Boss Sheriff
Sex in the Hot Texan Cell
It was hot as hell that day. And getting pulled over by some redneck cop was the last thing Clara needed, since she was already a whole day late for the family reunion that she was traveling to. So it was no great surprise then, when getting pulled over was just exactly what happened. Typical.
Clara Silverman wasn’t used to the heat, nor was she used to the vast desolation of the desert. As a hotshot New York lawyer she usually traveled only by subway or cab and rarely had the opportunity to look towards a horizon that was any further than the buildings down the street. So the sparse, hazy golden plains of the Texan desert had awoken something inside her, some yearning or instinct, a hunger for a different, rawer way of life.
And the family reunion down in Corpus Christi, the reunion that she’d solemnly sworn to her mother she’d attend on time, had already started the day before. It was the damn Peterson case – she’d been held back in the city to go over the files and was now way behind schedule. Typical.
So it was no wonder she was putting the pedal to the metal in the small rental Ford Focus that she’d driven all the way from New York over the past couple of days – the desert highway was bereft of any other drivers anyway. Or so she thought…
She was on the outskirts of some one-horse town or other in the south Texan wilderness when it happened. It was so damned hot and Clara was cursing her decision to make a road-trip out of the opportunity instead of just booking a flight. It had all sounded so much more romantic in her head. But it was so hot. And the constant driving was making her sweaty and cramped. And there was nothing but trash on the radio. So no wonder she was breaking the law. But try telling that to Boss Sheriff.
She heard the siren first – shrill and loud – and then she saw the flashing red and blue lights in the rear-view mirror.
‘Aw crap,’ Clara muttered and eased off the accelerator.
She pulled into the side of the road and wound down the window, watching through the mirror to see what kind of hick passed for law enforcement out here in the sticks. If anything, this was probably going to be interesting at least.
In the mirror, she watched the door of the patrol-car open and saw a huge hulking cop step out. He wore a pair of tight black pants and a khaki shirt that clung to his muscly chest. On his breast a golden sheriff’s badge glistened in the hot sunlight and on his head he wore a wide-brimmed white Stetson cowboy hat.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Clara whispered as she watched him strut towards her, as cool as John Wayne.
The cop had on a pair of dark black aviator sunglasses and his jaw was like granite, chiseled around a serious frown that chewed idly on a toothpick. As he sauntered up to her car he opened his mouth and spat a stream of tobacco juice through his teeth out across the sizzling asphalt.
‘You know how fast you were going back there, little Missy?’
Clara had to smile. Was this guy for real? The Sheriff had leaned in over her window, casting a strong, cool shadow against her body. He smelt of aftershave, tobacco and strong bourbon.
‘Well gee officer,’ Clara cooed in her best little girl’s voice, playing along with this sexist redneck asshole, ‘I guess I got a little distracted.’
The sheriff did not speak. He just stood there with his iron face by the window, his expression unknowable behind the darkness of his shades.
‘Ma’am,’ he said eventually, ‘this is a fifty-five mile per hour zone. You were going much faster than that.’
Clara suddenly winced. That wasn’t true; this was a freeway. What was this meathead trying to pull?
‘Aha excuse me,’ she said, dropping her twee girly tone and assuming the full sternness of her best lawyer voice, ‘this is a freeway. I may be a city-slicker, but I know what the speed limit is on a freeway and it sure as shit ain’t
Sex in the Hot Texan Cell
It was hot as hell that day. And getting pulled over by some redneck cop was the last thing Clara needed, since she was already a whole day late for the family reunion that she was traveling to. So it was no great surprise then, when getting pulled over was just exactly what happened. Typical.
Clara Silverman wasn’t used to the heat, nor was she used to the vast desolation of the desert. As a hotshot New York lawyer she usually traveled only by subway or cab and rarely had the opportunity to look towards a horizon that was any further than the buildings down the street. So the sparse, hazy golden plains of the Texan desert had awoken something inside her, some yearning or instinct, a hunger for a different, rawer way of life.
And the family reunion down in Corpus Christi, the reunion that she’d solemnly sworn to her mother she’d attend on time, had already started the day before. It was the damn Peterson case – she’d been held back in the city to go over the files and was now way behind schedule. Typical.
So it was no wonder she was putting the pedal to the metal in the small rental Ford Focus that she’d driven all the way from New York over the past couple of days – the desert highway was bereft of any other drivers anyway. Or so she thought…
She was on the outskirts of some one-horse town or other in the south Texan wilderness when it happened. It was so damned hot and Clara was cursing her decision to make a road-trip out of the opportunity instead of just booking a flight. It had all sounded so much more romantic in her head. But it was so hot. And the constant driving was making her sweaty and cramped. And there was nothing but trash on the radio. So no wonder she was breaking the law. But try telling that to Boss Sheriff.
She heard the siren first – shrill and loud – and then she saw the flashing red and blue lights in the rear-view mirror.
‘Aw crap,’ Clara muttered and eased off the accelerator.
She pulled into the side of the road and wound down the window, watching through the mirror to see what kind of hick passed for law enforcement out here in the sticks. If anything, this was probably going to be interesting at least.
In the mirror, she watched the door of the patrol-car open and saw a huge hulking cop step out. He wore a pair of tight black pants and a khaki shirt that clung to his muscly chest. On his breast a golden sheriff’s badge glistened in the hot sunlight and on his head he wore a wide-brimmed white Stetson cowboy hat.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Clara whispered as she watched him strut towards her, as cool as John Wayne.
The cop had on a pair of dark black aviator sunglasses and his jaw was like granite, chiseled around a serious frown that chewed idly on a toothpick. As he sauntered up to her car he opened his mouth and spat a stream of tobacco juice through his teeth out across the sizzling asphalt.
‘You know how fast you were going back there, little Missy?’
Clara had to smile. Was this guy for real? The Sheriff had leaned in over her window, casting a strong, cool shadow against her body. He smelt of aftershave, tobacco and strong bourbon.
‘Well gee officer,’ Clara cooed in her best little girl’s voice, playing along with this sexist redneck asshole, ‘I guess I got a little distracted.’
The sheriff did not speak. He just stood there with his iron face by the window, his expression unknowable behind the darkness of his shades.
‘Ma’am,’ he said eventually, ‘this is a fifty-five mile per hour zone. You were going much faster than that.’
Clara suddenly winced. That wasn’t true; this was a freeway. What was this meathead trying to pull?
‘Aha excuse me,’ she said, dropping her twee girly tone and assuming the full sternness of her best lawyer voice, ‘this is a freeway. I may be a city-slicker, but I know what the speed limit is on a freeway and it sure as shit ain’t
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