#dr-yapper

whether he's cruising through town, searching for his next bust, or is in the station processing the next son of a bitch who broke one too many laws, he always keeps an eye out, just in case someone happens to catch his interest.

for that reason alone, after a string of robberies—cash from the register at a gas station and a corner store when the attendant was distracted, lifted purses and shoes from the shopping mall—however minor, charlie gets involved.

a deputy chief has better things to do than spend his free time searching for a petty thief, but one glance at you, the purported perpetrator, from over the shoulder of one of his cops staring at your enhanced image on the computer screen, is all it takes; he has to be the one to catch you.

it really is a shame on the police department, though, that he finds you so easily. tracks your movements and knows where you'll strike next. but it's just as well. he wouldn't be able to do what he is now if you'd happened to have been caught.

it's late evening. most businesses are closed. you're plan is to hit a jewelry store, a step up from your previous targets. you'd probably get away with robbing the owner blind if charlie let you. you're a clever, sneaky thing. light on your feet and quick with your hands. innocuous enough that no one would suspect you to be a criminal.

but charlie knows just who you are.

he pulls up to the back lot of the jewelry store, steps out of his suv, and leans against the hood as he waits for you to arrive. if you're half as decent a thief as he believes you to be, you would already know that this place has a vulnerable security system and that the owner frequently forgets to lock the back door. it's honestly a miracle he hasn't been robbed yet.

distantly, grass rustles and stone pebbles crunch beneath canvas sneakers. a rush of two feet across the pavement, then sudden silence. charlie swivels his head in the direction of the noise, expecting to see you, and you both make eye contact. he can make out your shape, your entire face, really, even in the low light of the evening.

your eyes scan his features, then his hand at his hip, where his gun and badge lie. he can barely savor the look of fear in your eyes before you break out in a run, out of the lot. he had expected you to be a runner and gives chase.

you go down a barren road to where construction of a new building is taking place, presumably to lose him in the maze of metal beams and pvc pipes. but despite how much older he is than you, despite how fast on your feet you are, somehow charlie catches up to you.

by now you both have run out the other end of the in-progress building and are blocked off from going any further by a chain-link fence that spans this side of the property.

you turn around to face charlie, backing up into the fence. "please, officer, i—i didn't do anything. i don't want any trouble."

"should've thought of that before you ran, sweetheart. and before you robbed all those poor innocent people," he adds. your eyes widen as you realize the situation you're in. you're caught. plain and simple. "that's right, i know what you've been up to." he makes a spinning motion with his pointer finger. "face the fence. don't make this harder on yourself."

you do as he says, head turned down and shoulders slumped in defeat. seeing you so downtrodden and ready to give up nearly breaks charlie's heart.

he pulls out his cuffs and gathers both of your wrists in a single, large hand, clasping the metal bands closed, while reading you your rights. once he recites them, he adds, "gotta search you before we go back to the station."

charlie wasn't planning on doing anything less than the right thing. he got to you before anyone else could. got you into cuffs. he'll take home with him the memory of your teary eyes and wobbling lips as he drags you into the station and hold onto that until the next pretty thing comes along.

and yet—when his hands pat your sides, your legs back up to the pockets of your jeans, and you push back against his hands, pleading, "wait, wait. i'll—i'll do anything you want. anything. just let me go, please? i won't—i won't be any more trouble. i promise—" he listens. the reality must be dawning on you. you're bargaining with him, and he's not one to turn down a good deal.

"are you trying to bribe me, little miss?" charlie asks, a teasing lilt to his tone. "aren't you the troublemaker. what're you willin' to do?"

"i'll... i'll suck your dick."

charlie barks at that. "oh, yeah? better get in line, sweetheart. no, what i want is to finish my search." he proceeds to feel you up, more than would be necessary to clear you of weapons, if you had any. it unreasonably frustrates charlie to think you had nothing on your person to defend yourself with in case things went left.

one of his arms wraps itself snug around your waist, his fingers on his free hand dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, rubbing you through your underwear. his ears are greeted with a small gasp and then a sharp screech.

"what're you doing?" you hiss, jerking away from his hand only to be met with his firm chest. "what do you gain from—from touching me like this?"

charlie chuckles, low and directly against the shell of your ear. he looks down between your bodies to see your hands balled into fists, unable to land the blow he'd assume you'd gift right to his face. "i like makin' a girl come. you come on my fingers… and i'll let you go."

your breaths are labored. "are you—are you fucking serious?"

"would you rather get locked up?" charlie asks, withdrawing his hand from inside your jeans. "'s your call."

"okayokayokay. f-fine. oh my god," you whine. "i can't believe this is happening."

"maybe this'll make you think twice about breaking the law, hm?" charlie's hand moves back beneath the waistband of your jeans and into your underwear. he runs his fingers along your slit and sucks his teeth, surprised to find you already wet and wanting. "fuck, this turn you on, sweetheart? gettin' your pussy pet in public? or are you always like this? i almost wish someone would walk by. see how fuckin' wet you are for me."

"just get it over with, you pig," you grit.

"with pleasure." charlie tucks two thick fingers into your hole, groaning at how easily he's able to slide them in. he curls them inside of you, rubbing them against your inner walls. you moan, and the sound goes straight to his cock. "that's it. just focus on how good 'm makin' you feel."

if charlie were a more rational man, he would've taken you up on your offer to pleasure him. because, truly, what does he gain in rewarding you for such bad behavior? but doesn't everyone deserve a second chance? and (maybe he's softened over the years) he just loves making a sweet thing like you fall apart.

and fall you do. almost, that is. with expert strokes against your g-spot and the heel of his palm grinding into your clit, your legs start wobbling, and you can barely hold yourself upright. charlie's a brick wall at your back, though, and he keeps you on two feet as you gasp and writhe against him.

"oh, fuck," you whimper. "ohmygod. i'm gonna—"

"give it to me," charlie grunts. as you cum, he pulls his fingers out of your hole to directly rub your puffy clit, extending the pleasure to the point of oversensitivity. you mewl like a wounded animal, and charlie ponders how much louder you would get if he were to put his cock in you. likely enough to draw the attention of anyone within a mile or two from here, he thinks half-heartedly.

your orgasm ebbs after a little while, and he gives you a few more seconds to recover, running featherlight strokes over the seam of your cunt and softly shushing you when you start to cry after such an intense moment. but then, as soon as you stop twitching and your sniffles die down, he pulls his hand out from inside your jeans and unwraps his arm from your waist, forcing you to stand on your own. you lean forward against the fence for support, the mesh openings cutting into the fat of your cheeks.

croaking, you ask, "are you going to let me go now?"

"give me a minute," charlie replies, pulling out the key for the cuffs from his pocket. "i better not catch you again, you hear? you're damn lucky the department's useless."

you nod, stretching your arms back in a desperate manner so he can uncuff you all the faster. "you won't ever see me again, sir."

somehow charlie doubts that. "call a man who made you come by his name. charlie," he supplies.

"charlie," you parrot, voice wrecked.

he uncuffs you, and you turn around to look at him, rubbing your wrists with a strangeness in your eyes, before scampering off in the other direction. he watches you go until you're out of sight. when charlie makes it back to the lot to get into his car, he takes a few minutes to jerk off with his other hand, sniffing his fingers—smelling you—all the while.

he inevitably catches you again sometime later, after you plan a heist at another jewelry store, and you ask him if he'd like to eat you out this time in favor of letting you go.

“Here Comes the Bride” plays over the small venue. A hotel wedding; a decision you made with your fiancé to cut down on costs and make the logistics of overnight stays easier. Not necessarily the wedding you imagined for yourself as a young girl, but it’s as good as any, you suppose.

The music swells, the prominent B, E, and F major chords progress, harmonize, sync together as one. Then the lone violinist—your fiancé’s niece and the best of her high school quartet—slips up.