Santa Monica and Ocean has to be the slowest damn light in LA County. My Mustang’s been in the right lane for, like, ten minutes, when her shiny red ‘67 ‘Vette roars up beside me. Can’t help but check her out, right?
Long gray hair snaps in the wind as she brakes. Over-sized shades hide her eyes. Her lipstick and her bikini exactly match her car. If she’s got wrinkles (seems she must, with that hair), I can’t see ‘em. Some seventies movie star, maybe? Gorgeous, anyway.
She flashes a naughty smile. My jeans are instantly tight. One pull behind her neck and her swimsuit tumbles, revealing her awesome tits. Not firm as my girlfriend Anna’s, but when she cups ‘em, pinching the coffee-colored tips, I nearly come in my pants.
A hand disappears into her lap. Now she’s sucking her fingers. Holy crap! She points left, yells. I can’t hear over our engines but I get the gist.
Green light. She waves, then peels away south on Ocean Ave. I turn my pony north, cock aching as I speed along the beach. First chance I get, I hang a uey.
No way I’m letting this one get away.
Legal? Not a day over twenty, I’d guess, but his stare told me he was no babe in the cradle. Checking me out, with that James Dean vibe that always gets me wet—not that he’d have a clue who I meant—insolent and cock-sure, out for whatever he could get.
I couldn’t see much, just long-fingered hands gripping the wheel of his gleaming black Mustang. Easy to extrapolate, though, to picture lean thighs and the long, hard rod between them. Wind strumming my bare nipples, I speed down Ocean to the Venice Beach lot. My tires squeal as I pull in. The engine’s purr dies away, but vibrations still hum through my pussy.
Seat reclined, I settle back to wait. If he’s brave, he’ll follow. Meanwhile, my hands busy themselves below. He’s big, I’ll bet. And a tit man—I saw his eyes light up. His hot mouth suckles as his dick slides home. Ah, yes! Exactly! Just a kid, but he knows how to fuck. My clit throbs. I’m close already. Harder, boy!
“Um—Ma’am?”
Deep. Masculine. At last!
“Sorry, ma’am. Can you step out of the car, please?”
Older. But oh, that uniform!
“I’m afraid I have to cite you for public indecency, ma’am.”
Topless grannies in Corvette convertibles... only in LA.
“But officer, I was just sunbathing.”
Those innocent baby blues under her shades. And those fat brown nipples. Sometimes being a cop sucks.
“This isn’t a clothing optional area, ma’am. Plus you were engaged in —um— self-abuse.”
I can smell her pussy from here. Hell, her fingers are wet!
“Self-abuse? What a quaint phrase! How old are you, officer?”
She’s beautiful. Never mind the wrinkles. Looks familiar, too.
“Get out of the car, please. I’ll need your license and registration. No, put on your top first!”
Damn, these pants are tight!
“I think it blew away while I was driving. I do love to feel the breeze on my bare skin.”
She’s shameless! God, but I’d like to—
“Here’s my license.”
style="font-style: italic;"Jesus, it’s sticky with pussy juice.
“Okay, Ms. Lawson—Wait! The Adele Lawson?”
Fifteen years old. Saturday matinees. Long sessions in the john after.
“You remember me? How sweet!”
I’m a cop. Can’t let her get to me.
“I still have to write you up, Ms. Lawson.”
And go home afterward to beat off.
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