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I usually don't speed, but this time it can't be helped. You hug my body as I hug the curves, leaning low into the seat. Your body presses hard against my back when I hit the brakes, pulls away from me when I accelerate. You keep your hand above my waist only because I've made you promise to do so -- to transgress would be dangerous. But I can tell, this time in particular, that it's an effort for you.
 I merge the Triumph onto the freeway, hitting 60, 70, 75, and you grip me with your spread thighs tight against my hips. The wind whistles past us. You've unzipped your jacket, and even through the back of mine, I can feel them. Firm, insistent, unforgiving. And it's not because of the cold.
I can still feel our positions reversed, your body in my arms, your back against my front, me leaning down to line my eyes up with yours, smelling the scent of your hair and feeling your pigtails brush against my shoulders. I can still feel your ass against mine, pressing against my crotch, your tight jeans smooth and your round butt wriggling maybe a little more than it needs to. I can still hear you say "I can't," a little pathetic whimper designed, I suspect, to get me to do exactly what I'm doing: to curl my arms around you, put my hands on yours, and help you steady them. "You can," I tell you, and your body tenses as you pull the trigger.
The Magnum explodes in front of us, its four-inch barrel erupting in a flash of death, and you let out a yelp, a scream -- and then a trembling giggle as I help you put down the gun, pointing downrange. You bring your hand to your mouth, gasping. A hole has appeared between the eyes of the shadowed target.
"I hit it," you say in a faint moan, as I put my arms around you and hug you. I realize, in an instant, that your nipples are so hard that they hurt my wrist as I brush by your breasts. Your ass is pushed back firmly against my crotch, my now hard cock resting centered in the furrow between your cheeks.
"Beginner's luck," I whisper, and you reach for the gun.
#
I can still feel it all as we pull into the driveway, stinking of cordite and flop sweat. Now I understand why you needed to fire a .44 magnum for your first gun, why you begged me to leave the Glock at home, why you said you'd do anything if I'd keep the Sig .380 in the gun safe in the back of the closet. And I know why I agreed.
Because I remember, perhaps even more vividly than the first shot, how you glanced behind us, made sure the clerk wasn't watching through the filthy bulletproof glass, how you unfastened the top button of your incredibly low-slung jeans, took my cordite-stinking hand in yours, shoved it underneath. No panties -- I knew that, or I could have guessed it, because I've seen you in these jeans and I know even the skimpiest thong shows above your waistband. But tonight, for your virgin foray into squirting lead, you've got nothing at all under those tight low-rise jeans. Nothing but your pussy, smooth and shaved and -- I find out as you force my finger into you -- dripping. No, not dripping. Pouring. It's a wonder your jeans aren't soaked through. You ease my hand out of you, bring it to your face and lick my finger, breathing deeply, making love to the tip of my pussy-slick finger, inhaling its scent.
"Ever notice how pussy and gunpowder smell sort of the same?" you ask.
"Not until now," I say.
#
I understand it now -- I understand a few things, maybe more than a few. Why, when you found out -- after our first night together -- that I was a cop, you searched all over the net for interesting facts about women and guns, quoting them to me from obscure websites while I cleaned my service Beretta on the coffee table. Why you "happened" along schoolgirls-with-guns.com and giggled for hours with me over the ludicrously cheesy photos of scantily-clad pigtailed girls with assault rifles.
 Why that was the night we fucked so hard we broke the bed, I was late to work and you called me at my desk the next day to masturbate on the phone for me while I sat uncomfortably amid the hubbub of the squad room. Why you started begging me to take you to the shooting range, show you how to shoot - not just any old gun, but the .44 magnum my father left me.
Why, when you showed up at my place for the ride to the range, you were wearing those low-rise jeans with the flowers down the sides, a skintight Britney Spears crop-top too obscene for its namesake to ever get away with on national television, and your hair in pigtails. The guys at the gun shop couldn't take your eyes off you, their gazes of abject lust thicker than the smoke in the room as their eyes roved over your erect nipples showing through the top -- but then, nobody fucks with a well-armed schoolgirl.
#
I shove you against the wall the second we're in the house, holding you hard with my whole body. I set down the gun case and rip off your jacket, exposing your firm breasts through the crop top. Your nipples are so hard they feel like rocks against my chest, and it's not from the ride. You're not wearing a bra.
"Will you give it to me?" you whisper into my ear as I devour you, my mouth biting and sucking at your neck, your shoulders, your cleavage. "Will you give me what I want, officer?"
I step back, my cock throbbing my pants.
"What's that?" I ask you.
"Oh," you say. "I think you know."
Wriggling out from under me, you pick up the gun case and saunter into the combination living room/bedroom. You set the gun case down on the bed. I watch as you kick off your Adidas sneakers and slowly unzip your incredibly tight pants. You have to squirm and struggle to slide out of them; I can see as you bend all the way over to take them over your ankles that your pussy really is smooth, smooth as silk -- and that your jeans really are soaked. You stand up partway and look over your shoulder at me, your pigtails framing your gorgeous face and your smooth, round ass-cheeks framing your bare pussy.
Slowly, you crawl onto the bed, stretching out. You've still got the crop top on, maybe because you like the sense of innocence it imparts. I don't doubt it. But however innocent Britney may be, your tits with their hard nipples spell out that you're anything but. You cuddle up with the gun case and unzip it.
"Be careful with that," I tell you, and you smile coquettishly, as if daring me to stop you.
I stand, watching, my cock hard in my jeans, my motorcycle boots planted firmly -- I couldn't stop you if I wanted to.
You take the .44 magnum out, sniffing the 4-inch barrel as deep as you can, then licking around it, licking down the stainless steel barrel. You pop the cylinder and hold it up for me, making sure I can see it's empty. Spreading your legs, you ease the gun between them and, holding the gun upside down, nuzzle the muzzle of the gun between the shaved lips of your sex.
"Don't you need some lube?" I ask.
You shake your head, no.
The barrel disappears into your pussy, and you moan "Oh God, oh God oh God." Usually when you're rubbing yourself to orgasm, you take it slow, warming up, getting yourself all hot. This time it's none of that -- just slam, bam, thank you Ma'am. You shove the gun as deep as it will go and rub yourself as fast as you can. You cum almost instantly, twisting and writhing on the bed.
When you come to a stop, you look up at me flirtatiously and lick your lips.
It takes me a moment to understand that you really are doing it. You place the cunt-slick Magnum on the already stained sheets and open the box of .44 shells. You dump them out onto the bed and begin fishing around in them as if you're looking for just the right one to take your virginity. You pluck a bullet and tease it down to your pussy.
"You shouldn't," I say, but I don't move to stop you.
"Oh God," you repeat, nuzzling the steel-jacketed bullet against your clit. You swirl it all over, then ease it down and slid it partway into your cunt, fucking yourself with the shell. Tiny cock -- big bullet.
You take the bullet out of your pussy, glistening now with your juice. You pop the .44's cylinder, and slide the bullet home.
I want to touch my cock so bad, to climb up and slide it into you. But I have to watch -- like one of your strip club patrons getting a lap dance, I can watch, smell, hunger -- but not touch.
 You repeat the process with four more shells, filling the cylinder of the handgun. Without closing the cylinder, you lick the muzzle again, giving it head with the swirl of your tongue. Then, you spread your legs wide and set the gun between them on the bed. Your hands resting on your thighs, you look right at me.
"What do you say, officer? Will you give a little girl what she really wants?"
I'm on you in an instant, the Sig coming out of my belt pouch before you can gasp. You know I pack, 24/7 -- a sexy silver-finish Sig-Sauer .380 that you've always been fascinated with. But you never expected to have it shoved in your mouth. You never expected to suck it.
My knee is between your legs, holding you down, as your eyes go wide, not even believing that I've got the Sig shoved in your mouth, that you're sucking on the barrel like it was my cock. You know it's real -- and you know I carry it loaded for trouble, one round in the chamber. Cocked and loaded, safety on.
"You want to play on the edge, baby? This is what we call the fucking edge."
Your eyes are wide and I see terror in them, terror like I've never seen. That's when I thumb the safety off, and your eyes tell me that whatever kind of gun novice you are, you know what I've just done.
I smell it. Just a little, just the faintest hint. Sharp, dangerous. I guess I've gotten through to you. I'm just glad I put that waterproof mattress cover on before you came over.
"You like it, baby? You like tasting danger? You want to play on the edge?"
There are tears in your eyes. You shake your head gently, back and forth, my hand following you with the Sig deep in your mouth, almost forced up to the back of your throat.
"Too late now," I tell you. "You wanted to play on the edge, and now you're really on the edge. And I'm in control." I see the effect it has on you. The terror heightened, your nipples become even more evident through the shirt.
"Reach for the Magnum," I tell you. "You're the one who loaded it. Now you're the one who's going to fuck yourself. Or maybe you'll try to kill me before I kill you?"
A sob wracks your body, and your hands stay where they are.
"Pick it up, I said. Pick it up and shove it in your cunt."
Shivering, you shake your head, desperately. I thumb back the hammer on the Sig. Cocked and loaded.
"You wanted this, baby. Now put it in."
I half expect you to shove the Magnum in my gut and fire. Of course, I'd pull the trigger before I went down, and we'd make an ugly headline. I look down at the glittering revolver, wondering who owns you.
You turn the barrel toward your pussy, ease it up to your sex.
"Pull the hammer back."
Another sob, this one gentle, resigned. "Please," you mouth around the barrel of the Sig.
"Pull it back. You wanted this, baby. Now cock the gun."
I hear the hammer clicking back, feel your body shivering with terror. "Put it in," I tell you, my cock so hard I can hardly stand it.
This time your cunt is tight, tight from the fear and the anticipation. The gun won't go in at first. You plead with your eyes for me to let you stop.
"You asked for it. Now take it."
Finally the barrel slides into your cunt, and you can't stop the spasms of your body as your back arches and you shiver back. Now I'm on top of you, my hand between your legs, holding both guns and shoving the .44 deeper into you. I've got the Sig out of your mouth and against your head now, dripping with saliva. You're sobbing. Sobbing because you're about to come, and even in these short months we've been together I've learned to recognize the sighs. I work the .44 around so the barrel is hitting your G-spot, and that's when your mouth goes wide, drool leaking out and soaking the front of your T-shirt, making your tits even more evident. I feel you grabbing for my belt, ripping open my pants as I fuck you. Both your hands wrap around my cock and it only takes a few quick, expert strokes before I know I'm going to come.
You, too. Maybe it's the feel of my hot jizz mingling with the gun oil, or maybe it's the click of the .44 inside you as I pull the trigger. Either way, we both explode and I come so hard I feel liquid shooting onto my chest, look down as it soaks through your drool-spattered top. Crying, you writhe under me as I feel the .44 twitching with the spasms of your body.
Gently, I ease the gun out. I toss it on the pillow next to you -- black die-cast metal, a not-very-convincing replica, like the Sig. But knowing you, you never looked down -- and for me, I didn't give a shit if the bullets were real or not. What mattered, for me, was that you wanted them to be.
Because that's who you are, whether you're begging me to fuck you with a .44 magnum or tempting all the rednecks down at the gun shop. You're dangerous -- you're a living, breathing, flirting, dripping edge scene. Whether you're jerking me off onto your tits or cuddled up in my arms, fake guns strewn across the bed.
Cocked and loaded, baby, that's you.
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