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HOT SEX STORY: FUCKING A POLICEMAN, RICHARD FINCH RIDES AGAIN

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As we left our favourite restaurant, the Haunch of Venison in Market Street, Lynchfield, I noticed that Richard had parked his car on a double-yellow line. Moreover there was a policeman standing beside it. When however he recognised Richard, he smiled cheesily, saluted obsequiously and sloped off. Richard gave him a cheerful grin and a wave.

“Hi, Jazz!” he shouted.

There was no parking ticket stuck on the windscreen, nor had any wheel been clamped.

“What was all that about?” I asked.

“Oh I just asked him to keep an eye on my car while we were at lunch. It’s a soft-topped sports car, easily broken into, and I wanted him to chase off any traffic wardens who might want to book me for parking here. Now hop in, James”

I hopped in. It was a fine day, so Richard took down the soft top.

“Richard, that young man is a Sergeant. Even if there were any justification for having a police guard on your car while we were feeding our faces, which there is not, a mere Police Constable could have done the job equally well!”

“It’s one of the perks of being a Member of Parliament!” Richard smirked.

“Bollocks! It isn’t. Even I know that. You’re up to something.”

“Oh well! Yes, I am. Must I explain?”

“Yes, you must!”

The car was now bearing us away from the Lynchfield lunchtime traffic. We were soon in the open country. Richard’s car stereo was merrily blaring Wagner; on this occasion The Flying Dutchman. I switched it off.

“Now, Richard, tell me about Jazz.”

“Oh all right! But not now and not here; near here there’s a nice view that nobody knows about. You don’t mind trespassing? Not that the farmer will mind if you’re with me. I am a great supporter of his local hunt.”

He parked the car, set the alarm, and a few minutes later we were striding along a narrow path and up a steep wooded hill, Pickle Beacon. It was hard work keeping up with Richard; he was so bloody fit. There was hardly a breath of wind. We both got very hot. There was a panoramic view from the top, where the trees were fewer. No-one else was there. Richard pulled off his shirt and prepared to sunbathe, exposing his six-pack. Then he glanced at me, mischievously.

“I dare you to strip off completely.”

Richard unlaced his shoes and rapidly shed the rest of his garments. His shaven, muscular body was a Greek or Roman masterpiece; impressive and desirable. Married man and Lieutenant Colonel though I might be, I had chinks in my armour. The biggest one was called Richard Finch, damn him!

Richard chuckled, “There’s always a chance that we might be seen by the farmer or an ornithologist!”

“Okay, dare accepted.”

I stripped as well. We lay down in a patch of warm sunlight.

“Now,” said Richard, “I shall unfold the tale of me and Jazz. Lie back and listen carefully.”

Grasshoppers were chirruping. A lark was singing overhead. I made a pillow of my jacket, shirt and trousers; partly to ensure that I kept control of them. Richard was a well-known practical joker. I lay back and listened.

A few months previously Richard, to the surprise of all his friends who knew what he was really like, had managed to get himself elected as Conservative MP for Lynchfield and Flogham in an unexpected by-election. This was surprising for a number of reasons; one of which was that Richard had often said in the past that he would never be seen dead in the House of Commons. Now however he was seen there quite often; alive and making controversial speeches; barracking the opposition and driving Mr Speaker up the wall. He was evidently becoming quite addicted to the Palace of Westminster. He was a member of the 1922 Committee and of the Commons Defence Select Committee; both of them providing him with limitless scope for mischief and for the pursuit of his private agendas. While the Speaker and his own Party Whips might view Richard as a loose cannon, they could not do much about him: he was reportedly on good terms with the Prime Minister, who admired him as a former SAS officer who had served in the Falklands and who was no more proof than anyone else against Richard’s striking good looks, charm and mischievous insolence. That is, when Richard wanted to be charming. He could also be the exact opposite if the occasion seemed to demand it. His reactionary constituents, most of whom would happily have reintroduced the death penalty for a wide range of offences; not just homicide, and probably flogging for minor offences too, were very much on his wavelength. The fact that he hunted, fished, and shot, was a definite advantage, as far as they were concerned. So was the fact that he was a sworn enemy of all hunt saboteurs, the League against Cruel Sports, the RSPCA and the National Trust. Richard was no wet liberal townie: No Sir!

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One day, a few weeks earlier, Richard had been driving along the Lynchfield by-pass on his way back to Gravestock, when he was pursued and overtaken by a police motor-cyclist and forced to pull into a lay-by. He had been speeding while listening to The Ride of the Valkyries on his car stereo and the traffic policeman had nabbed him. Damn and blast.

The policeman had been aggressive and rude, although he was not unattractive. He was very fair, brutally handsome and was revealed as having a blond crew-cut when he took off his helmet. Richard, while he seldom wore his own hair quite that short, found crew-cuts – “a typical other ranks’ cut”, as he called it – sexy on other men.

“You’ve been breaking the speed limit … Sir!” He made it sound like an insult.

Richard decided to try turning on the charm. He gave his most winning searchlight smile, which almost always worked on women, and frequently on men as well. It had probably helped him to get elected.

“I’m sorry, Officer. I had no idea that I was exceeding the limit. I don’t think that I could have been doing so by very much!”

“You were driving along here at eighty miles an hour. The speed limit is seventy. I’m booking you… Sir! “

Crikey. This could be awkward.

“It’s my first offence, Officer! Until now I have had a spotless record!”

“No you haven’t.” The Sergeant pulled out an electronic gizmo and typed in Richard’s car registration number. It produced a small printout, which reproduced three parking tickets. “I have records of three unpaid parking fines on this vehicle”. He handed the printout to Richard.

Richard started to get incensed. “I’ve appealed those. The fines were quite unjustified. And the appeal has not yet been heard!”

“No record of any appeal pending, Sir!”

“Well, it is!”

The policeman looked more closely at Richard. “Here, I know you from somewhere!”

That could be good or bad news: On the one hand, the cop might be a former soldier. If the man knew Richard from the Army, Richard might try to play the Army card and ask him to let off a former brother in arms. On the other hand, he might know him for some other, less favourable, reason. Richard waited.

“You’re that bloke in the films! You must be that porn-star, Jack Mallett!”

Well, thought Richard, if I must be, I must be, I suppose! He occasionally looked at porn and was vaguely aware of Jack Mallett. Now that he thought of it, there was a resemblance.

The policeman became marginally friendlier. “I’ve seen all your films! I got them on video!”

This sounded promising.

“Really? Which ones did you enjoy best?”

“Well, there was that one when you tied up and shagged that slutty blonde, Kelly Wossname, in all her holes, in bondage… and – I’m not queer or anything – but…”

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“Yes?”

“I found myself enjoying that one in which you was tied up, suspended, flogged and then fucked by an enormous black man! “

“Glad you enjoyed them. Jack Mallett is just a stage name. Here’s my driving license.”

Richard gave the Sergeant another searchlight smile. The policeman looked at the license briefly and then returned it. Evidently the name of Richard Finch meant nothing to him. That, on balance, was no bad thing.

“You’ll always be Jack Mallett to me.”

There was a long pause.

“I ought to book you”, said the policeman.

Richard said nothing. The cop continued:

“Look, how about we do a deal. Like I said, I’m really not queer or anything but I found myself fancying you when I was watching your films. I’ve always been…curious, like, and I’ve always wanted to fuck a porn-star, so…”

“You mean a fuck instead of a fine? A bit unethical, but it sounds good to me!” said Richard. “Where shall we go?”

The cop licked his lips; perhaps nervously, perhaps not.

“Near here there’s a house for sale. The little old lady who lived there has died and her family want to sell. My girlfriend, Lucy Jones, is an estate agent and she’s taken me to see it. I think that she thinks that we might buy it together, but I’m not ready to commit… I can get in because I’ve got skeleton keys. It’s a nice house, but it’s too isolated. There isn’t much interest. We could go there. No-one will disturb us.”

“Okay. Look, we’ll go in my car. You leave your motor-bike here. No-one’s going to touch a police motor-cycle. You can navigate.”

The cop got in.

“May I know your name?”

“Sergeant Piggott. James Piggott. But everyone calls me Jazz.”

I’d call you Pig, thought Richard, silently.

They drove off, down a minor road, down an unclassified road and then up a farm track. A pretty, slightly run-down, farmhouse came into view. White doves crooned on the roof. In the unkempt garden apple trees were already heavy with a bumper crop that no-one would harvest. Richard pulled up in front of the house.

“Now, Jazz, let’s get friendly.” Richard put his hands on Jazz and started to kiss him.

“Nah then, nah then! Wait till we get inside! Anyone could come along!” Jazz seemed nervous. After all, he had his reputation to consider.

Cowardy custard! Richard thought. The landscape looked very deserted; just fields of barley and hedgerows, with apparently no human inhabitants, but he said “Okay!”

They went indoors. The house was still fully furnished. Evidently her family either did not want the old lady’s possessions or they had not got around to removing them. Once inside the house, Jazz started getting assertive. He leaned against the chimneypiece, smirking at Richard, with his arms folded. He had great, muscular forearms, which were on display as he had rolled up his shirt sleeves. There were tattoos on one of them. Richard liked muscular forearms; his own were not bad, either. All things considered, Jazz was not a bad-looker; always provided that you liked your men thuggish, in a Tom of Finland kind of way. He obviously played rugby; he had that kind of build. He probably did weight training too. Richard, who also played rugby, could easily imagine him bellowing out sinful rugby songs. Jazz was starting to run slightly to fat; a little bit chubbier than he should have been. Of course, it was now the cricket season. Rugby would not start again for a couple of months, but even so, he should keep himself fit…Too much beer and fast-food, thought Richard, who was a wine-drinker and believed in eating healthily, except on special occasions. Jazz was still very sexy in spite of this; possibly even because of it, and he knew it. Because Jazz was a motorcycle cop, he wore close-fitting riding breeches and top-boots, not trousers and shoes. His breeches were tailored snugly round the groin and ass. They were stretched tightly over his massive, muscular thighs and buttocks. You could, if you looked closely, see the outline of his very brief briefs. At the “v” of the open neck of his shirt, above the line of his T-shirt, there were thick, dark-blond curls. He was a genuine hairy-chested man of action. Jazz evidently went in for macho fashion statements. He wore a great, clunking deep-sea-diver’s watch. Round his neck was a steel chain, which later proved to be attached to fashion-statement military-style steel identity discs. He possessed a pair of cool Polaroid Aviator shades, which he now removed. He gave Richard a look of pure lust. It was not a nice look. It spelt “rape.” (“I’m not queer or anything but…” Hah!)

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“Jack, I want you to strip for me now”, commanded Jazz. “But before you strip, take a look at this!”

Richard looked.

Jazz licked his lips again. Very slowly, making sure that Richard was watching, Jazz drew down the zip of his breeches. He had a seriously massive lunch-box. Inside the breeches he was wearing tight, scarlet low-rise briefs. Jazz now pushed them down and let his cock pop out. It was big, thick and curved. Jazz had been circumcised. Jazz grinned at Richard.

“Impressive, isn’t it? Come closer. Hold it! Feel it! Guess where that’s going!”

The purple-headed bed-snake, I presume, thought Richard. Silly remark: it’s going up my ass, of course.

“Aren’t you going to strip off too?” he asked out loud.

“Maybe! That’s for later. Now you strip for me, Jack! I’m watching!”

Jazz continued to watch Richard. His pale blue psycho eyes were already stripping Richard and plundering his body. Jazz’s hand slid down and started to play with his cock. It got even bigger.

He’s done this before, thought Richard. I just know it. He’s got a practised air about him. He’s been abusing his position. He’s done this before, whether to men or women I don’t know; probably to both. The bastard! I’ve agreed to go through with this and I’m going to go through with it, but he’s going to get his come-uppance thereafter; so help me God! Meanwhile, it’s gonna bloody-well hurt!

Richard obeyed with a meekness that those who knew him well would have said was a very dangerous sign. He hung his jacket over the back of a chair and folded his clothes neatly on the seat. Fully naked, he stood with his feet apart, hands on his hips, looking expectantly at Jazz.

“Now what?”

Jazz stared at him silently for several minutes and then smiled.

“You’ve got a great body; I’ll say that for you. I guess that porn-stars have to!”

I guess they do, you tosser! thought Richard, after a moment’s consideration. He nodded, unsmilingly.

Jazz approached and handled Richard in a very familiar and intimate way. He tweaked Richard’s nipples. He bit his shoulder gently, then not-so-gently. He handled Richard’s cock and balls. He slid a finger deep into his ass-hole and shoved it firmly up it as far as it would go. And then again and again. Richard gasped and winced. Jazz laughed.

Jazz whispered “I’m not queer or anything, but I reckon that I’m going to enjoy this”. He continued to whisper. “And if you ever, ever tell anyone about this, Mr Gay-for-Pay Porn-star, I’ll come and kill you with these hands!” He kissed Richard. His mouth smelt, and tasted, of fast food: scampi with garlic sauce. He was also wearing a powerful and presumably erotic after-shave, which did nothing at all for Richard. Yuck!

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