I was expecting a normal shift when I arrived at the police station. I’d just changed into my uniform, checked my make-up and was on my way to report to the desk sergeant, when Dougie Wilson, one of my colleagues and a complete arsehole, intercepted me with a grin. “Hey, Fraser, Chief Inspector McFarlane wants you to report to his office as soon as you get in. Been a bad girl have you?” Pausing only long enough to tell him to piss off, I made my way along to ‘Super Mac’s’ office.
He greeted me with his usual taciturn grunt, then told me to take a seat, which was unusual to say the least. It was only then that I noticed the other three people in the room.
I took them in in a second or so. The first was Detective Inspector Peter Leslie from the Drugs Squad. Immediately I started to take more notice: clearly there was nothing routine about this. The second guy was a stranger in his 40s, short, dark and rotund, hunched in a crumpled business suit it looked like he’d slept in — an impression reinforced by the dark sheen of overnight stubble around his chin. The last person I registered was the one I really noticed. She was maybe 10 years older than me (I’m 24), long-legged, slim with very short reddish-blonde hair, alabaster skin, a wide smiling mouth and wide but narrow green eyes that put me in mind of a cat. Unlike the guy who I guessed was her companion, she was wearing what was clearly an expensive, tailored black trouser suit, with sandals displaying purple-painted toenails – not exactly standard dress in Edinburgh Central Police Office. A little older and classier than the sort of women I usually go for, but drop dead gorgeous. McFarlane made the introductions. “This is WPC Fraser. Fraser, this is Inspector Estelle van Sluiter of the Amsterdam Police, and her colleague Sergeant Piet van der Gaal.”
The bloke didn’t react at all, but Inspector van Sluiter’s smile widened even more and she reached out to shake my hand. “Please, call me Stelle.” I had no idea what I was doing there, but I smiled back and told her to call me Izzie. As we shook she held onto my hand for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary, which made me wonder about her. I noticed that her long slim fingers were topped with manicured nails, also glossy purple. And she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I also noticed as she leaned towards me that her white V-neck jumper was sufficiently low-cut to give me a nice view of her cleavage.
I was eager to find out what was going on, and McFarlane, clearly slightly offended by the informality of the senior Dutch officer, enlightened me. “You applied recently for transfer to the detective branch didn’t you, er, Isobel. Well, we need a bright young female officer to work with our Dutch colleagues for a few days, and Inspector Leslie was quite impressed with your work on Operation Ferret, so we thought this would be an ideal opportunity to see how you get on.” Ferret had been an op where I’d been one of the uniformed cops attached to the Drugs Squad and done a quite a lot of intel work, plus one evening ‘under cover’ sitting in a rather nasty Edinburgh ale house pretending to be Leslie’s girlfriend.
McFarlane was offended again as Stelle, with her throaty, sexy accent, interrupted him. “Perhaps I could explain Donald. (The Chief Inspector was mildly apoplectic with outrage at her use of his first name, much to D.I. Leslie’s barely concealed amusement.) “You see Izzie, we’re after one of our local drug dealers, a small time crook but nasty, you know? We’ve lost sight of him recently, but we’ve had a tip that he’s arranged a meeting with one of your local dealers in the next couple of days and, for reasons I can’t go into, we’re very anxious to speak to him back in the Netherlands. So your authorities have kindly agreed that we can come over and keep a watch on your man, with support from the local force. Are you interested?”
I began to see why I’d been offered this ‘chance’, especially when Pete Leslie said he’d be assigning one of his D.C.s to accompany van der Gaal and I’d be keeping Stelle company. It sounded like scut work, simply playing chaperone and chauffeur to Stelle on what would be for the most part a dull surveillance op. Drugs didn’t have that many female officers, and they couldn’t spare them for such a menial, tedious task. No doubt they’d sweep in and grab the glory, as usual, when it came time to start making arrests. Still, Stelle was pleasant eye candy and, if my initial hunch about her had been correct, who knew what I might get out of it? So I gave her my most winning smile and said I’d be glad to help. She smiled warmly at me in return and, her eyebrows arching for a fraction of a second, she said, “Good. I’d really like to see you out of that uniform of yours.” She left the sentence hanging for a second. Bloody hell, she wasn’t flirting with me was she? Right in front of these guys? I don’t think I look particularly dykey, even in my uniform, but maybe she’d picked up some vibes from me, and noticed the way my eyes took in her body when I first saw her. She finally added, “Have you got any other clothes you could change into?”
I told her only the rather grubby jeans and T-shirt I’d worn into the office that morning, but she said that would be fine. We stood and she walked me down to the locker room. As we walked I let my hand casually brush against Stelle’s. She gave me one of her huge cat smiles and, resting her hand on my back for a moment, said “I think you and I are going to really enjoy doing it together.” Christ, she really was flirting with me! It had been three months since I’d split with my last girlfriend, and with the pressures of work and post-relationship fed-upness I hadn’t really got around to getting back on the dating scene. My nipples stiffened just at the thought that this beautiful Dutch officer might want to get into my knickers! In the locker room she sat on one of the wooden benches and briefed me further about the op. All the while I was changing I could feel her eyes boring into my back. When I was down just to my bra and my sensible Marks and Spencers knicks I turned to face her, pretending a question had just occurred to me. Sure enough, as she answered, Stelle’s eyes roamed down my body, pausing at my ample boobs and the dark patch which showed through the front of my pants. She appeared to like what she saw. Whereas Stelle was tall and fair, I’m short — five-three — and dark, with big boobs, wide hips, an ample bum and, I admit, a few pounds overweight.
I checked an unmarked car out of the pool, got the canteen to do us a big flask of coffee and some sandwiches, and we set off for the target’s home, in Edinburgh’s Old Town. Although we were alone Stelle didn’t make the slightest sexual reference or move, unless you count a comment that I’d like Holland — “lots of pretty canals, pretty windmills and pretty dykes.” I was too nervous to make a move. I was sure I couldn’t have mis-read her: maybe it was simply her foreign ways, and she didn’t realise what she was saying, but I didn’t think so. Anyway, we sat there all day, at the end of the guy’s street so as not to arouse his suspicion, and the most we saw him do was go to the corner shop for a bottle of milk and some tea bags. We saw a few people who looked like addicts go into his tenement block, and emerge again a few minutes later, but there was no other activity to speak of. Mid-afternoon I sprinted a hundred yards down the road to get us a couple of burgers and some chips, and that was about as exciting as it got. To pass the time we talked about ourselves. I told Stelle how I’d grown up in this area, in a tenement just like the one we were watching, leaving school at 16 to help support my mother and kid sister, our dad having run out on us five years before. Stelle’s background was totally different: her father had been a senior police officer, a minor star of the Amsterdam force, and her mother was a highly successful commercial artist. Stelle had grown up in one of the richest suburbs of the city, and been privately educated. I had casually mentioned that I lived alone, and although Stelle didn’t say she also did I noticed that there was no reference to any husband or partner or whatever.
About six in the evening the Dutch sergeant, van der Gaal, rolled up with one of the Drugs Squad D.C.s to relieve us. He and Stelle spoke briefly in Dutch, and I got the impression there wasn’t much love lost between them. I greeted him but he completely ignored me. As I drove away, to take Stelle back to her hotel in trendy Leith, the old, now yuppified, port of Edinburgh, she sighed and said, “Sorry about that. The man’s an asshole, and a pig.” As we drove Stelle casually asked me if I had any plans for the evening. Without thinking I said I intended to go for a short run in The Meadows — a green space in the heart of the city – then have a nice long relaxing bath and wash my hair. She shrugged and said, “Okay, only I’m going to have a drink in the hotel bar, and I wondered if you might like to join me; but that’s fine.”
Mentally kicking myself, I hurriedly said, “Oh no, I’m sorry, what sort of host am I being leaving you all alone in a foreign city where you don’t even know anyone! I’d be glad to have a drink with you, I’ll just need to nip home and change first.” We agreed to meet in the bar at eight. The moment I had dropped Stelle off I raced back into town, hurtled into my flat, ripped off my clothes and threw myself into the shower. I wasted a few minutes debating whether or not to shave my armpits for the first time in more than a week then, deciding I didn’t have time, I pulled on a thong so brief it rode up into my pussy, a black push-up bra and a short black dress with a deep V which emphasised my substantial cleavage. Finishing the ensemble off with a pair of black strappy sandals and a short white jacket I rushed down the stairs of the building brushing my long, black hair as I went. Fortunately I had to wait for only a few minutes for a cab, and I arrived at Stelle’s ultra-modern hotel with ten minutes to spare. I used the time to brush my hair again and fix my make-up, and entered the bar one minute early.
Stelle was already there, perched on a bar stool and looked stunning. She’d changed into a floaty black blouse and white slacks, with gold sandals. As I approached I realised that the blouse was semi-transparent, and I could clearly see her unsheathed conical boobs and the slight swell of her nipples. I felt my own nips stiffen again as I sat nervously on the stool adjacent to hers. She was drinking whiskey and offered me one, which I gladly accepted to try and calm the nerves in my suddenly knotting stomach. I had a feeling of certainty that I was going to end up in bed with Stelle, and normally I simply don’t attract women that gorgeous. As we sipped our drinks some sort of manager of the hotel came over and cleared his throat apologetically. “I’m sorry ladies, but we don’t allow…” I grabbed my warrant card out of my handbag and flashed it at him, my mouth open in disbelief that he could have taken us for a couple of whores touting for punters. As he retreated in apologetic confusion Stelle and I collapsed in giggles, which relaxed me a bit. Giving me a seductive smile she stroked my face with her fingertips, pretending to brush away a loose strand of hair, and asked, “So, apart from running and bathing, what does Miss Isobel Fraser like to do for fun?”
Letting my mouth run before I’d put my brain into gear again, I told her I liked reading about Scottish history, clubbing and screwing girls. Instantly I felt my face burning crimson; oh my God, I couldn’t believe I’d just said that, out loud and in public, to a woman I was hoping to impress enough to sleep with me! Stelle wasn’t in the least put out though: her smile broadened and she said “Mmm, I like the third one especially.” As she said it I felt her fingernails grazing the inside of my knee. I slipped forward on my stool, causing her hand to move up to my thigh, under my dress. The smile now on full beam, Stelle raised her glass and said, “Why don’t we finish these and go and open the bottle of schnapps I have in my room.” The moment the lift doors closed her arms were around me and we were locked in a deep kiss, her tongue exploring my mouth. I felt my pussy start to dampen, but as the lift drew to a halt and the doors opened we sprung apart, trying to look as innocent as the two small Italian children who bolted past us into the lift, closely followed by their parents. Taking my hand in hers, Stelle raced me along the corridor to her room. The moment we were inside we resumed the kiss, Stelle’s hands rubbing up and down my back as we leaned against the door. After a minute or so she broke off, saying “I’ll be back in a moment, why don’t you get into bed?” With that she ducked into the bathroom.
I stripped quickly and slipped into the bed, regretting not taking the time to shave my pits. I left the covers folded down below my thighs to give Stelle a clear view of what she was getting. I’m hairier than any other woman I’ve ever known. My pubes start with a line of hair which runs from my belly button down to a thick tangled thatch on my mound, extending right past my pussy lips to my bum and thighs. Some girls love it, others find it a turn off, so I was a bit nervous of Stelle’s reaction. When she emerged from the bathroom, however, she stared straight at my pussy and literally growled, her eyes widening with arousal. She was completely naked too, and I was equally pleased with what I saw. Her long slim body was ghostly white, and her pussy was shaved bald. Her nipples were small pink berries, with areola hardly wider than the nips; very different to my huge buttons with their areola spreading halfway across my enormous knockers. I was surprised to see a tiny gold ring in Stelle’s navel. She posed for me for a second then moved forward and lay on top of me, pressing her lips hard to mine as our tongues fought a duel for supremacy. As her small tits rubbed against mine, and her lower thigh caressed my slit, I couldn’t remember ever feeling more turned on. She broke the kiss and smiled glassy-eyed at me, murmuring “You are one sexy lady, Isobel Fraser; I just love your furry pussy; and these.” She buried her nose in my armpit, nuzzling the hair.
For myself I could scarcely believe I was in bed with such a beautiful, alluring woman, and I desperately wanted to get my mouth on her pussy, and savour for the first time in months my favourite taste in all the world. Rolling her onto her back I squirmed down to her little boobs and took one between my lips, sucking on the breast meat and flicking the nip with my tongue. As I began to kiss lower Stelle tweaked her other nipple with her fingers and lay back with her eyes closed, whispering “Ja, oh God ja.” I tickled in her belly button with my tongue, gently tugging at the gold ring with my teeth, and as my lips contacted her bald mons pubis she gasped “Oh God, neuken me.” I didn’t know what that meant, but as her hand gently pressed against the top of my head, pushing me lower, I got the general idea.
I got a bit of a shock as I lowered myself between Stelle’s legs — she had easily the biggest clit I’d ever seen, more like a small prick, just begging to be sucked. I applied my lips to it and flicked my tongue across the head. She gave a sharp gasp and her thighs twitched. I carried on sucking and nibbling her clit as I pushed three fingers into her and twiddled them around. I had to break off from kissing her clit occasionally just to get the sweet taste of pussy on my tongue, but each time I just swapped over, my fingers stroking and nipping her bud while my tongue lapped at her slit. After a few minutes she was writhing under me, her knees raised and her heels beating a steady rhythm on the bed. She gave a series of long breathy cries and I felt a surge in her pussy as her cum flooded onto my tongue.
I started to wind down, licking her clit more gently and stroking my fingers around her labia, to help Stelle get her breath back, but after a few moments she started squirming around underneath me, gasping “Tezamen! Together!” I realised what she meant and helped her get into position, with her head between my legs. She clasped my hips in her hands and pulled me onto her. I felt a surge of electricity pass through my pussy and up my spine as Stelle pressed her face into me, her tongue lapping my slit as fingers tweaked and pressed my clit. Of course I was now approaching her from a different angle to previously, and I was falling in love with that huge clit of hers. I sucked it into my mouth and pressed half of one hand into her pussy, stroking the crack of her bum with the fingers of my other hand, gradually working them deeper into her. As she lapped at me I heard Stelle mumble, “Wow, dus harig.” (She told me later, slightly embarrassed, that it meant ‘so hairy’.)
I tried to give Stelle as good as I was getting, but she’d already come once whereas I hadn’t. I was gasping and struggling for breath so much I couldn’t keep up my attention to her pussy. In the end I just sat up, riding her face as she continued to lap, suck and finger me. I suddenly felt a tremendous pressure on my anus, then the most glorious feeling as Stelle started fisting my bum, her entire slim hand squeezed into me. I knew I couldn’t take for long the combination of that, her sweet tongue in my pussy and her fingers twiddling my clitty, and within seconds I had a howling, shaking orgasm, which left me totally drained of energy. Stelle lay behind me and hugged me to her, her tits pressing into my back and her soft lips pressed to my neck. We made love half the night, and as I sucked on Stelle’s amazing clit for the third time she groaned hoarsely, “Fuck Izzie, you are such a pussy monster!” I finally left at 4.30am to go home and change, and to try and get a couple of hours sleep. That was a struggle, as I started dreaming of Stelle suspended above me, fucking me with her own huge penis!
The next couple of days were pretty repetitious. Our guy basically spent the day doing the sort of stuff any normal person might do: going to the bookies, going shopping, being visited by dozens of painfully thin young men and women with sunken, haunted eyes…D.I. Leslie’s team couldn’t wait to get their hands on him once the Dutch bloke finally turned up. Stelle actually frigged me once in the car, her hand stealing down into my knickers and her fingers playing beautifully around my clit, and another time she suddenly whipped my T-shirt up, dragged a bra cup down and started chewing on one of my nipples. We were lucky not to get arrested! God knows what would have happened if our man had done anything just then. I spent every night in Stelle’s bed at the hotel, and I got into the habit of taking my next day’s clothes over there with me. We sucked, nibbled and licked each other dry; we fisted each other; we tribadised, locking our pussies together, her huge clit giving me tremors of ecstasy. One night she even licked out my arse. I was a bit reluctant when she started doing it, but her long, silky tongue reaming my bum felt amazing, she had me squirming and whimpering in no time. Afterwards, as I sucked on her tongue, I told her she was a filthy cow, and she giggled. “I just can’t help it Izzie, I love all your fur. I’ve never had a hairy lover, and your pussy and your bum are both wonderful.”
Later that night, Stelle told me about her rape. I lay listening in horrified astonishment. I’ve spoken to a few rape victims, and Stelle told her story much the same way: matter-of-factly, so she didn’t have to get too deep into it, put herself mentally back in that position. “I was in uniform then, just 20 and only been in the job a few months. I was patrolling an industrial area one night and I saw a light in a warehouse that shouldn’t have been there. I went in and called ‘Police’ but I couldn’t see the light anymore. Then he jumped me — he’d been on some boxes or something and he knocked all the wind out of me. He pressed a knife against my throat and told me if I made a sound or resisted him he’d slit me from ear to ear. After that he just pulled my trousers and pants down and stuck his thing in me from behind. He was a big heavy man and I couldn’t move, I was pinned to the ground with him pushing and grunting on top of me, and the cold concrete floor scratching my thighs. When he finished he turned me over and made me suck him, with his sperm still on his dick. He kept the knife at my throat in case I got any ideas about biting. He’d just finished with me when another patrolman found us and beat the guy half to death with his night stick. I couldn’t help, I just lay there staring at them with my pants round my ankles and my legs wide open. It was three years before I could let another person touch me, let alone make love to anyone else. That’s not why I’m a dyke — I knew I was when I was 14. But it’s one reason I’ve worked so hard to get where I am.” Afterwards we made love tenderly then clung to each other, both crying softly.
By the fourth day of observation D.I. Leslie was all for calling it off. He was convinced the Dutch had been given a false lead, but Stelle was adamant their guy would turn up. We were both a bit sombre in the car, realising our short time together was about to end. Then, shortly after noon, our man made a move on foot. Stelle followed him and I kept contact with her in the car, in case we needed to drive somewhere in a hurry. The guy took a seat in one of the many cafés on the Royal Mile. I got a parking space nearby and joined Stelle in the coffee bar across the road to our target. He sat in the café for two hours, looking in increasing frustration at his watch, then returned to his flat, clearly not happy. We were due to knock off at 6 o’clock, but 10 minutes later Sergeant van der Gaal and his equally surly Drugs Squad minder still hadn’t turned up. I agreed with Stelle’s expressed view that they were “probably in some pub in town, getting pissed.” Just as we were staring to get irritated, our guy raced out of his tenement block as if all the demons in hell were after him. He leapt into his battered old car and hared off. Stelle didn’t need to say a word, I followed instantly. The idiot was pushing so far beyond the speed limit it was difficult to keep him in sight, but eventually we tracked him to a rather grand country house hotel somewhere on the edge of the city. Stelle was using my personal radio to try and get hold of our relief officers, but neither were answering.
We waited a few minutes, then decided we’d have to take the risk of going in and seeing if we could see anything. As we discussed it, Stelle handed me something. It turned out to be a small, nasty looking automatic pistol. I stared at her in astonishment. “Stelle, I can’t use this! In fact you shouldn’t even have it, you’re not allowed to carry a gun in Scotland. How the hell did you get it?”
She muttered “A friend at the Dutch consulate.” She didn’t look at me as she spoke, as she was in the process of checking the pistol she also held. But she then glanced at me and asked, “Do you know how to use a gun?” As it happened I had done the firearms course a couple of months earlier, as part of my campaign to become a detective, but I wasn’t an authorised user. I nodded dumbly. “Good; well, hopefully you won’t have to. Let’s go.” I asked her, in a slightly dazed fashion, if we shouldn’t call for back up. She shook her head. “This is probably nothing. And if something is going down in there we might miss it if we don’t move quickly.” Before I could argue any further Stelle was out of the car, tucking her gun into the waistband at the back of her designer denim trousers. I followed her, doing the same with my rather scruffy Tesco jeans.
As soon as we entered the hotel we knew something was wrong. I showed my warrant card and asked if anyone had seen our man. Three members of staff started talking at once. When we’d quietened them, we established that he’d bolted through the lobby and up the big winding staircase to the upper floor. The hotel manager had followed, but neither had returned yet. Stelle leading, we made our way cautiously up the stairs, We found the manager on the first landing, semi-conscious, blood pouring from nasty wounds to his mouth and nose, where our target had kicked him. Stelle, suddenly very much the commanding police officer, ordered me to get him down to the lobby and call for back-up. She then disappeared around a turn in the stairs, drawing her gun as she went. I hesitated for a fatal second, then chased after her, slipping the safety catch off the gun still in my waist band. At the top of the stairs I heard a gasp, then a muffled scream.
I was momentarily paralysed by the sight which met my eyes on the top floor. The bloke we’d been watching for the last few days lay in the corridor, clearly alive but not moving, a large patch of blood splayed across his chest. And a couple of yards further on, just ten feet or so away from me, stood a tall, rangy blond man in his 30s, one arm around Stelle’s waist and the other holding a vicious looking blade to her throat. Stelle was even paler than usual, deathly white, and looked frankly terrified. Her eyes continually swivelled between me and the critically injured man on the floor in front of her. Her gun lay discarded between them. The man holding her spoke in a thick accent. “Get out of my way, or I’ll cut her fucking throat. I mean it, move!” He increased the pressure of the knife on Stelle’s throat, and she gasped and shuddered.
I tried to bluff the guy. “Look, Ruud, that is your name, isn’t it?” You’re not going anywhere. There are going to be a dozen police cars here within five minutes. It’s over, give it up now and you might get out of this without anyone actually dying.” I indicated the prostrate drug dealer.
Ruud spat contemptuously. The jerk of his body as he did so made Stelle quiver again. He snarled, “You say there are cops coming? Maybe, maybe not. But in two minutes I’m gonna be driving out of here with your friend here. Who knows, I might even give her a good time before I slit her up.” He grinned horribly, and rubbed his groin suggestively against Stelle’s bum. He half-whispered to her, in English for my benefit, “I’ll bet you’d like a nice big fat cock up you, wouldn’t you copper?” Stelle’s head rocked back and her eyes closed in abject fear. I was terrified too: I had no idea what to do in this situation. Clearly I couldn’t let the bastard walk out of here with Stelle. I didn’t know what car he drove, and we were less than a mile from the motorway, within half an hour he could be anywhere. It would have been bad enough if it had been any colleague he was threatening, but this was a woman I was staring to fall in love with, who had already lived once through the ordeal this piece of shit was threatening her with.
In desperation, not thinking clearly, trying anything to buy time, I said, “You don’t want her, she’s a fucking dyke. Take me instead Ruud, I love cock and I can suck you from here to paradise.”
Ruud laughed. “She’s a dyke? I’ll enjoy fucking her even more then, show her what she’s been missing.” He took a step forward, pushing Stelle in front of him. She appeared to be completely out of it. Only a tiny part of him could be seen behind her. The move forced me to step back, and as I did I felt the pistol Stelle had given me press into the small of my back. A grain of an idea developed in my head; what I needed was some kind of diversion.
I cleared my throat nervously. “Ruud, listen…” My eyes flickered to his right. I screamed “Get back in your room!” He glanced away, only for a split second, but it was all I needed. I ripped the pistol out of my belt and, with barely any time to aim, I fired. The shot was deafening, and for a fraction of a second time seemed to stand still. They guy screamed and the hand which had been pressed against Stelle’s midriff slapped against the side of his head. In the same instant Stelle came to life, as if reacting to a starter’s pistol. She bit viciously into the hand in which Ruud held the knife and kicked back at him. The knife fell with a clatter, and Ruud dropped to the floor, curling into a ball and whimpering, still holding his head. Instantly Stelle was on him, kicking and stamping viciously and screaming “Smeerlap, smeerlap!” (Apparently that means swine or bastard, something like that.) It took all my strength to drag her off him. Finally she too fell to the floor, weeping. I quickly handcuffed the stunned man to the handy leg of a heavy table nearby, then snapped at a white-faced hotel employee who had arrived to call the police and an ambulance. After that I rushed over to Stelle, pulled her to her feet and hugged her to me.
She was shivering and seemed as cold as the grave. A nearby door was open — presumably Ruud’s room. I shuffled Stelle through it and made her lie on the bed. Then I lay beside her and pressed my body to her, my arms around her, rubbing vigorously, trying to reintroduce some warmth to her. The adrenalin rush I’d experienced when I saw Stelle in that fucker’s grip had now passed and I was starting to feel desperately tired. I started to tremble myself as I began to realise for the first time just how close I had come to taking another human being’s life; and how if the shot had been two inches to the left it would have been Stelle I’d hit. She was hugging me back, and somehow my attempts to revive her started to turn into us kissing, at first gently then more vigorously, her tongue swirling around mine. Almost before I realised what was happening her lips were attached to my throat, and I felt her tugging at the belt of my jeans. I placed an urgent hand on hers. “Stelle, we can’t. Half the cops in the Lothians’ll be here any minute, and we’re going to have to tell them exactly what’s been going on.”
She paused and looked me earnestly in the eye. “Izzie, I nearly die out there just now. You saved my fucking life. I’m still fucking terrified inside, and I need this, right now.” With that she slid down the bed, taking my jeans and pants with her. Bending my legs outwards at the knees she dipped her head between them and I almost swooned with pleasure as her long tongue lapped the length of my pussy. I was vaguely aware of the sound of sirens, but they seemed irrelevant compared to the lips and tongue that were now applying themselves to my clit, and the fingers that were plunging into the centre of my pussy, swirling circles of sheer desire through me. I grabbed for Stelle’s short hair and tried to pull her face further into me. Then I felt two of her fingers stroking along my bum crack. I think I must have needed it as well – making love, even with Stelle, had never felt quite this intense before. Even as I heard heavy footsteps racing up the hotel staircase Stelle flipped me over, and then that incredible, probing tongue was up my backside, driving me out of my mind with its velvet caresses. Suddenly I heard Sergeant van der Gaal’s voice exclaim “Oh mijn God!” I couldn’t hear whether he said anything else for my own wail of joyful release.
As Ruud had been taken away Stelle had growled something to him in Dutch that had made the colour drain from his face. When I asked what it was she told me, “I said he’d better pray I never get five minutes alone with him, because if I do I’m going to cut off his prick and eat it before his eyes.” My position in the force looked a bit precarious for a week or two, not because of the sex but because of the shooting. Fortunately I’d only grazed Ruud with my shot, and between them the Lothians and Amsterdam police magically came up with a prior agreement they’d forgotten to mention before that Stelle, and anyone assisting her, could use guns in arresting him, if necessary to defend life. In the event the enquiry cleared me of any wrongdoing. A few days later Peter Leslie ‘phoned me to say he was looking for a new detective for the Drugs Squad, and would I be interested?
A week after I’d been formally cleared I got a letter from the Royal Dutch Police Service informing me that they wanted me to travel to Amsterdam, at their expense naturally, to accept a bravery award for my part in Ruud’s capture and in saving Stelle. The following day she e-mailed me, saying she’d pick me up at Schiphol Airport and put me up for the duration of my stay. It was her final words that most interested me: “Don’t expect to get any sleep while you’re with me — pussy monster!”