded by a circle of LED strips, giving a really cool lighting effect upon their white outfits.
Another point of interest that really caught my eye was the merch table. Wow, what an intricate and immersive experience in itself. The logo used for the project and theming of the show was strong, and everywhere. I really appreciated the imagery and symbolism that it conveyed, as a logo can hold so much meaning and power in an era of music you’re in. Lined up along the table, he had 11 projects, and all 9 studio albums on both vinyl and CD. It gave me an understanding of his tenureship in this field, and gave me a visual evolution of how his music has progressed. My favorite part was all of the CDs were only 11$!! What a great price, haha!
I went in right as the set started with the song “Blow The Spot Up”, the first track of the album. I loved the vocal contour, how it would climb up and taper off. It was dystopian, dark, emulating the Kid A vibes from Radiohead's 2000 release. Following up, the track “Love The Things U Hate” had some daunting guitar riffs and a trekking bass line. The songs from the jump gave a dark, primal sound, almost as if you’d hear them at an abandoned train yard.
A great exhibit of what they sounded like – what I dub ‘Dark Rock’ – was “Not Good Enough”, which gave out a guitar solo with effects that sounded as if you were along the bottom of the ocean, amongst an old shipwreck. The live production of this album created an atmosphere to the tracks that cannot be accurately translated from what the disc sounds like. While the studio produced album is pretty good, it being played live gave an occult feeling that added to layers to the experience – bits and pieces were added in the full band setting that created aura, such as the small but impactful ending of the previously discussed track where the bass and guitar riffs were repeated a few times to strengthen the significance. I believe having four members focusing on each of the parts JMSN wrote created a truly unique experience in the small room.
JMSN revisited some old tracks as well during the set, some of the more RnB sounds that defined his success. Tracks like “Love 2 U” & “Don’t Make Me Change” were tender and addicting, rousing the crowd while still molding into the same genre experience they were building. The track “Talk is Cheap” came on which made me realize where I knew him from – the supple, smooth track contained short and sweet guitar riffs with an underlying sexual bass line.
The band returns to the murkyiness of their current album cycle with “Click Bait”. It fosters this sort of unsettling ‘backrooms’ feel for a little bit, up until the bridge where the bass has an abnormally high amount of gain. While the bass player goes from note to note, there’s this rubbing sound along the strings that creates an in-person glitchcore screech; this is another example of how the in-person experience creates exclusive little moments that reshape the sounds of the music. Following is the track “I Don’t Even Think About U”, which sounds like Twenty Øne Pilots but darker – this track parallels their project Trench, which was incidentally my favorite era from TØP. The bass boosted nature of the concert in the enclosed space added to the effects of ugliness and agony that the heavy feedback and distortion tries to accomplish throughout the show.
The music itself was heavy, hardcore rock which really stuck out to me. Another way I can describe some of the tracks is as ‘Agony Music’ – the music is not always easy to listen to or pleasant to the ear, but there’s a subtle comfort and enjoyment to be found in the chaos. As I took breaks to talk to coworkers, I kept getting roped back into the hypnotizing dark rock that came my way, which signified that this was music I was genuinely drawn to.
It’s funny because when asking audience members what kind of music it was, they didn’t really have a clear answer. When an audience can’t describe what kind of musician you are, I think you’ve won the game. JMSN felt like an embodiment of creating what he wanted to make, completely free of perception and external desire. It was fascinating to see how intimate his stage presence was with other members in the band, despite the music not being a fantastic reflection of what the audience may have expected.
The show ended on a chord progression that got slower in tempo every play through, in which they dead ass extended for 5 minutes. Every beat contained a melodramatic reaction that teetered the crowd. The track it was from was the encore, “Cherry Pop” from the 2023 release Soft Spot, a project that directly contrasts this year's release in theming. However, the track was plagued by the dark rock and completely transformed to fit the theme of the show. By the end, the high gain created a feedback loop of sounds that became ear piercing, shining the true fans who stuck around thinking it was a cliff hanger into another encore. You can imagine their frustration after about 8 minutes of sounds when the stage manager went up to turn the amps off, revealing the source of the sounds and thus, ending the show.
For the true fans that stood around, they were treated to an impromptu meet and greet with JMSN himself. His stage persona was entirely just that; a figure created for a show. He ended up being a very friendly and down to earth guy, knowing how to interact with his fanbase that’s kept him afloat for so long. I got the chance to get the last word in with him and the bass player, getting to geek out about an artist that I barely knew a few hours prior.
It was a genuinely staggering experience that left me as a new fan. I appreciated the live experience so much and would definitely want to experience it again. The shift was a once in a lifetime experience, however, as JMSN seems to be an ever changing musician that shifts thematic personas from project to project. This artist was one of the best shows I’ve worked in during the half year I’ve been at my job, and I am reminded of the avenue and its fruits that I have in my life path with music. Thank you JMSN for the inspiration, and the experience.
You're one of the girls working at the local car wash. One summer afternoon, Jason Sudeikis' Officer Sikorsky rolls in to get his Ford cleaned up.
@whiskey-bumblebee hope you enjoy!
Today was like every other day this summer, sweltering and sticky from the moment you yanked up the roller door and unlocked the shop. But there was one difference. You turned the dial on the aging A.C. unit, expecting to hear the rumbling warm-up act that preceded the old machine’s first noisy belch of whirling cold air.
Instead, there was an odd, loud whirring, some mechanical sputtering, and eventual silence.
So, the old box stuffed into the window had finally decided to give up. On your drive in, the woman on the radio had said to expect ‘another day of blistering heat’. You huffed, staring daggers at the numbers that signalled cooler and cooler air temperature.
You hoped no one had moved the pedestal fans you kept in the back.
XXXX
Even with the steady stream of customers that rolled into the lot, Mother Nature mocked your efforts at keeping from boiling. Every car you washed and wiped granted a brief reprieve from the oppressive heat, but the extra water in the air created a steaminess that seemed to make the sun burn brighter in retaliation.
By noon you begged for a storm to roll in and break the stifling humidity.
None came, and it was close to knock-off time when he walked in.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, his baritone voice dripping like golden syrup. He slid his sunglasses—the lenses transitioning from dark amber to crystal clear—just so down his nose to look at you over the top of them.
You recognised the man instantly. The uniform, the Frank Zappa-style moustache, the perfectly coiffed hair. You’d seen him around town plenty, driving around in his Ford Interceptor with one hand casually out the open window.
“Officer,” you peeked at the engraved tag pinned above his breast pocket, “Sikorsky. What can I do you for?”
The cop placed both hands on the counter in front of you, taking immediate command of the space. Over the silver rims of his glasses he smiled, blinking slowly, as he corrected you with a nonchalant shrug.
“‘S ‘Chief’, actually.”
The quirk of his mouth and the glint in his walnut eyes were enchanting. A little cheeky, a little naughty, like there was some wicked joke on the tip of his tongue, and for your ears only. You fought a rising flush.
“Chief,” you echoed. “Well. You have my apologies, then, sir. I certainly meant no offence.”
“Ngahh.” He waved it off. No ring, you noticed. “‘M off duty.”
You held his gaze, but it heated your skin and warmed you through like you were sitting too close to a bonfire. On a day like this, no less. The soupy air outside was like trudging through a knee-high swamp, but this cop off the street had you blushing and sweating without taking a single step onto the sizzling asphalt.
Before you could say another word the police chief hooked a finger into his black tie and started to loosen it from around his neck.
“‘S a little hot in here, ain’t it, honey?”
Your stomach swooped. This guy was definitely trouble.
You gestured to the broken air conditioning unit and the hastily-scrawled ‘out of order’ sign you’d taped over it this morning, the box reduced to a useless lump of wood veneer and plastic. The two standing fans you’d set up on either side, with multi-coloured streamers in full flail, were a poor substitute.
“A.C.’s busted and the guy can’t get here until tomorrow morning,” you explained by way of apology. Your eyes lingered for a moment too long on his deft fingers as they undid his top button. “Can I offer you some sweet tea or lemonade?”
The Chief quirked an interested brow, following your gaze to the two dispensers set on the side counter, out of reach of the sun’s scorching rays. You’d just topped up the ice, and condensation dripped down the glass sides and onto the red and white kitchen towel you’d laid beneath.
“‘S homemade,” you added coyly, leaning on the counter with a little more chest than you would usually. “My gramma’s recipe.”
The cop’s brow lifted at this. “Your gramma’s recipe,” he repeated slowly, smiling at you in such a sultry way the ice cubes would’ve melted at once if he cast his gaze their way again. “Well, I simply can’t resist that, can I, darlin’?”
You matched his smile and quipped, “No, sir.”
He slapped the counter playfully. “Get me some of that sweet tea, then, sugar.”
“Comin’ right up, Chief.” You grinned as you turned away from him, and put a little more sway in your hips as you made your way to the drinks. You grabbed a large plastic cup and straw and were never more grateful for this carwash’s stupid gimmick. You always thought it was stuck in the past, like the rest of this town, but for a summer job it paid decently and the tips were good. So good that you picked up extra shifts and poured the easy money into your ‘get me the hell out of here’ fund.
You filled the Chief’s cup almost to the brim, added a slice of lemon and a mint leaf and popped the plastic lid on top. Turning around and walking back to the counter, you watched as he eyed you all the way from the Western boots that adorned your feet to your mascara-coated lashes.
You could tell his mouth twitched beneath his moustache, teasing an upward curl, as he took in your cut-off Daisy Dukes and all-over cherries. They dotted your white bikini top and dangled from your ears and were swiped in red across your lips.
Ice rattled against the plastic as you placed his drink down. “I put a little somethin’ extra in there for you.”
“For me?” he beamed, one palm to his chest. “Naw, you shouldn’t have.” He took the drink and sipped it, eyes locked with yours. You leaned on the counter again, letting your gaze wander to his mouth as he sucked the straw.
“Mmh,” he hummed.
You smiled, arching a brow. “Good?”
The Chief swallowed—“Ahh”—and set the cup on the counter. “That hit the spot.” He smacked his lips together, and you caught the tip of his pink tongue licking at his lower lip.
You tried not to mirror him, but with every word spoken you wanted more and more to crawl over the counter and put your mouth on his. Instead, you tilted a fraction closer and said, “‘S on the house, Chief.”
“Why, thank you, darlin’.” Grinning, he leaned all the way in, with a Cheshire Cat smile that creased the corners of his eyes and softened the lines across his forehead.
Your breath caught, but you didn’t flinch. You were too busy cataloguing his features as if he were a fine art piece in a museum.
“Now,” he said, resting his forearms on the counter, “what can a pretty girl like you do about my truck out there? I hear good things.”
XXXX
Late afternoon and it was still hot out. The old speakers boomed classic rock across the lot—the local FM station was the permanent radio setting—as you pumped the spray gun, washed down the soapy car, and gurneyed the bubbles away.
You snuck glances at Chief Sikorsky as you worked. The police chief sat on one of the undercover benches in the guest waiting area. His glasses were dark again, and every so often he sipped on the sweet tea you made him. The benches were set far enough back from the washing bays that patrons weren’t at risk of getting splashed while they watched a woman or three wash their vehicle.
You’d think the cops would’ve shut this place down ages ago on public decency violations—given it was basically an open air peep show trading as a carwash—but the local P.D. was one of the lot’s biggest customers.
And this afternoon you had an audience of merely one, all to yourself.
Stopping short of squeezing the soaped up sponge over your chest, upending a bucket of water over your body, or doing anything else overly lewd, you made sure to give the Chief a show with as much fantasy-fuel as you could manage.
So what if you were a little more careless than usual? Was there any real harm in moving a little more provocatively when you had to bend or squat or reach up high? Did it really matter if you got a little of the lather on your clothes or body, or let the sudsy water splash and drip?
You had just hung up the pressure washer when the cop strolled over to the washing bay. He’d loosened his tie even more since you’d last sneaked a peek at him, and he’d popped another button, too, granting you a teasing glimpse of cinnamon-sprinkle hair. It was impossible to glean his expression behind his sunglasses, which shielded his caramel eyes from view. But you didn’t have to theorise for long, because he soon said—
“Now tell me, little lady. Just what do you think you’re doing?”
—at such a low and seductive pitch that it reverberated deep in your bones. It took you a beat to recover before you tossed your hair and batted your lashes in that practised way, making your cherry earrings dangle.
“Beg yours, sir? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” You lifted your brow just a fraction, gazing at him with slightly wider eyes and those painted lips parted invitingly. “Come again?”
Chief Sikorsky chewed on his lower lip before his mouth broke into a smile. Sucking his teeth, he chuffed a laugh and said, “I think you know exactly what I mean,” low and slow, as he took off his glasses. His eyes blazed, almost hazel in the glow of the afternoon. “Don’t you, Miss Thang?”
Your pulse raced so fast you felt lightheaded. “Maybe,” you stepped closer, smelt the sweat on him and the citrus-sweet on his breath, “if you’d rather not tell me, you could…” You trailed off, running your pointer finger down his black tie until you reached the gold clip. “...Show me?”
The Chief sunk his front teeth into his lower lip again. “You’re a little tease, young lady,” he murmured.
You felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath your finger. “I’m good for it.”
The cop quirked a brow, his copper-flecked eyes sparkling. “Is that so?”
XXXX
You burst into the back office slash break room in a tangle of limbs, sharing feverish, desperate kisses. It was a degree or two less warm back here, and quiet. Electricity ran to just two things: the meager staff bar fridge shoved into the corner and the last of the pedestal fans, the small motors of which both hummed with exhaustion. The only source of light came through the open slant in the dusty venetian blinds, painting glowing orange stripes across the far wall.
Your lipstick smudged the police chief’s chin and throat as you planted hot, wet kisses to his skin. His hands roamed all over, like he couldn’t feel enough of your body at once. You worked his belt and shirt loose like it was a race.
When you backed him against the desk it was with a quiet thunk, knocking over the pen cup and scattering the mixed assortment of biros.
“Easy, honey,” Chief Sikorsky said.
Pressing close, chest to chest, you cocked a brow as you unzipped his fly. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
The Chief’s brow creased some. He murmured, “Simmer down, sugar. It’s hot enough in here.”
With an exaggerated roll of your shoulder you slipped your hand beneath his slacks, feeling for his erection through his cotton boxers and making a fist around it.
His breath hitched.
“Nah,” you breathed, “I don’t think you want me to go and do that.”
The man breathed heavily as you groped his desire. He shook his head dazedly. “No,” he admitted, pecan eyes searching yours behind his glasses. “I don’t,” he said, and cupped your face with both hands. “C’mere.”
That was all the warning he gave before he planted his lips to yours once more. The police chief groaned into your mouth as you stroked him and swiped at his tongue with yours. You tasted tea and mint and had to have more of it. You stood on your tiptoes to deepen the kiss and conquer his mouth.
The Chief responded quickly. His hands skimmed your body, gliding down your sides and hips to grab heavy handfuls of your denim-clad cheeks. He pulled you flush against him, spun you around and planted you onto your boss’ desk.
Strong. Sturdy.
You breathed the other’s air for a beat before urgency reigned once more.
He dove for the curve of your neck, nosing under the bikini strap, nibbling the nerve-filled nexus of your neck and shoulder. His big hands trailed your sides and clutched tight. The clenching touch of his long fingers sent a wave of heat radiating from the apex of your thighs. Your breasts felt heavy, almost sore with the need to be touched.
“This,” you said, guiding one of his hands to your bikini-covered chest, “here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.
The Chief moved the two triangles to the side to expose your full breasts and the aching, budded tips. It wasn’t long before he lavished them with attention, swiping wetly with his tongue and sucking hard.
You cried out, wrapping your legs around his sides and earnestly trying to draw him closer.
The cop was sloppy as he switched between your breasts, laving your nipples with no end of slippery spit. The mix of sensations—firm wet tongue, soft lips, slick saliva—sent a current of shocks directly to your swollen clit. But even as you arched and shuddered he held a firm grip on your ribcage. Every time you reached to touch him, stroke him, feel him hot and hard and heavy in your palm again… he squeezed tighter, keeping you rooted in place.
All you could do was run your fingers through the close-cropped hair at the back of his head and anchor his mouth to your chest.
“Fuck.” You hissed the word through clenched teeth, keyed up and slick beneath your bikini.
He came up for air and breathlessly asked, “No good?”
You regarded each other, frozen in place, but after a moment one corner of his mouth curved upward and his eyes shimmered. You realised he’d made a joke. You remembered to breathe and cracked a smile, and his grin broadened.
He drawled, “Tell me what you want, sugar,” and replaced the messy licks and sucks with delicate kisses to the full swell of your breasts.
You sighed—because his moustache was the most addictive contrast to his soft lips, heightening the zaps and zings that arced through your body—and said, “Touch me.”
“Mm?” he prompted. “Where, honey?” His hands glided down your belly to your shorts while he kissed up your sternum to the base of your throat. He popped the button on your Daisy Dukes as he kissed his way to your ear. “Go on,” he whispered, “tell me. I know you wanna tell me.” By button and eyelet he pulled your shorts apart and the zipper slid easily down, revealing your matching cherry printed bikini bottoms.
And then he waited.
You were still. Unbreathingly so. Tight as a bowstring, but wide wide open and ready for him. His salt and pepper stubble grazed your skin as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck again. He pressed a tantalising kiss there, and exhaled a hot breath of a laugh onto the side of your throat. If he would just—
The Chief started to push your shorts down around your hips. He said, “You want me to touch your pussy.”
“Yes,” you whispered. You lifted your hips to help him shimmy your shorts down over your ass and legs. He tugged them over your boots and tossed them to the side. Your legs dangled off the edge of the desk and you spread them wide. The Chief found his place between them easily.
He dipped inside your bottoms and his brow lifted immediately. You knew what he’d found—your puffy lips slick and slippery, soaked to your hairs.
“Here?”
His special brand of baritone—a pitch so deep but so softly spoken at the same time—would be your undoing. Let alone his deft fingers, which stroked so skillfully, parting your silky lips to slip just the tips of his middle and ring fingers into your molten core.
You gasped, and it took a beat to remember your voice. “...There!”
“Call me Chief, darlin’.”
“There, Chief,” you sighed.
“My, my,” he cooed. “D’you always get this worked up, sugar?” He pressed his advantage, inching ever so much deeper into your washed-out pussy, before shifting and gliding his thumb over your puffy clit.
Your jaw dropped and your head tipped back. His swirling thumb finally soothed the ache that had been building between your legs since the moment he introduced himself.
“...Or is this all for me?”
You hooked your finger into his unbuttoned shirt and pulled him close. “Faster,” you demanded, ignoring his question.
“Ahh.”
It was a knowing sigh, a learning one.
“That’s how you like it, hm?”
Your eyes fluttered as he picked up the pace, and added some pressure for good goddamn measure. Before your eyes closed, you noticed the fainter, silvery hairs around his temples. How old was this guy? What was his goddamn name, even?
You decided you didn’t care, not with the way he coiled your pleasure tight and let it burst like a broken dam. Your fist clenched, crushing his neatly pressed uniform. His thumb moved in expert circles and he rubbed you like that—and kissed your jaw, licked your nipples—until you moaned, loud and broken, and your legs shook.
He chanted you onwards, his gaze roaming your face to see the change in your features as you reached your peak. He was patient, and pressing his thumb to your pulsing, throbbing clit until you were done. And once you were finished—exchanging bleary-eyed smiles—he pulled at the ties holding your bottoms together until they simply fell apart.
Then he flipped you over, and manoeuvred one of your legs up onto the desk.
You were spread wide for him, wider than you’d yet been. The police chief shuffled closer and his slacks fell to the floor, belt clinking.
Pleasantly loose and limbless as you were, you knew what was coming next and you didn’t have to wait for it long.
“Ready, darlin’?”
His stubble tickled the shell of your ear and his hot breath puffed the strands of hair loosely tucked behind it. You bore down, pressing back against him. “Ready.”
The Chief shuddered as he sank his cock into you.
It was a long, slow stretch. Inch by thick, fat inch. He was devastatingly patient about it—so much so your jaw popped open in a gasp of surprise and stayed that way. The cop didn’t leave you dangling for his own amusement, but let you have it with such a dreamy, delicious ease you could actually savour the fullness of him.
He praised you when he bottomed out, a rumbling murmur of, “That’s it, honey,” that had you clenching around him. You arched your back to give him more of your sopping pussy and he groaned in pleasure as he built to a steady rhythm.
The temperature in the back room climbed. Sweat slicked your bodies. The Chief exhaled hot, breathy sighs onto your ear as he buried himself in your slippery pussy over and over, and you urged him to give you more. With his chin to your shoulder you heard every grunt and groan—exertion, pleasure, and everything in between. A lock of hair fell loose from its neat style and hung in front of his forehead, his hairline beaded with sweat.
Before long you cried out like an animal, hot all over. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of your neck and the Chief licked it up in a long wet swipe. Your stomach flipped, squeezing his probing cock. He swallowed it and sighed loudly, the taste of your salt on his tongue driving him to a wild place.
He gripped your hips and bucked into you impossibly harder, making ripples in your flesh and sending the slapping sound of skin-on-skin ringing out in the small room.
“Chief!” you squealed, a shrill and frayed sound that didn’t even sound like your voice to your own ear.
“Stay right there, now. Stay with it, sugar.” His words were throaty and strained. The man was breathing hard, so deeply satisfied with every thrust that some of his grunts almost sounded like laughs.
Your toes curled in your boots. Somehow, someway, the deep plunge of the Chief’s thick cock rubbed your insides in the way of the sublime—beyond your knowing. You were your own heat wave, maybe even more—a supernova. Fresh sweat pearled and ran down your scalp as the police chief fucked you into the desk and sent your pleasure soaring to a new plateau.
You chased another high, eyes screwed shut.
“Yeahh,” he groaned, “give it to me one more time, honey.”
You were riled up, hot, bordering on delirium as the heat in the room rose with your sweating, smacking bodies. It was as if all the sultriness of the summer’s long days was packed into this four by four metre break room, centred on the place where your bodies were joined. Your groans were low-pitched and deep, more and more desperate.
“C’mon, darlin’, give it to me on my cock.” The Chief wrapped an arm around your front to tweak your nipples as he worked to drill you deep from behind. You heard the change in him as he spoke—a raggedness to his words, breath hissed through clenched teeth.
He pulled you apart as simply as that. With one hand clamping your hip and the other at your breast he tunneled an impossibly new space inside you, perfectly shaped for his dick, and you fell to pieces in seconds. You cried out loudly as you came, pleasure like lightning, zapping and arcing all the way down to the joints connecting your bones.
You shook and folded forward and the Chief was so close behind you your bodies were flush. He held your rocking, rolling hips down, locked to his, securing you in place as his orgasm overwhelmed him. He groaned into your ear, shamelessly vocal, and shuddered against your back until the euphoric spasms in his core drained the very last drop.
You sat up, panting to get your breath back. Sikorsky followed, breathing heavily, and took the opportunity to admiringly smell your hair and press a kiss to your temple.
It was more affection than you expected, and even more (pleasantly) surprising was what he said after you’d both put all your clothes back on.
Sighing, tightening his black tie back to its more publicly appropriate knot, the police chief said, “So. Any chance I’ll find you here same time next week?”
