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BDSM, Breasts, and Badges: Corporal Punishment

By Matt Nicholson


BDSM, Breasts, and Badges – Volume 1: Corporal Punishment*


Published by Darker Pleasures at Smashwords

*Originally published in a shorter format as

Morgan’s Cartel I: Corporal Punishment


Copyright 2017, Matt Nicholson. All rights reserved.

Cover image by csehioan/123RF Stock Photos


Other Stories in the BDSM, Breasts, and Badges series include:


Volume 2 – Law Enforcement

Volume 3 – Resisting Arrest

Volume 4 – Unlawful Restraint


Smashwords Edition, License Notes


This work contains graphic language and depictions of sometimes extreme consensual and semi-consensual female bondage and sexual sadomasochism. It is intended for mature audiences only and is not suitable for persons under eighteen years of age. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters depicted in this work are eighteen years of age or older. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or redistribute this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Darker Pleasures, webmaster at darkerpleasures.com.



The blue and yellow neon "OPEN" sign rocked slowly back and forth in the light summer breeze. It tapped occasionally on the diner window, its reflection rippling across the top of the heavily varnished tables inside. Becky Mason – for the moment doing business as “Veronica Sills” – looked up from the shifting colors and met the forest green eyes that watched her from across the table.

The light scent of Polo drifting from him did little to strengthen her resolve. “I’ve told you, Dennis, I’m not part of the deal. We’ve gone over this a dozen times. Cash and carry, that’s it.”

Dennis Morgan tweaked his boyishly charming smile up a notch and slid his hands over baseball cards and cheap memorabilia imbedded in thick polyurethane. He took her hand lightly between his fingers. “How is it that you keep resisting me, Ronni? You know we'd be great for each other.”

Becky blew out an exasperated sigh. His vaguely British/Australian accent didn’t help, either.

In an alternate universe he would have been right. Dennis was attractive and charming, intelligent and adventurous, excellent at everything he did. There were more times than she could count that she'd dreamt of his hands sliding over her body, of a time when he could show her the other skills at which she was sure he excelled.

Each had mutually exclusive deal breakers, however. His happened to be that he was a cocaine dealer whose entire life revolved around exploiting others. Had he been aware of hers, this conversation – and the cat and mouse, tease, duck and dodge, relationship she'd worked so hard to cultivate over the months – would never had taken place.

“That’s beside the point, Dennis. You sell drugs. I buy drugs. It's business. It will always be business.”

Corporal Rebecca Mason, currently assigned as an undercover officer for the Fort Worth Police Narcotics Task Force, allowed herself a wistful smile as the debonair dealer brought her fingertips up and brushed them with his lips.

“Are you certain I can't change your mind, Veronica?”

She nodded and pulled her hand gently from his. “Yes, Dennis. I’m flattered, but I’m certain.” Not for the first time that evening, she brushed a glance over the full biceps and bulging chest that filled out his overly tight Bat-symbolled Underarmour t-shirt. She wished she didn’t have to be as certain as she was.

Dennis shrugged faintly then propped his elbows on top of the table and dropped his chin into his hands. Then he leaned toward her. His smile shifted from playboy-charming to business-shrewd.

“OK, have it your way, gorgeous. Meet me back here in two hours. One hundred grand in small, unmarked bills. Yadda, yadda.” A mischievous twinkle sparkled in his eyes. “Or 75K and one night on the town before I disappear for a while?”

“You think I’m worth twenty-five grand?” Becky smiled too fondly and stood. “I’ll be here in two hours with one-hundred thousand, Dennis.”

He winked playfully and pushed himself away from the table. “Seventy-five would be a steal, love…and you can't blame a guy for trying.”


~~~


Two hours and forty-three minutes later, Becky chewed on the earpiece of her Oakleys and toyed with the braided leather sunglasses strap. Her foot tapped the accelerator pedal in frustration. After two more minutes squinting through the glare off her department-issue Chevy Malibu’s pollen-covered windshield, she stripped the well-chewed earpiece from between her teeth and keyed her portable radio. She didn’t bother hiding the frustration in her voice. “Go home, guys. He's a no-show. Max, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Her partner, Max Hollander, had waited with growing impatience with two patrol officers from their roost around the corner. When he replied, similar frustration was evident in his tone. “Ten-four, maybe next time. Base, all units are available.”

She didn't blame Max for his annoyance. This was becoming the never-ending case, and the middle-aged family man didn't get the same clandestine satisfaction from being in Dennis Morgan’s company that Becky had been getting.

She drove home, absently listening to Evanescence as she thought about the feelings she'd been developing for the suave drug dealer. It was time to request a transfer – before things got stupid. Too many undercover officers fell to the lure of the edgy, fast paced and daring life that came with that job. She could feel herself doing the same thing, and she was not going to be one of them. Dennis Morgan dealt dope. Any other considerations were simply ridiculous fantasy.

Becky waved at her neighbors as she turned into the pine tree-shadowed driveway of her little frame home in the burbs. Little Alex waved back with a three-year-old’s enthusiasm and then ran off after a bright red ball his older sister, Megan, had kicked across the yard.

After calling out to the two children and making a fuss over Alex’s way-too-big cowboy hat, Becky unlocked the front door, silently cussing at the lock that had recently begun fighting her for custody of the key. Finally winning the fight, she stepped into her sun-drenched home and locked the door behind her. She tossed her purse, police radio and a chrome, Walther PPK, semi-auto pistol onto the sofa. While pulling her t-shirt up over her head, she started walking blindly down the hall toward her bedroom.

Just as the neck of the shirt hung on her chin, something that felt disturbing like a gun barrel pushed against Becky’s temple. Someone snatched her sunglasses from her hand. Her first instinct was to react immediately and violently to the sudden, firm grip on her upraised wrists. She chose wisely to freeze instead.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Ronni, leaving your garage unlocked like that. Don’t you know how easy it is to pick a door when no one can watch? Oh, I’m sorry, you probably prefer ‘Rebecca’ don’t you?”


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