Carla
written by:
dubd

Carla

Author's Note This story was inspired by an episode of Law and Order: SVU. The episode begins with a victim who survives a stabbing. The investigation leads to a swinger's club where the victim and his wife were members and the female detective - I won't use the character's names over concerns about copyright infringement - and her partner briefly go under cover as a husband and wife couple at the club. It turns out that the victim has fallen in love with one of the other members and it was his own wife who stabbed him. The episode ends with the victim murdering either his love interest or her boyfriend - doesn't matter really, it's been a while since I saw the episode - and the detectives moralize about open marriages and how they will always end badly.

I never liked that ending. My imaginative eye thought that the female detective rather enjoyed the attention she received at the club. Maybe she'd want to return, off duty, and explore her slutty side. I've changed the names of the character's, their appearances, and some of the particulars of the case, but fans of the show may recognize her reasons for going so long without sex. That explanation will be detailed in the second part of the story. Many readers of mine will recognize this part as a kind of prelude or, better yet, setup. And so it begins.

Carla

Carla walked down the opposite side of the street from her destination. She wore oversized sunglasses, a zip-up hoodie over her long blond hair and baggy pants. She'd actually driven to a parking garage two blocks away and walked this far. Driving left no records. Subway platforms had cameras and taxis had records of pickups and drop spots. She didn't know for sure, but she suspected that the department would frown on what she was thinking of doing. Walking served two other purposes; bolstering her courage and it gave her an opportunity to scan for familiar faces while reflecting on how she came to be here.

She was a homicide detective. She and her partner had been called to central park when a jogger had come across a body. Her partner was already there when she arrived and he gave her the rundown. Well-dressed corpse missing his wallet. A mugging gone too far. Except. Except for the Rolex still on his wrist. But Rolexes have serial numbers and can be tracked. Except for the money clip in his left front pocket. Five-hundred dollars there. Why take the wallet which probably only contained credit cards that could also be tracked? Maybe the prep hadn't expected to kill someone and panicked. Except for the ring on his wedding finger with a one-carat diamond in it, or the tie clip with an equally large stone just six inches below the bullet hole centered under the knot. Those were just too obvious to overlook. It just didn't make sense.

No I.D. meant that fingerprints were going to be their only hope; when there's no other physical evidence, you start with the victim. They didn't get an I.D. on the guy for a week - backlog in the lab - and ballistics wasn't much help either, apart from the fact that the lethal round wasn't actually a bullet, but a ball. Like that would be fired from a black powder pistol. But not a modern pistol. Modern gun enthusiasts liked to hit what they were aiming at, so modern guns had rifling to help the shot fly straight. This ball had none so that made it old - early to mid-nineteenth century - and also explained the gunshot residue on the victim's shirt. The killer probably stood no farther than fifteen to twenty feet away from the victim. A gun that old likely made the owner a registered collector and while that was still a huge list, it was manageable. They might not be able to match a gun to the round, but if they found a can of black powder, a chemical match might be made to the residue on the victim's shirt.

They were working that list when they got the guy's name. Brian Escher. Married, nice address on the Upper East Side. They went to interview the new widow and found out that she had just returned from a business trip to Miami. She hadn't spoken to him for a couple of days and had no idea who would want to kill him. It was looking more and more like what it appeared to be; a mugging gone bad. Except. Except for the gun; that was unusual. Who would bring a single shot flintlock to a mugging?

They went through his financials and didn't find anything strange except for a yearly payment to a place called The Exchange. for five-thousand dollars. Of course, the name drew their attention and they returned to the widow to ask her about it. She was evasive at first. When they assured her that her private life wouldn't appear on page six, she admitted that it was a swing club that she and her husband were members of.

Ignoring the implications of "swing club", Carla said, "Do any of the members collect guns?"

The victim's wife thought about it and said, "Possibly. It seems Harold Gutermann has said something along those lines."

Carla and her partner looked at each other, communicating without words, knowing what they were going to do. That Saturday they appeared at the club as a husband and wife couple, guests of Widow Escher, to see if they'd be interested in joining. News of Brian's death still hadn't been leaked to the press so no one wondered why his wife was there. On their way out of the house, Carla checked the collector's list on her phone. There was only one Harold on it. His last name was Gutermann.

From her time in vice, Carla knew how to dress for this sort of party. Sexy, but not streetwalker slutty. A dress that could be called appropriate but could also be a pile at her feet in a blink of an eye. It was a strapless sundress in off-white that hugged her body in flattering ways. It was printed with red roses and had a zipper in the back that ran from the top to bottom hem. She'd had to coach her partner on what to wear.

They followed the widow in her partner's private car to a converted warehouse in the industrial district. The only indication of anything out of the ordinary was the quality of cars on the street. You don't see many Bentleys in this neighborhood even during the day. They followed the widow to the door and were admitted into a foyer after the widow pushed what they assumed was a prearranged code on a doorbell. When the door opened, they followed her to the left around a wall, down a short hallway lined with pictures of what they might expect to see behind the wall on their right, to the left around another wall, to another door. The widow looked at them with a small smile. To Carla's raised eyebrow she said, "A casual observer from the street won't get a glimpse of the goings on behind this door. Privacy is closely guarded here." She opened the door and they stepped through.

A woman behind the desk greeted them and offered them lockers for their valuables while inside the club. They declined, Carla gripping her clutch which contained her badge, handcuffs and small gun, but had to surrender their phones. No pictures, thank you.

Next they followed the victim's wife through a set of double doors and stopped dead in their tracks, taking in all there was to see. The room was an immense space with ten-foot ceilings, supported by pillars here and there. Music played from unseen speakers, not quietly but at a volume that made normal conversation possible. Most of the lighting was provided by bright spotlights focused on a revolving stage in the center of the room where a woman was riding the cock of one man on an old style chaise lounge while another fucked her in the ass and at the same time sucking the cock of a third. Carla realized that the moans that they were making mixed in with the music. Subdued lighting in the rest of the space made it possible to observe couches around the perimeter where couples were engaged in various forms of sex; two men with one woman, two women with on man, two women enjoying each other in addition to the myriad one on ones. In a corner, a large black man stood holding a woman who had her legs wrapped around his waist, easily lifting and lowering her onto his cock. At least Carla assumed so; the lighting didn't allow for detail. She found herself staring, unable to look away.

"It's a bit much to take in at first," the widow said. "Why don't you two go to the bar and try to contain your astonishment? People will wonder if you just stand there gawking. I'll just go and do as you suggested."

Carla tore her eyes from the spectacle before her and follow the outstretched arm to the right where she saw the bar against the wall and toward the back of the room. She and her partner went to the bar, carefully not looking at each other for fear that they'd burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation and ordered drinks. They ignored the stools and just bellied up, her partner pulling out his wallet to pay but the bartender waved him off, "You're good."

Their drinks came and the both took a sip keeping their backs to the room. Suddenly, an arm slid around her waist and she felt what had to be a huge cock wedge itself between her ass cheeks.

"You are new and lovely," a voice said into her ear. Her nostrils filled by his pleasant cologne.

She felt her nipples harden and a tingling between her legs. Surprising only because she'd never had that happen during her time in vice. She turned to greet her admirer and held out her hand, "I'm Carla. This my husband Tom." She chanced a downward look, thankful that what she'd felt was just the shape of his cock through his trousers. "We're just here to see if we want to join." When he still didn't take her hand she said, "Maybe I'll shake that later."

At that he smiled and took her hand, "I'll hold you to that. I'm Josh and this is my girlfriend Amber." A woman behind him that Carla hadn't noticed smiled and raised her drink. She was very attractive and appeared to be of mixed race, maybe black and Asian. Carla had to admit that the combination was stunning.

Carla sipped her drink and looked around the room as she talked to Josh and Amber. The party was well under way. She nodded to the group on stage. "Is that what they mean by ‘air tight'," Carla asked.

"Yes it is," Amber said with a dreamy tone. "Is that what you're looking for?"

"As long as I'm one of the guys," Carla's partner said.

"And I'm one of the others," said Josh.

"I don't know," said Carla, ignoring their comments, "Tom and I - things have gotten a little - well, not dull, really - just ordinary, I guess. We're just looking for a little - adventure?" She turned to look at her partner, "Would you call it that, adventure?"

"Well, yeah," her partner agreed, "just a little spice, you know?"

"Well, this is the place," Josh said with a big smile. "We have everything from El Caliente like what you see from Rachel here," he indicated the foursome on the stage, "down to a dash of cayenne like you see over on the couches there," he pointed to the dimly lit walls of the room where the couples and groups were having various forms of sex, "to plain old salt and pepper," with a nod to the people just sitting at tables watching the show on stage. "Now they might step up and move to the couches, or go home and fuck each other's brains out. Different strokes, as they say."

"They don't ever just do it on the tables," Tom asked.

"Not while someone's on stage. It's considered bad form to detract from the stage," Amber said.

"There's etiquette to all this," Carla asked.

"More like common courtesy," Josh corrected. "If you're feeling really adventurous, we have a bondage and domination room. We call it ‘The Toy Store'."

Carla looked at her partner, "Ooo, I like that idea. Can we try that honey?"

"Depends on who is who, I suppose. I'd be more than willing to put you in handcuffs, dear."

Carla smiled at him and said to Josh, "Thing is, I'd be a little worried about doing that sort of thing with a total stranger. For instance, I just met you, so I probably wouldn't do that with you. I mean, how do you know that you wouldn't get hurt?"

"There's a vetting process before anyone is allowed to join. Violence is strictly frowned upon." Carla was certain that Brian Escher would be pleased to know that violence was strictly frowned upon and that there was a "vetting process". "Plus, in that particular room there're very large men to make sure things don't get out of hand."

"This is possibly the safest place in the city to let your hair down," Amber added.

"Still," Carla's partner said, "there're no problems? Ever? Not even jealousy?"

"If you come here," Josh said, "you can't be jealous. If you have a problem with, for instance, me fucking Carla here, why would you come? On the other hand, while I'm fucking Carla, you could be fucking Amber. Or Rachel. Ah Rachel," he said wistfully, looking back at the stage, "she really does love it up the ass."

"You know it's strange," Carla said, "They're totally naked and you know what they're doing, but with all that flesh up there, you can't really see anything."

"Let's get back to Tom and Amber," Amber said, "that could be a really good time. But with jealousy, there was that one time."

"Well yeah," Josh said, "but that was nothing."

Concerned, Carla said, "What was nothing?"

"Well, it was between Brian Escher and Harold Gutermann. But that would be spreading gossip. Something else we frown upon here."

Second time they'd heard Harold's name.

"So, who's Harold," Tom asked. "Just so I can avoid conflict."

"You really should talk to Zoe about this if you're really worried," Josh said looking around the room. "Ah, there he is with Bridget. Huh, I wonder where Brian is."

They looked to where he was pointing and saw the Widow Escher bent over an armrest, dress piled up on the small of her back, a man pumping her from behind. Well, they had told her to behave normally. Carla said, "Who's Zoe?"

Zoe Dandridge hovered at the end of the bar in front of a doorway. She, along with her husband owned the club. Her husband, they found out later, was the bartender. Beautiful woman was Carla's surprising thought as they approached. Smaller than Carla, though just as curvy, she had curly red hair and, Carla could see as they got closer, a spray of freckles across her chest and cheeks. The reason she could see the owner's chest was because the only thing she was wearing were stiletto heels, an electric blue thong and a sheer dressing robe with a gold "X" embroidered over her left breast.

They were about halfway there when her partner groaned, "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Focus," Carla said.

"I'm just saying, I'm getting ready to attack somebody," he looked at her and snorted, "Maybe you."

Carla laughed, "Kathy would probably have a problem with that."

"Maybe yes, maybe no," her partner said. "I think she sort of suspects that we have been anyway. Maybe it's where we are, but I think she'd be okay with it if she was involved. Either way, she's not going to know what hit her when I get home tonight."

Carla looked at him stunned, about to say something - this was a topic they had never broached - but then they got to Zoe.

"Hello," Zoe said warmly, "you're guests of Bridget Escher's, right? What do you think of The Exchange? Are you enjoying yourselves?"

Carla and her partner looked at each other and nodded. Carla opened her clutch and held it so that Zoe could see the badge within, "Not exactly. Is there someplace that we could talk?"

Zoe's face changed instantly from warm and welcoming to guarded and threatened. She turned and walked through the doorway. They followed her into a largish office where she sat behind a desk and indicated chairs for them to sit.

Her voice became professional, "What can I do for you - detectives?"

"We'd like to talk to you about a couple of your members," Carla said.

"With a subpoena," Zoe said, "you may have the entire list."

"We don't need or care about the whole list," Carla's partner said. "You asked a moment ago what we thought about your little club. For my part, I know a guy in vice who would probably like to try to make a case that this is an elaborate brothel."

"Brothel," Zoe said, sitting back with a smile. There was that warmth between Carla's thighs again. Zoe continued, "That would make me the madam and my husband, what, a pimp?"

"You charge five-thousand dollars a year for people to have sex with each other. What would you call that?"

"Membership dues," she said, matter-of-factly. "What were you charged for your drinks?"

"Nothing."

"It's covered by the dues. We have a three drink maximum per night, by the way. That drops to two if you demonstrate that you can't hold your liquor. We're about relaxation, not inebriation. Drunken people don't always play well with others. And, before you ask, we forbid all other controlled substances except for male performance aids."

"That's a lot of money for a few drinks."

"Well, there's the mortgage on this place and the lights don't stay on for free."

"Still," Tom said.

"There's a need for places like this," Zoe said defiantly. "These people come here because it's safe and they don't want streetwalkers. And before you belittle that, I saw you walking over to me." To Carla's partner she said, "You can't keep your eyes off my tits and you're pitching a tent in your pants right now." Carla resisted the urge to look at her partner's lap. She crossed her legs, the room was getting warm. To Carla Zoe said, "That's the third time you've crossed your legs since we've been in this room and there's desire written all over your face. I can't tell if it's for me or your partner, but it's there. How about I go back to my guests, you two enjoy each other on my desk and leave us alone."

Carla smiled, trying to suggest that the idea was absurd, but there was desire there. Was it for Tom? Or the woman in front of her, though the thought that the idea didn't bother her was a little worrisome. Or was it desire for the spectacle she had witnessed out in the other room? "Pleasant as that sounds, we are not vice, and don't really care what you do. We're homicide."

Zoe's expression changed immediately, "Homicide? Who . . . " a hand shot to her chin and she gasped, "Bridget's here but Brian's not."

"He's dead," Tom said. "We think he may have been killed by another one of your members. There was an incident."

They could see the conflict play across Zoe's face. She was trying to decide if talking to them would be a betrayal of the trust of her members. Carla tried to help, "We're really not here to bust you on morals charges. Honestly, I can see the appeal of this place. We even met a couple who clearly know why they're here. Nice people. When I did work vice, I always hated arresting the poor schlubs who were just trying to satisfy a need.

"But murder is an entirely different animal. I can't imagine a society that would shrug at the ending of a human life by violence. You won't be serving your members by allowing a murderer to hide in your midst. All we're looking for is justice for Brian Escher. That couple I mentioned would only say that he had a problem with another member. We just want details."

Zoe's mouth curled down at the corners, and she nodded, "It was about three weeks ago with Harold Gutermann. He was monopolizing Bridget's time. He made sure to be her first session when they arrived. He'd insert himself when she was with another man, even her husband. He'd find her between sessions."

"Sounds a little obsessive," Tom said.

"Brian asked him what he thought he was doing. Harold got offended. There was pushing and shoving. Our guys got between them before it actually came to blows, but it was close. They both pleaded their case to my husband and I and we put Harold on probation. If there had been actual punches thrown he would have been expelled. We've existed for seventeen years. It's the only incidence of the like that I can remember. The whole idea of this place is variety. It doesn't make sense to fixate on one person."

The detectives looked at each other. Tom said, "So, what do you think? Gutermann is obsessed with Escher's wife . . . ."

". . . and decides that he wants her for himself," Carla finished.

"But Escher gets possessive. . ."

". . . and calls him out in front of everybody here that night."

"And gets probation on top of it."

"Major disrespect," Carla said. "Life would be so much easier if Escher wasn't around. He doubts that he could get Bridget to divorce her husband . . ."

". . . but he has a whole collection of tools that would do the job effectively."

"All he has to do is get Brian alone . . ."

". . . and BANG Escher is a memory." Tom's eyebrows shot up, "Was he going to divorce his wife . . ."

". . . or was she going to have an accident?" Carla turned to Zoe whose face was a picture of terror, "Who's his wife?"

"That's sick," Zoe declared. Then she used two fingers on one hand to point at them both, "You two are scary."

"It's the real world. People have been killed for stupider reasons," Carla said. "His wife?"

"Rachel. The woman on the stage."

"Time to go to work," Tom said, standing. "One thing, I don't really get the name, The Exchange?"

"Of Bodily Fluids," Zoe finished. She gave a nervous laugh, the enormity of what she had heard shaking her confidence. "But that's rather a mouthful. The Exchange is tidier. Plus it has a sort of Wall Street feel that appeals to our membership."

Rachel and her friends lay panting on the chaise and the stage, their bodies glistening with sweat as Carla and her partner reentered the room. Carla saw that Rachel's body was covered with cum as they passed. Carla had a vault that she had very carefully constructed in her mind. The atmosphere of this place, as they passed people doing things that she hadn't done for years, chipping away at it. She wasn't sure what would happen if it got breached. Maybe jump Tom. He seemed to be inter - then she spotted their quarry.

He and Bridget were basking in the afterglow. Bridget saw them approach and her eyes changed. She moved away from Harold. Harold looked confused and followed her gaze in time to see Carla pull her shield out of her clutch and Tom hang his out of his shirt pocket.

They stopped in front of him and Carla said, "Harold Gutermann, you're under arrest on suspicion of murder." She pulled her cuffs out of the clutch, "We can do this outside or we can make a scene in here. Your choice."

But Bridget wasn't going to let him off that easy. She slapped his face as hard as she could and raised her voice, "You fucking bastard! You fucking killed my husband?! I hope you enjoyed that because for the rest of your fucking life, you're going to be the bitch!"

They were drawing attention, Carla saw. Mostly curious, but she knew that could change very quickly.

Rachel rushed up, drying cum still on her body. "Harold, what's going on? Who are these people?"

Harold stood, rubbing his face, "I have to go with them, Rach. Call John and have him meet me at - which precinct?"

"The twelfth."

"Can I put on my pants?"

"I don't really care," Tom said.

He pulled his pants on, he'd just dropped them on the floor by where he'd fucked Bridget, and Bridget had sort of killed any chance of being discreet, so Carla pulled out her handcuffs and slapped them on his wrists behind his back with a satisfying click. "You know how these work, right? For the record, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." She took an elbow and paraded him through the crowd as she finished advising him of his rights. Josh and Amber's shocked faces stepped back to let them pass.

Within the week, Harold was dead by his own hand.

Back at the precinct, their captain gave them grief for jumping the gun on the arrest. He would have preferred a more locked down case beforehand.

Tom and Carla defended themselves, "He did it, we knew where he was - " Tom started.

" - and we didn't want him getting wind of the investigation and get rid of the evidence," Carla finished.

"He knew the victim, wanted his wife and had had an altercation with him three weeks ago."

"Plus," Carla added, "He's a gun collector and likely has a weapon that will match what we know."

"You think he still has it," the captain asked, incredulous.

"If criminals didn't make mistakes - " Tom said.

" - we'd never catch anybody."

"Good luck," the captain said and walked away.

They obtained a warrant for the house, his car and included his cell phone and its records, all of which they served on his wife. She simply stood aside and waved at the house when she opened the door.

"We just want to see his guns and the car," Carla said. "We already have his phone so if you could just point us -"

"Go to hell," was the response.

"I know you're mad at us and maybe I get that," Carla said, "but this is a nice place and I don't want to tear it apart. Here's something for you to think about; on his phone was a file of pictures of Bridget Escher that can only be described as surveillance photos. She'd been his focus for a while. That might not bother you, but this should; Brian Escher is dead because your husband wanted his wife and was in the way. A man can only have one wife in this country, so where does that leave you? Divorced or dead? If we're wrong, I'm sorry, but show us the guns."

"If you're wrong," Rachel said, "the city will be broken by the lawsuit." But the wind was clearly out of her sails and she led them to a room that would be used as a den in any other home. Except for the hardware mounted on the walls and in glass cases. Carla would call it an armory.

She started left while Tom went right. How is this even possible, she wondered. New York City was ostensibly a gun free zone, but this guy had semi-automatic hand guns, revolvers, assault rifles - she was willing to bet a couple of those were full auto - as well as sniper and hunting rifles.

"Bingo," Tom called from across the room. "I was sure that the captain would be right, but here they both are."

"Both?" Carla joined him at a glass case containing two flintlock pistols.

"Dueling pistols." He opened the case, removed one and carefully sniffed the barrel. He replaced it and picked up the other one, giving it the same sniff. "Can't tell if it's been recently fired, but it has been recently cleaned."

"I'm with you," Carla said, "the captain should have been right; why'd he keep it?"

"Greed," came the answer from behind them. They turned to find Rachel leaning against the doorjamb. "As a complete set, it's worth around twenty-five thousand dollars. As a set missing a vital component, it's just an expensive paperweight. They were actually used in a duel once, but to my knowledge neither have been fired in - what? A hundred and seventy years? Neither should need cleaning. You'll find the powder in the drawer." She turned to leave.

"Wait," Carla said, "what happened in the duel."

Rachel kept her back to them, "At twenty paces they both missed and thought better of it. They're wildly inaccurate so to insure a kill, he would have had to be close. Please lock the door on your way out." And she was gone.

It was Saturday night. Gutermann wasn't talking on advice of his lawyer but was being held until he could be arraigned on Monday. Meanwhile, there was a call on his phone to the victim the day of the murder. They thought about it and had every restaurant and bar near where the body was found canvassed to see if anybody remembered seeing the two men together. They got lucky at a place near the logical entrance to the park where it would be easiest to get to the site. The time and proximity made it likely that Gutermann was the last person to see Escher alive.

At the arraignment on Monday, the prosecutor presented what he thought would be enough evidence to deny bail, but the judge disagreed and set bail at one-hundred thousand dollars. That amount was posted by his wife who, as far as anybody could tell, did so only so she could personally present him with divorce papers and tell him to find a storage unit for his things. And, by the way, the locks had been changed.

He didn't leave a note, but everyone guessed that he'd spent three days at the no-name hotel he could afford, assessing the dark future before him and his options. Then he broke onto the roof of the building and threw himself off. It was sixteen stories. Gravity actually did most of the work.

And that should have been it, Carla mused as she thought about going into a coffee shop to buy more time before doing what she came here to do. She went in and ordered a latte. That should have been it, Gutermann a cowardly dead perp, but then the dreams began.

She and Tom had talked about what had happened at the club and what had been said. He claimed that he was just trying to maintain his character, but she knew that some things had been said when only she could hear, so she didn't entirely buy his story. She didn't push it though, wanting to just get past it.

But she didn't get past it. Images of what she'd seen and heard at the club that night would appear in her mind at random moments. She'd push them away, but another would come along. Images that she didn't consciously remember seeing, but she didn't doubt that she had.

The dreams were something else though. They were not just images, but actions and sensations. Most revolved around Josh's greeting to her. "You're new and lovely," he'd say and she'd feel the zipper on her dress descend down her back. Then he'd hoist her up onto the barstool and insert his cock into her sopping snatch.

"You're new and lovely," he'd say and she'd turn, drop to her knees and take his waiting cock into her mouth.

"You're new and lovely," he'd say and bend her over the barstool, lift her dress and start fucking her from behind. "Are you just going to let him do this," she'd say to Tom who was suddenly there. Tom would shrug, drop his fly and shove his cock into her accepting mouth. That one disturbed her.

Most were like that, but in some she was Rachel, servicing three men at once. That one frightened her a little because it didn't repulse her.

Neither did the one involving Zoe.

Invariably, she would wake up in a sweat, alone in bed with three fingers of a hand buried in her own cunt. Either she was woken up by her orgasm or just before she came. She'd writhe in frustration that it was only her fingers inside of her.

On one occasion, she and Tom were coming back from a call and they stopped for lunch. She stayed in the car to monitor the radio while Tom retrieved the food. The dream that he was in with Josh popped in her mind. She tried to push it away but it wouldn't leave. And then the Rachel dream joined it and she was pretty sure that the guy in her ass was Tom. She saw Tom coming back with the food and was horrified to discover her right hand massaging her clit through her pants.

That vault she had in her mind had clearly been breached by that night and, like Pandora's Box, the contents were pouring into her world. The queen of compartmentalization, she tried to repair the damage but couldn't get it to hold. The dreams and images kept coming. She was exhausted, losing sleep. Tom would ask her what was wrong and she would just shake her head, unable to tell him that her nights were filled with fantasies of him and other men fucking her like a whore.

And always the cologne filled her mind, even while awake.

Finally, she realized that her wants and desires would not be denied; they had to be fed if she was going to have any peace. It was her only hope if she was ever going to get them back in that vault. There was a reason why she hadn't had sex for so long. She had no idea how she was going to get laid. Then an idea occurred to her. She shook her head at the absurdity of it, but couldn't deny the elegance. It was fitting.

Still she denied it, enduring the dreams at night and the distractions during the day. One morning she stepped out of the shower and stood naked in front of a full length mirror, critiquing her own body. Would anybody even be interested in her? Starting at the top, she was a natural blond with hair that fell well below her shoulders and framed an attractive face that boasted full lips.

Moving south she arrived at her tits. Not as large as she'd like, but more than a mouthful. She'd never considered enhancement though. As yet, gravity hadn't claimed them, they were still firm and round. Turning to the side, she examined her ass which was a little larger than she'd like, but she had to admit that it had a nice shape and flowed naturally into a set of toned runner's legs.

Her weakest feature, she decided, was her belly. She was in shape, as mandated by department regulations, but she was too curvaceous to be mistaken for any kind of hard body. As hard as she tried, there was a small, stubborn layer of fat there that gave her belly what she described as a womanly roundness. But was she just deceiving herself? Was she really just fat? Do these jeans make my ass look big? Jesus.

She'd finally just given up on her belly.

She fought it for as long as she could but in the end admitted that something had to give. One morning she called Tom and told him that she was going to take the day.

"Are you okay," he asked, sounding worried.

"Yeah, I just haven't been sleeping well," she said. True enough as far as it went, but then she told him a bald-faced lie, "I'm going to take something and try to get some sleep. A lot of sleep. Nothing but sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright, I'll bring you up to speed on anything we catch. No problem."

"Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

She hung up the phone, pulled on the baggy pants over her panties, a tee shirt over her bra, finished it with her hoodie and put on a pair of sneakers. As a last thought, she grabbed a pair of oversized dark sunglasses and went out her door before she changed her mind. She'd gotten the address she was going to as part of the investigation. The only problem was that it would take a while to get there so there would be plenty of opportunity for her to chicken out. On the up-side, both here address and the one she was going to were both in the Bronx so she wouldn't need to cross a bridge.

Having finished her latte, she left the coffee shop and crossed the street at the light. She was scanning faces for anyone familiar as she walked, not looking at her destination as she got nearer, aware that her body was getting excited at the thought, her nipples hardening, that familiar tingling in her groin. She wasn't really paying attention to where she was on the block so it came as a surprise when a voice spoke to her.

"I see you, you know," Zoe said from the top of the stoop of the modest brownstone. She stood there in a house coat looking down at Carla with her arms crossed. "I hope this isn't how you conduct a stake out. It's not cold enough to walk around dressed like the Unabomber."

Carla took a final look for familiar faces in front of her and behind, then climbed a couple of steps up the stoop. "I'm not hear in an official capacity. I'd like to talk to you. Can I come in?"

"I wonder if this would qualify as harassment," Zoe said, unmoved. "Why are you here? You say you're not here in an official capacity, but why should I believe you? Are you investigating me?"

"No, not at all," Carla assured her. "As far as the NYPD is concerned, you're not a problem at all. Our investigation showed that Harold Gutermann was the first problem you'd had since your beginning. If he hadn't killed someone, you would have never been on our radar at all. Please, can I come in?"

Zoe stepped back into the entry and leaned against the open door, but kept her arms crossed. "We don't wear shoes in the house," she said as Carla entered.

Carla sat on the chair placed by the door, removed her shoes, adding them to the others already there and followed Zoe into her home office where she was offered a seat on a couch while Zoe sat behind a desk. The two women looked at each other in silence for a few minutes, Carla unsure how to begin, Zoe content to wait her out.

Finally, Zoe said, "Well this is getting us nowhere. Why are you here Carla? By the way, let's start with that. Carla's not your real name is it? I saw a picture of you with another name attached to it in The Times on the front page attached to a very detailed story that explained Harold's connection to The Exchange and exactly what we are. My members are very private people. Do you have any idea how many I lost because of that story?"

"I'm sorry for that," Carla said, unzipping her hoodie. It was suddenly very warm in the brownstone. "The papers love salacious stories. As far as I remember though, the names of other members or yours or even the address of the club never appeared in any of the stories. Imagine poor Bridget. I told her that her story wouldn't show up on Page Six. I forgot about page one though."

"Still," Zoe said, "many of them were friends with Harold. They were afraid of the association. So why are you here, ‘Carla'?"

"You're right," Carla said, "Carla is not my true name. But it is the one I want you and the other members to know me by."

Zoe's face showed surprise, "'Know you by'? To what purpose? I'm still not convinced that you're not here under cover to conduct some sort of sting."

Carla took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If she wanted to turn and leave without revealing anything to this woman, this was probably her last chance. Thing was, she desperately wanted the dreams to end so she could get a decent night's sleep. "I want to join your club."

Zoe's surprise was replaced by shock, "You have to be kidding! Seriously?! Why would you think we would allow something like that?"

"I don't know," Carla said, "it really doesn't make sense that you would. Except that I haven't been able to get you people out of my mind ever since I was there that one night. What I saw and heard around me awoke something inside me that I've been denying for years. Needs and desires would be the best way to describe it, I guess."

She hesitated, not certain that she could expose her vulnerability to this woman, this virtual stranger. She needed some assurance from her that it was alright. Perhaps sensing this, Zoe came from behind the desk and sat on the couch with Carla, facing her, using a hand to cover Carla's on the back of the couch. The contact helped Carla continue.

"They've been eating me alive. They populate my dreams. I haven't slept an entire night in six weeks. They wake me up and I'm in the middle of an orgasm, or right on the edge. At work, they'll intrude at random moments. I'll get lost during interviews or I'll look at some guy and wonder what he'd be like to fuck. Not ‘make love to' or ‘have sex with', but ‘fuck'. It's like I'm in high school again."

"You need to feed them," Zoe said. "If you don't they will eat you alive. But joining our club isn't as easy as just saying you want to, you know. There are requirements."

"Like what," Carla asked.

"Well for one thing," Zoe said, returning to her desk and opening a drawer, and pulled out a paper that she placed in the middle of her desk, "we are careful to be disease free. That means monthly blood tests. And a clean bill of health before you step through the door. If you and your partner would have wanted sex with someone besides each other that first night, you would have been required to use condoms. One of our members is a doctor and so we can use him without a number of uncomfortable questions. He's very discreet and, fortunately, he was not one of the ones that left.

"Then there are physical requirements. How are you at sucking cock?"

Carla shrugged and looked at a snag on the back of the couch that didn't exist, "I've never had any complaints."

Zoe laughed. "A cop at a sex club. Trust me sweetheart, every one of these guys is going to want a cop - especially the one that arrested one of our own members - to suck his cock. Especially one who looks like you do. Can you deep throat?"

"Maybe," Carla said, not for the first time wondering exactly what she'd gotten herself into, "depends on how big the cock is."

Zoe pulled out another sheet of paper and laid it on the first, "This a toy shop we use. They have a dildo called Black Mambo. It comes in different sizes and most closely mimics a real cock as anything I've seen. The middle size will pretty much match what we have at the club with one notable exception. If you're serious, buy one and practice with it until you can deep throat it at will or you will have complaints." Another paper joined the pile, "These tips will help you. How do you feel about anal?"

Now it was Carla's turn to be surprised and she looked directly at the other woman, "Anal? Is that a requirement?"

"No," Zoe replied with an apologetic smile. "But let's face it, in most interactions with the police, people come away feeling butt-fucked. Again, with a cop in a sex club, I'm thinking one or two of our members will want to return the favor. Plus, if you've never tried double-penetration, you really should. In that case it is a requirement. So, have you? Tried it?"

"Anal? Or double penetration," Carla asked, unsure of the question. Deciding it didn't matter, she answered both, "No to D.P. Yes to anal. One time in college. It was uncomfortable and - messy. Didn't like it."

Out came a post-it-note that Zoe wrote on and stuck it to the tips on deep throat. "I'm not surprised if that was your only experience. He more than likely had no idea what he was doing. This website I wrote down will tell you how to make it enjoyable. That same toy store I gave you will sell you the butt-plugs it mentions in various sizes and the lube. Buy lots of lube. Plus, I can tell you which of our members are the most patient with anal virgins. That is probably more important than anything else I can tell you."

She collected the papers and returned to her seat on the couch holding them out to Carla who looked at them as if they may bite. After a moment, Zoe just laid them in Carla's lap, "Are you serious about this or not?"

Carla shook her head, returning from her reverie. She picked up the papers and folded them, "I'm sorry. You asked me something, but I'm not sure what."

Zoe leaned in, "What were you thinking about?"

Carla looked down at the papers and said quietly, "A cock in my pussy and another down my throat." Then she blushed at what she had said, "That's what I'm talking about. They intrude at random moments."

Zoe's hand rested on Carla's knee, "Girl, you have got it bad! What's going on is you've denied yourself human contact and must have it! You're right, if you don't do something about it, it will drive you crazy. Which brings to our last issue. The membership dues."

"Frankly," Carla said, "that's where I thought we'd start. I thought you'd be worried that I couldn't afford it."

"You can?" Zoe said, surprised. "I didn't think police officers made that much money."

"We don't," Carla agreed, taking out her checkbook. "But it pays okay, and when you don't take vacations or buy designer clothes or go to fancy restaurants every night, you can save quite a bit. Who do I make it out to?"

Zoe reached out and closed the checkbook with another apologetic smile, "It's five-thousand per couple, five-thousand per single male - to discourage the riff-raff - and twenty-five hundred for a single woman - to provide variety for the male members -- but we don't take checks. No paper trails with cash."

Carla hurriedly put the checkbook back in her back pocket, embarrassed to have made such a simple blunder, "Of course you don't take checks. I don't know what I was thinking. I can go the bank and - "

She was silenced by Zoe's mouth covering hers, her tongue suddenly in a duel with the red-head's. She should have been struggling to break the kiss, using her hands to push her away. Instead, her hands tangled in curly red hair, drawing the other woman in as she lay back. It was only when she felt Zoe's hand sliding up her belly under her tee shirt that she rebelled. "What are you doing?"

Zoe pushed the hoodie off her shoulders and threw it onto the floor. "Waiving your initiation fee," she said.

Zoe's hands were under her tee shirt again and Carla once again stopped her, grabbing both of her wrists, "I didn't come here to do -"

Zoe leaned in and kissed her again briefly, "Shhh. You know you need someone to do this for you. If you still want to join us after this, you can."

"But," Carla said, her mind racing now, "I'm not wearing anything - um, sexy."

Zoe smiled as she pulled Carla's shirt over her head, exposing a plain beige bra. She wedged her fingers behind Carla, releasing the clasp and pulled it away, revealing the erect nipples hidden there. She bent down and took one in her lips, pulling on it before she paused to say, "That is the sexiest thing you could have possibly said." Then she returned to Carla's tits, sucking and kissing every square inch.

"Why's that," Carla said, distracted from the fact that Zoe was working to get her pants off by the sensations that her tits were transmitting to her cunt.

Zoe ran her tongue between Carla's breasts, "Because it means you didn't expect it. Which is odd, given why you came here and the fact that when you were in my office at the club, you spent as much time looking at my tits as your partner did." Carla's pants and panties - she didn't realize she'd lifted her ass until they were off - joined her other clothes on the floor. Zoe was presented with Carla's hairy bush and fragrant musk. "Oh my. That won't stop me, but you may want to tidy up some before you come to the club. Another sign that you didn't expect this."

Naked, and clearly excited, Carla was quickly running out of objections to have sex with this woman. Then an idea, "What about your husband? Where's he?"

"At the club getting set up for tonight."

Carla's body twitched when Zoe's tongue touched the tip of her clit. She gasped, "But what if he comes home?"

Zoe laughed softly. She lapped up some of Carla's nectar and said, "He'll either sit on the desk and watch or he'll put his cock into whichever of our pussies makes the most sense. Depending on his mood." She plunged her tongue back into Carla's honey pot.

Carla could feel her body surrendering to this woman but she played one last gambit, "But I'm not a - I mean, you don't have the - um, equipment that I'm looking for, you know?"

She saw Zoe look up from between her legs, cunt juice covering her smiling lips, her tongue replaced by two fingers moving in and out. The woman took another lick and said, "I have a strap-on we can use if you really need that kind of penetration. But how about we see if I can satisfy you this way first? It doesn't mean you're a lesbian; it just means that woman does not live by cock alone. There are straight women in the club who will spend entire evenings doing just this simply for a change of pace. What's the point of a place like ours if you can't explore a side of yourself that you'd normally ignore? Now, just relax and see what happens."

Who's gonna know, Carla decided and laid back, fully surrendering to the tongue between her legs. It would have been easy to forget that the person eating her pussy was a woman, except. Except that she found herself watching Zoe repeatedly, wondering if she would be able to repay the favor when the time came. Except that Zoe was doing things to her that men did, just not long enough. Except that Zoe seemed to be able to read her mind, sensing when Carla was approaching climax only to pull back, ensuring that that release, when it finally came, would blow her mind with its intensity. Except that perhaps the single biggest turn on of the whole experience were those moments when she peeked and saw those eyes over her bush.

Then her hips began to gyrate on Zoe's face and her breathing became quick and shallow, small pants really. The room was suddenly very warm, a fine sheen covering her heaving tits. Her hand tangled into Zoe's hair, pulling her against her bounding cunt. Zoe plunged her tongue as deeply as she could into Carla's flooding pussy and, at the same time, sucked viciously on Carla's clit.

"Ohhh myyy . . . FUCK!" Carla cried. Her hips started bucking and sweat covered not only her tits, but her entire body. Every muscle in her body clenched as the first orgasm that another human in - forever - had orchestrated washed over her. A hand was on the floor to keep herself from twisting off the couch. Zoe had locked her arms around Carla's hips, her head shaking as fast as she could to make her tongue a blur as Carla writhed.

Finally, it was over and Carla collapsed, an arm thrown across her eyes, panting. She didn't bother to close her legs. If Zoe wanted to keep eating her, she was more than willing to let her. She was surprised to hear herself sobbing quietly.

Concerned, Zoe crawled up Carla's body, "Are you alright? Why are you crying?"

Carla's hands pulled Zoe's head forward and she kissed the red-head passionately. She used her tongue to clean her juice off Zoe's face, not deterred by the taste. While she wasn't what anybody would call a hard-body, she was in shape and it was nothing to trade positions with Zoe and unzip the house coat to see what lay beneath.

That was Zoe's naked body. She took her time exploring it, starting at Zoe's lips and slowly working south, running her tongue along the line where the underside of Zoe's breasts met her rib cage. Dipping just the tip of her tongue into the cute little navel. When she arrived at Zoe's naked cunt, she used a finger to trace the outline of it, to part the lips, rewarded by her first experience of another woman's scent; watched her finger disappear to the first, then second, then third knuckle. She studied the swollen clit in front of her as she moved her finger in and out of the moistening pussy. She withdrew the digit and tentatively licked it, deciding that the taste wasn't so different from her own. In college, she'd sucked cocks that had just been fucking her, how was this so different? She stuck her finger back in gently massaging that little bit of rough skin just inside that was so rich in nerve endings, her eyes locking with Zoe's as she sucked on a clit for the first time.

Carla was surprised at the other woman's reaction. Almost immediately, Zoe clenched the fabric of the couch and cried out. Her ass lifted and her cunt flooded with cream. Carla lapped it up, not believing that it was real even as she did so. When Zoe was finished, Carla sat up abashed.

"What's wrong," Zoe panted.

"If I didn't know what I was doing," Carla said, sounding dejected, "you should have told me."

"What are you talking about? That was wonderful."

"I barely touched you," Carla waved in the general direction of Zoe's groin.

Zoe laughed, "That wasn't fake." Then still seeing doubt written on Carla's face she said, "How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

Carla frowned, "Sixteen. He was the quarterback on the football team."

"How long did he last?"

Now Carla gave a small smile, "Not very. A couple of strokes and he was done."

"And now I know how he felt. That look of disappointment says it all." Zoe sat up and took Carla's face in her hands, not letting her look away, "The difference is that he probably wasn't able to satisfy you first. What I did to you got me turned on, but what you did to me - the time you took exploring my body - and knowing that I was your first - when you looked me in the eyes before you tasted a clit for the first time, there was just no holding back. I was hoping you'd keep going."

"Well now, don't I feel like a shit," Carla said.

"Don't," Zoe scolded. "You couldn't know. If we do it again, I'll probably hold out a little longer but you have nothing to be ashamed of." She graced Carla with an impish grin, "Do we still need that strap-on?"

Carla smiled back and used her body to push Zoe back, "I'm good. Let's see, I think I started with your lips . . . ."

When they were finished, they lay on the couch; a tangle of legs and arms randomly stroking each other. Distracted, Zoe used her fingernails to pull something from between her teeth.

"Hair?" said Carla. "I'll trim that as soon as I get home. It made you much more pleasant than I'm sure I was. Don't know if I'll go completely naked like you though."

"It is much nicer," Zoe said as she pulled another from between her teeth. "Naked is called ‘hardwoods', by the way, and it's a personal preference. I like the way silk feels against my skin."

They lay quietly for a few moments, then Zoe said, "So, you're still going to join our group?"

Carla was confused, "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well," Zoe began, "you had a need and I did what I could to satisfy it. I just thought - now that that itch was scratched you might be thinking twice."

Carla laughed out loud. When she saw Zoe's face, she realized that it was her turn to reassure, "Don't get me wrong. I loved what happened here today, and wouldn't change a thing. Which sort of surprises me because I've never had an interest in - this. But I was serious when I said that you didn't have the equipment that I'm hungry for." She held up a hand when Zoe started to interrupt, "I don't need a strap-on. I need a hard cock with a pulse. Maybe more than one. I want to suck it. I want to fuck it. I want to ride it until its owner begs for mercy. And then I want to swallow its cum. And then find another one."

Zoe smiled and stood, holding up a hand, "Okay, I'm convinced." She picked up her phone off the desk, "Let me call Dr. Phil and get you set up."

"Dr. Phil? Seriously?"

Zoe smiled again, "He's a doctor and his name is Phil. Ours is cuter with a beautiful eight inch cock - I don't know about the other one - and I have his cell phone." She held up a finger, "Hi Phil? This is Zoe . . . I know, but this couldn't wait. I have a potential member to see you. Mmm hm. Her name is Carla . . . yes, that Carla . . . . No, I don't think so . . . . Well, I don't kiss and tell. She'll have to tell you." She looked at her watch, "So it's one-fifteen now, do you think you can see her at, say, four? Perfect, she'll be there." She pushed the button to end the call and said to Carla, "He'll see you, but he thinks it's a setup."

"But he'll do the tests," Carla said, reaching for her clothes.

Zoe stopped her, "Don't bother. We're going into the bathroom where I'm going to clean you up - down there. Must be presentable for Doctor." Carla started to protest but Zoe stopped her, "I know, I know. After it's done, you can maintain it, but it's much easier to get it clean if someone else does it the first time. It's a matter of perspective, you know. Plus, there's always the potential for fun."

She took Carla's hand and led her from the room, "So, you have me convinced but the membership will be another matter. I hope you've given some thought to what you're going to say. You really will want to practice with that dildo I told you about.

"Also, some things may be said that you might find disparaging or even degrading. They're not meant to be. Not really. They'll just be tests to see how far you're willing to go. Playing along will help your cause."

"I'm a cop," Carla said. "I doubt that they can come up with anything I haven't heard before. As long as nothing leaves a physical mark that I'd have to explain at work, I'll be okay."

They arrived at the master bathroom and Zoe said, "Okay then, let's give you a trim. Hardwoods or landing strip?"

To Be Continued