After I was lined up for my bookingphoto, one of the cops tore off my wig, and the pictures of me in tearswith a man's made-up face were on the front page of every newspaper inChicago the next morning. The worst was yet to come: after I wasbooked, I was taken down another long, dark hall to a holding cell,which was occupied by half a dozen enormous men who greeted me with evileyes. I cowered in a corner, shaking in my little black dress andheels, as they sized me up."You hot, baby," one of them said as he approached me. "What you gotunder that dress?" He lifted the hem and smiled. "Whoo-ee, looka that,you got panties on too." I tugged down my dress and backed away fromhim. "Man, that's some high class hooker," he said to the group. "Mefirst."He tried to reach under my dress again, and without thinking I kickedhim as hard as I could in the testicles with the pointy toe of astiletto. He roared in agony and fell to the floor as the otherprisoners gathered around. "Fuck you,. The journey was so tense and I kept touching her thigh and even feeling the warmth of her pussy on the journey as she run her painted nails across my thigh. Talking about how she wouldn’t be able to concentrate and how horny she was feeling. Her nipples were poking through her dress as she stepped out of the car turning to wave goodbye.Going home nothing much happened for the evening apart from me sending her text messages telling her how hard my cock was how good her panties were smelling and asking how she wanted fucking. She was begging me to stop saying she was soaking wet. Then I teased her saying it might be my wife collecting her I was busy. I was of course lying and admitted it after an hour.I was waiting in the car for her as she came out of the venue and she walked sheepishly to the car and stepped in. She said that has been one long night and didn’t know how she had got through it. At one stage she thought she had leaked through her dress she felt physically wet. I was.
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