Shari reached behind her and undid the clasp of her lacy bra. She shrugged her shoulders and lit the wispy white garment slide down the length of her arms, freeing her breasts from the confinement of its tightly constricting cups. Then she dropped the bra to the floor and shook her shoulders, letting her breasts sway from side to side.
Although she was thin, Sheri's tits were big enough to fill the cups of her size thirty-six-C bra. She ran her hands over them lightly, feeling her silver-dollar-size pink nipples begin to pucker and harden. She held them in her fingers for a moment, turning them back and forth like the knobs of a radio. Then she drooped her hands to the waistband of her black pantyhose. Hooking her thumbs under the elastic she began tugging them downward slowly and deliberately.
The john was lying on the bed watching her undress. He hadn't said a word since picking her up in the street and had stripped in silence as soon as they got into the room. Sheri could see his cock hardening as he let his gaze travel up and down the length of her near-naked body. With one hand he was idly stroking himself.
After Sheri had lowered the pantyhose over her hips she stepped closer to the bed and stopped swaying her body sensuously. The john could see a few wisps of curling pubic hair poking out over the lowered waistband. He held his breath, waiting for her to pull it down all the way. He looked up at her face and saw that she was licking her lips.
"Like what you see?" she asked.
"Haven't seen enough," he responded. His voice was raspy and strident, as though he was trying to cover his nervousness.
Sheri could see that she was turning him on. She liked to turn men on. It was one of the few things about her life that gave her any satisfaction at all. Every time a man gave her money, it was proof that he wanted her. And having men want her was all that she had left.
She tugged the pantyhose down a little further, exposing her tangled bush of pubic hair. It was black, contrasting sharply with the platinum blonde wig that she wore. The john drew his breath in sharply at the sight of her naked crotch area. "I didn't think you were a natural blonde," he said.
Sheri just laughed.
"How about that birth mark on your chin?" he asked. "Is that natural?"
Sheri laughed again. "No," she giggled. "I put it in with pencil. It's star-shaped. Do you like it?"
But the john wasn't paying any attention to her words. He was staring at her lewdly displayed pussy and licking his lips. She suddenly remembered that time was money and stepped quickly out of the pantyhose, leaving them in a nylon puddle on the floor. She ran one of her hands obscenely up and down her exposed cuntal lips as she approached the bed.
"Now, what would you like?" she asked in a soft voice.
"Everything that my ten bucks buy me," he answered.
Sheri sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the rough woolen blanket scratching at the soft skin of her ass. Damn cheap hotel, she thought. With all the business I give them you'd think they could afford better blankets. I must rent this fuckin' room ten times a day.
She looked quickly around at the cubicle in which she spent so much of her time. The room was small, not much bigger than the sagging double bed which occupied most of the floor space. Next to the bed was a nightstand with an ashtray and an old lamp with yellowed shade. The ashtray was full of butts, some of them lipsticked.
Against the far wall was a club chair that looked like it was left over from before the flood. Its upholstery was threadbare in several places and the outline of a spring could be seen poking against the material of the cushion. The management of the Eighth Avenue Manhattan Hotel knew why its rooms were so popular. And they knew that their guests didn't rent them for sitting in.
The walls were cracked, and the paint was peeling. The ceiling was crisscrossed with a series of cracks and blisters that spelled out "shit" if you closed one eye and turned your head to the side. Shari ought to know. She spent enough time looking at it.
"Hey," the john said. "Quit dreamin' and give me my moneys worth, will you."
Sheri turned to look at him, an automatic hooker-smile coming to her lips as she did so. "Sorry, hon," she said. "Now what would you like?"
"Why don't you start with a blowjob," he said. Sheri flashed her fast, empty, hooker-smile again and bent over him. His cock was standing straight up from the tangled jungle of his matted, brown pubic hair. She could smell the aroma of the last cunt that he was in, mixed with the stale smell of his own sweat.
Probably been two weeks since his last bath, she thought.
Then, not allowing herself the luxury of further time wasted, she brought her lips lightly against the rubbery surface of his swollen purple cockhead. A glistening drop of dewy moisture oozed from the tightly drawn slit at the tip of his penis. Sheri snaked her tongue out and licked the pearly drop off with a quick flick of its warmly pink tip. She felt the john's hands groping for her tits and she turned her body to make it easier for him.
Whatever turned him on was all right with her. As long as she turned him fast. She had finished daydreaming, and now she was all business. The faster she could turn this trick, the faster she could get back onto the street for another. It was early and there was still time to make some real money if she stopped mooning around.
She opened her mouth, taking the throbbing purple bulb which capped his prick between her lips. She ran her tongue over it in a series of quick wet spiraling movements that made him gasp with pleasure. Then she lowered her head, taking the entire length of his quivering organ into the warmth of her oral cavity. She heard him moan softly and felt his fingers twisting her nipples frantically.
With one hand she cupped his balls and began massaging them slowly. With a little fancy finger work, she thought, maybe I can bring him off without even balling him. She felt her mouth filling with a mixture of her own warm saliva and his free-flowing lubricating fluid. She knew that it wouldn't be long before he popped his load down her throat. Another suck, another buck, she thought.
But suddenly the john arched his back, pressing his hips down into the spongy mattress as he pulled his prick from her dripping mouth. "In your cunt," he said. "I want to put it in your cunt."
Sheri shrugged mentally, disappointed by his sudden awakening, and stretched out on the bed beside him. "Top or bottom, lion?" she asked, her voice efficient and business-like.
"You get on top," he answered in a commanding fashion.
"Whatever you like, hon," she said. She rose to her hands and knees and straddled him, moving her cunt into position. She knew that she was dry and sore inside, but she hoped that his cock would be wet enough from the blowjob not to hurt too much when he entered her. One more trick and I can go get fixed, she thought. Then the rest of the day won't be so bad.
As she positioned herself over the john, she could feel her nipples grazing the hair of his chest. They were puckered to semi-erectness and raked at his muscular skin. She reached down between their bodies, feeling her soft round fits pressing against her arm as she took his stiff cock in her fingers. She guided its throbbing length toward the dry lips of her pussy, ready to lower herself onto him. Then, just as the quivering cockflesh made contact with her cunt, there was a noise in the hall. Sheri sprang from the bed, instinctively alert. She began scrambling for her clothes.
"Hey," stammered the john. "What the hell is going on?"
"Didn't you hear that noise?" she asked. "I think it's the cops. Get dressed. Hurry."
"What the hell are you talking about…" the john began. But his words were interrupted by a loud pounding on the door.
"Police officers," called a voice. "Open up."
Seconds later the door flew open and a man burst into the room, gun drawn. A badge was pinned to the breast pocket of his gray business suit. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a brown-leather shoulder holster hugging his armpit beneath it.
Sheri stood naked in the center of the room holding her pantyhose in her hand. Now that the cops were in the room there was no point in hurrying into her clothes. But the john already had his pants on and was reaching for his shirt.
"Finish getting dressed, mister," the cop said putting his gun back into its holster. "Then step outside, I want to have a talk with you." Then he turned to Sheri and stared for a long silent minute at her naked body. "You're under arrest, honey," he said. "Get your clothes on. Officer Dresden will stay with you until you're ready to go."
The cop stepped back to the open door and called, "Connie, come in here, please." A tall slender woman stepped into the doorway. She wore the blue skirt, white blouse, and blue tie that were the uniform of a New York City policewoman. "Stay with Lady Godiva until she's dressed," the male cop said. "Then we can get her downtown." He closed the door behind him as he stepped out. The john followed him a moment later, his open shoelaces trailing along behind him as he walked.
Officer Connie Dresden looked quickly at Sheri and then turned away, embarrassed by the prostitute's nakedness. From the pocket of her crisp white blouse she drew a small white card on which several paragraphs were neatly typed. She began to read it aloud.
"It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest. You have the right to…" As Connie Dresden read the familiar phrases, her nervousness left her. It felt good to be doing, the job that she was trained for.
Sheri eased her still-naked body to a sitting position on the edge of the bed as the policewoman read her her rights. She paid no attention to the words. They had been read to her before. Many times. And they had been explained to her by the Legal Aid lawyers that the court had always appointed for her when she had been busted in the past. She knew the ropes. The john wouldn't testify and the case against her would have to be dismissed. She would be on the street again by the following morning.
The little clock in her head was already beginning to calculate how long it would be before she could get a fix. Tomorrow morning, she thought. It won't be too bad. I've held out longer than that before.
She took a long look at the policewoman who was still reciting her speech about constitutional rights in a mechanical monotone. Sheri had never seen this one before. She looked like anything but a cop. With those titties and with that ass, Sheri thought, she could be a hooker herself.
Connie Dresden was tall and slender but her breasts and her behind were full and round and made her look more like a bathing suit model than a police officer. Her hair was dark and pulled back severely into a tight bun at the back of her neck. But Sheri was sure, from the thickness of the bun, that when free it would hang to her mid-back. The dark hair framed her lightly freckled heart-shaped face, making it seem as white as flour, by comparison. Her almond-shaped eyes were bright green in color and sparkled with the hopeful idealism of youth. Although she was twenty-four, she didn't look more than eighteen or nineteen.
Still naked, Sheri rose from her sitting position on the bed and walked around Connie, looking at her from all sides like a butcher appraising a side of beef. "You know, you're not a bad-looking little piece of ass yourself," she said brazenly. "What's a good-looking chick like you doing in those fuzz duds?"
Connie's eyes tightened to slits and her lips trembled in anger. Who does this pig think she is, talking to me like that? she thought. She felt like slapping her, but restrained herself.
"Just get your clothes on," she said. "And keep your opinions to yourself. This is no game, this is an arrest. And I'm not your friend. I'm a cop. You're the criminal and I'm the cop. And I'm bringing you in to be sent to jail where people like you belong. Now get dressed."
She turned her face, averting her gaze from the sight of the naked prostitute who had begun to pull her pantyhose over her shapely legs. Connie fought to regain control over her emotions. At the Police Academy she had been warned repeatedly about letting a prisoner upset her. Lots of them try it, she had been told, hoping to provoke an incident which might lead to a charge of police brutality, thus becoming the basis for a deal. Well, this one won't be making any deals at my expense, she thought.
Connie had only been on the Police Force for a short time and this was her first "prost" bust. But she was conscientious and had read the Penal Law. Fifteen days was all that the girl would get, but maybe it would be enough, to turn her from a life of filth and degradation. And if fifteen days weren't enough to do the trick, there would be other arrests. And longer sentences.
If animals like this can't be rehabilitated, the policewoman thought, at least they can be put safely away in a place where they can't soil and corrupt others, Connie Dresden had lived in New York City all her life and knew about the scum and the vermin that infested the city and corrupted the people who lived in it.
She had studied the corruption in her police science classes at City College and she had learned how to fight it at the Police Academy. She had learned about the vices – illicit gambling, illicit drugs and, worst of all, illicit sex – that were the causes of most of the city's crime. She had been graduated from the Police Academy six months before, determined to do her share in fighting those vices.
So far, there hadn't been much of an opportunity to do anything more than tag along after the detectives and watch them wage war on the forces of evil. They usually brought her along whenever they were expecting to have female prisoners. Connie had done little more than search them and guard them after one of the detectives had made the arrest. But she hoped to become a detective herself. One day! Then she would really be in a position to fight crime and filth, to help rid the city of some of the scum which poisoned it.
Connie had grown up in a cramped and dirty apartment just a few blocks away. Although her old neighborhood lay in the shadow of Times Square, the busiest intersection in the world, she had spent much of her childhood watching the numbers runners, the dope pushers, and the whores conducting their foul business openly in the street. Connie had learned to hate them at an early age – them and all that they stood for.
"Scum", her mother had called them. "The scum of the earth."
Connie's mother had become pregnant at the age of sixteen, having been dragged into an empty basement and raped by three of the neighborhood toughs. She had no way of knowing which of them was the father of her daughter and she didn't care. At the trial of her three rapists, the defense lawyer had convinced the jury, along with everybody else in the courtroom, that the sixteen-year-old girl had enticed the "youths" into the basement and seduced them.
When the jury brought in its verdict of "not guilty", Connie's mother had walked from the courtroom shamed and humiliated. When she told her parents, later that same day, that she was leaving to live by herself, they hadn't objected. If anything, they had been relieved. They had no desire to bear the shame of the sinful acts by which their daughter had defiled herself. They never knew their granddaughter.
Two months before Connie was born, her mother found a dingy little apartment on the corner of Forty-Third Street and Ninth Avenue. Ever since then it had been her private hell, punishment for the sin of her adolescence. And Connie she regarded as living proof of that sin.
Connie's indoctrination began as soon as she was old enough to understand. "All men are criminals," her mother had said bitterly. "Rutting beasts capable of no thought other than the satisfaction of their own perverted desires. But you can't blame them for this any more than you can blame a pig for eating garbage."
Connie understood. Men, weren't responsible for their depravity since, after all, it was their nature. Sex was filthy. Sex was perverted. But the sin never fell on the soul of a man. It was the woman who encouraged him and led him on. Connie's mother recognized her own guilt and made certain that her daughter, too, recognized it. She hoped that Connie would learn from her mistake and avoid repeating her sin.
"You must be on your guard at all times," her mother had warned. "It's going to be harder for you than it is for other girls your age. You are the daughter of sin, the product of a sinful union."
Connie tried, all her life, to make her parent proud of her, to show her that she would never fall into the pit of sin and, depravity which was her heritage. And, as her mother had predicted, it was harder for Connie than it was for the other girls. By the time she was twelve, her breasts had begun to develop and to push proudly against the fabric of the boy-cut shirts which she always wore in a vain attempt to hide them.
By the time that she was thirteen, boys had really started to notice her and her budding figure. They scuffled for a place near her on the lines at school and were always finding excuses to bump into her, mauling her tits with their elbows and even with their hands.
When she was fourteen, she began receiving invitations from older boys to everything from school dances to quiet weekends in the country. She was always swift and unhesitating in her refusals. Her knowing mother had taught her that even the most innocent hesitation could be misinterpreted by a boy and could lead to sin.
But in spite of her open hostility, the boys continued to ask her for dates, continued to brush against her in the auditorium and on line, and continued to whisper indecent proposals in her ears. Even grown men ogled her and looked for ways to peek into her blouse whenever she bent over. When they talked to her they looked for reasons to touch her, to put their hands on her shoulder or on her knee in a phony fatherly way.
Connie was always quick to shake off the overfriendly hands. Her mother bad taught her to avoid doing anything which might make a man think that he could have his way with her. "Once they get started," she had warned, "they're too strong to be stopped. And if you don't stop them, it isn't their fault."
Connie knew that there were plenty of girls who not only didn't try to stop the explorations of male bands, but who also actually encouraged their advances. And she was sure that these women were largely responsible for the decline in morality which characterized twentieth-century America. And that was why she had joined the Police Force – to prove to herself, to her mother, and to the world that a woman could dedicate her life to fighting sin rather than fostering it.
If only my mother had lived long enough to see me in my uniform, she thought. That would have proved that she didn't have to worry about me. But her mother had died two years before, poisoned by her own bitterness.
Connie looked at Sheri, the blonde-wigged, star-birth marked prostitute, and an expression of contempt came over her face. The girl had pulled on her pantyhose and was zipping her skirt when she saw Connie looking at her. She detected the glint of hatred in the young policewoman's eyes and shuddered involuntarily. "I'm going as fast as I can," she said, anticipating Connie's command to hurry it up.
Sheri's breasts bobbed as she bent to retrieve her bra from the floor. She slipped it over her arms and stuffed her tits carefully into the cups. "Will you snap this for me, hon," she said, turning her back to Connie. "I usually get the johns to do it for me."
"Well, you'll just have to do it yourself this time," Connie said. "I'm not your maid. I'm a cop and you're a criminal. Remember that."
A shiver passed through Sheri's body as she reached behind her to snap her own bra. This bitch gives me the creeps, she thought. She acts like she doesn't have a cunt. She picked up her sweater and put it on quickly, anxious to be dressed and out of there. She had the feeling that the policewoman hated her enough to kill her and she couldn't imagine why. But it frightened her.
"All right," she said. "I'm ready."
Connie wondered for, a moment whether she was supposed to put the cuffs on the girl. She didn't seem dangerous, but Connie wasn't sure. Just then the door opened and the detective with whom she had come popped his head into the room. "Everything all right?" he asked.
"Sure," she answered. "But this one sure took her time getting dressed."
"Nobody's in a hurry to get to jail," he answered with a grin. "Let's go, kid."
Sheri walked to the door and Connie followed. When they got to the street, the detective opened the back door of the police car and assisted the young woman of ill fame into the back seat with an extravagant flourish of his arm. "Your coach, milady," he said.
Sex fiend, Connie thought. Without a word she walked to the passenger side of the police car and climbed into the front seat. She looked through the wire mesh which separated the front seat from the back and saw the detective hand the prostitute a cigarette and light it for her. Connie turned around to face front. Staring out the window, she rode in silence until the car pulled up in front of the precinct.
She led the prisoner from the car and was about to escort her to the squad room for booking when the desk sergeant spotted her. "Hey, Connie," he called. "Better let someone else take the prisoner. Lieutenant Blumenthal wants to see you."
"Me?" Connie asked, a faint look of worry coming to her face. "What does he want to see me about?"
The sergeant shrugged and grinned. "He forgot to tell me," he said.
Leaving her prisoner in the charge of another policewoman, Connie walked up the rickety stair-way which led to the lieutenant's office. She knocked on the frosted glass of his office door and opened it at his musical "come ee-un".
"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" she asked, her voice serious.
"Why, yes, Connie. Yes, I did," he said. Lieutenant Blumenthal smiled at her in a friendly fatherly way. He was a heavy set man of about forty-five with a ruddy face and a thick walrus moustache. Although his hair was gray, the moustache was a reddish brown. Connie thought that it gave him the appearance of a comic-book character. But she respected the lieutenant. He was the only man that she bad ever met who didn't seem to be thinking about sex all the time.
Connie sank into the soft-cushioned, overstuffed chair which faced the lieutenant's desk. He smiled again and said, "Understand you went out on a 'prost' bust today. How did you like it?"
"Like it?" she said incredulously. "How could anyone like something like that?" Then, calming herself by a deliberate act of will, she added, "But at least I can take some satisfaction in knowing that that vile creature will be off the street for fifteen days."
The lieutenant's face broke into a wide mirthful grin. "Fifteen days?" he said, echoing Connie's incredulity. "We'll be lucky if we can keep her fifteen hours."
"What do you mean?" she asked. "What about the Penal Law? It says Class-B misdemeanor. Fifteen days."
"Ah, yes, the Penal Law," Lieutenant Blumenthal said slowly. "Well, my dear, it may take you a while to learn this, but there's a big difference between the law and enforcing the law. Did you see her take any money?"
"No, of course not," Connie said, a bit shaken.
"And nobody else did, either. We haven't got a case." The lieutenant's sad expression told Connie that he was almost as displeased with the situation as she was. "But she's only a small fish, anyway," he continued. "If we tried to lock up every whore in New York City, there wouldn't be any room in the jails for the real criminals. And it's the real criminals that I want to talk to you about."
"What do you mean?" Connie asked, uncertain of why she had been sent for.
"Junk! Heroin! That's the real culprit," he said. "If we can't stop the drug traffic in this city well never be able to clean up the streets. Junk! It's everywhere. Have you heard about the rash of overdoses in Forest Hills?"
"Yes," she answered. "Two kids died in the last couple of weeks, I believe."
"Correction," said the lieutenant. "Three! The third one died this morning."
"But what does that have to do with us?" Connie asked. "Forest Hills isn't our precinct. It isn't even our borough. Forest Hills is where the rich folks live. We've got troubles enough down here."
"Troubles, yes," said the lieutenant with a smile. "But troubles enough? Never. You see, when some ghetto-dwelling junkie overdoses down here, not too many people give a damn. But when it happens to a couple of smart college kids up in Forest Hills, a lot of people start getting uncomfortable. And one of them is the mayor. It seems that his telephone has been busy all day. Quite a few of those influential Forest Hills folks want to know what he's doing about 'their' problem."
"Everybody's got problems, Lieutenant," Connie said, still not sure of what he was getting at.
"But Forest Hills is something special," he continued. "The dope pushers don't do business in the street up there like they do here in this neighborhood. And that makes them harder to find. That's where you come in Connie."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"The mayor has asked for my help," the lieutenant explained. "He needs an undercover agent to infiltrate the Forest Hills youth culture. Someone young and relatively unknown. Someone who has never worked Forest Hills or any of the neighborhoods around it. And most important of all, we need someone who doesn't look like a cop. Someone who'll be able to gain the confidence of the kids."
"And that's the hard part," he continued. "Finding someone who doesn't look like a cop. You see, most cops look like cops. I can't tell you what it is – perhaps the facial expression, or the way we walk – but there is something about a cop. Most of those kids can spot one a mile away. But you've only been on the force for six months, Connie. You haven't acquired that 'cop' look yet. You're still fresh and clean. You could be a schoolteacher, a college student, a nurse maybe. Anything but a cop."
"What do you want me to do, Lieutenant?" Connie asked. It sounded like he was about to give her an important assignment and she wanted to let him know how willing she was to undertake it. "It's an undercover assignment, Connie," the lieutenant said. "If you manage to pull it off I can almost guarantee your transfer to the detective squad. I know you'd like that."
"Like it?" Connie interjected. "Like it? Just tell me when I start and what I have to do?"
"It's pretty simple, really," the lieutenant said. "But there is some element of danger. You'll move to Forest Hills and pose as an art student. Do your best to work your way into the confidence of the young drug users. You'll find that most of them frequent a place called the Glass Onion. It's a kind of a discotheque, but they use it as a hangout and meeting place. Then I want you to buy some heroin."
"You want me to what?" Connie asked. Her eyes opened wide in surprise.
"You heard me," the lieutenant said. "Buy some heroin. It's a lot easier than you might think. Chances are that any of the kids that hang out at the Glass Onion can get you a fix. But that's not what we're after. We want the 'supplier'."
"You mean you want me to buy a large quantity of it?" she asked.
"It doesn't matter how much you buy," he answered. "The tiniest crumb is enough to get us an arrest warrant. Just make sure you buy it from someone who's in a position to sell a large quantity. Think you can handle it?"
"I'm sure of it," she answered. "And thanks for your confidence."