Public Indecency

Officer Jones, Georgia Jones, should’ve been eating. Instead she’s sprinting through some stranger’s living room after Milana May’s bare ass, service belt slapping her thigh with every stride. Corners her by the bookshelf. “Indecent exposure, breaking and entering,” she spits, breathing hard. “You just made this worse.” Milana’s eyes go wide. “Please, if my folks find out I was playing with myself, I’m homeless. They’re nuts about this shit.” Jones knows that drill—strict parents, secret thrills. She softens for half a second. “Doesn’t change the law. You can’t rub one out on the neighbor’s lawn.” “Get a boyfriend, then,” she suggests. “Normal people do.” Milana shakes her head. “Can’t.” Jones raises an eyebrow. Milana leans in, voice dropping. “I don’t like men.” She watches the flicker in the cop’s eyes, and the smile curves slow. “You don’t either, do you?” Georgia’s silence answers loud enough. Milana seizes it. “I’ll do anything,” she whispers. “Behave. Whatever you want. Just don’t write me up.” Jones stares at the girl’s flushed skin, the damp glint still shining on her fingers, and her resolve cracks like cheap veneer. Sweet offer, and she can’t refuse.