Do me, Copper!

That little jailbird likes a woman in uniform. She played by the wrong rules, landed behind bars, yet found a guard who caught her eye. The CO keeps her distance at first. The prisoner does not. She leans into the bars, speaks soft, breathes warmth across the officer's cheek. Her fingers trace the seam of khaki trousers. The uniform suddenly looks tighter than it did an hour ago. The guard could call for backup. She does not. Instead she steps into the cell when the corridor is quiet. Keys clink, silence spreads. The prisoner wastes no time pushing the black tie aside, popping buttons. Underneath lies the tight belly of a fit officer who has spent too many nights on duty. She pins the woman against the concrete wall, kisses her hard, tastes coffee on her tongue. Cloth drops. Skin meets skin. The bad girl drops to her knees on cold tile and finally gets to tongue what she has been picturing every long hour of lockdown. The officer closes her hand in prison-yellow hair, stays quiet so the cameras miss it. Legs part. Their rhythm is quick and hungry, no moonlight promises, only heat and wet sounds that echo through empty night halls. When she comes she bites her own wrist to stifle the gasp. Still in cuffs, the jailbird leans her cheek against the officer's thigh, smiling like a cat who already got the cream.