THE SPEED TRAP

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2009


A hot blonde in an open-top sports car, her hair whipping behind her as she speeds along a quiet country road on a golden summer evening – what more could a traffic cop ask for?

I was on my way home, around 8.00 p.m., having stayed late at the office working on my company’s annual accounts. The bright red Ferrari was a bit of an indulgence, but the business had been making good profits for nearly three years now, and I had plenty of cash in the bank. I had always wanted a car like this, and on this sweet warm evening I had the top down and my straight blonde hair was blowing free in the slipstream. I was impatient to get home after a long day, and I had only owned the sports car for a couple of months and was still not used to the way its powerful engine responded to the lightest pressures on the gas pedal; it was easy to let the speed creep up, and to be honest I was finding it exhilarating, enjoying having the little-used road all to myself – or so I thought. I flashed past a stand of trees where a narrow side lane branched off, and out of the corner of my eye saw a glint of something glass or metallic reflecting the setting sun. Seconds later, a highway patrol car appeared in my rear-view mirror, with the red-and-blue lights on top flashing and the siren howling.

‘Oh, shit! Double-shit!!’ I thought, my carefree mood vanishing into the dust behind me. We were on a straight section with a flat sandy verge, and I indicated, slowed down, turned onto it and stopped, killing the engine. In the sudden evening hush, the police cruiser pulled over about ten yards behind me, and switched off its siren and lights.

I sighed, because I knew how tempting I must look to the guy in the patrol car. I was 32 years old, but in very good shape – I’ve always been a sporty girl, and I still make time for a forty-minute workout each day when I get home, on top-quality exercise equipment. I have kept the figure – and most of the looks – that earned me a good living as a fashion model from the age of 18 to 25; not a ‘super-model’ famous to the public, but successful and in-demand in the industry, particularly in the east coast states and the mid-west. I am quite tall, at five feet ten inches, long-legged and slim-figured, but with a little more curve to my butt and bust than you might expect from first glance. My hair is natural blonde, and falls straight to just below my shoulders; normally I keep it tied in a pony tail or gathered at the nape of the neck. I have a slightly exotic face, with grey eyes and high cheekbones, both coming from the same Germanic ancestry that provided my blonde hair.

I also like to wear smart and sexy clothes at work – if you’ve got the shape, why hide it away? In any case, as I owned the company, there was no one to tell me different! My outfits were always professional, of course, but they tended to be figure-hugging and I particularly favoured short skirts that showed off my long shapely legs. What I was wearing on this day was fairly typical: a lovely one-piece lambswool dress, in the lightest of light greys. It was long-sleeved and becomingly modest in the top part, with a high ribbed roll-neck and a gathered circular neckline below that. Where it abruptly ceased to be modest was in its tight fit to my curves, the shape of the bra cups encasing my breasts being quite visible, and in the short drop of its woollen hem, which came less than halfway down my thighs – the tops of my black hold-ups tended to come into view when I was sitting down, as now. To set it off, around my waist was loosely slung a broad black belt with a silver buckle, and I had a large pair of stylish wrap-around sunshades, which I had been using in place of goggles. Only my shoes were not chic; they were a sensible plain black, flat-soled variety, chosen for comfort – and also because, as I am taller than most people already, I don’t need the extra lift of high-heels.

I drew my knees together and hurriedly tugged the hem of the woollen skirt downwards, hiding the lace-and-elastic tops of the hold-ups, and trying to look ladylike and demure. I didn’t want this guy to get any funny ideas – if he thought I would give him a blow-job or something to avoid getting a speeding ticket, he was in for a disappointment. I had not had a man’s penis in any of my holes since I was seventeen; for the last fifteen years I had been strictly a girl-lover only, and I had no intention of deviating from that now – I would far rather take the penalty and pay the fine!

All this flashed through my mind in a split second, as I was cursing my bad luck – on such a lonely road and tucked in amongst those trees, the cop car had surely been lying in wait for a victim, and I had fallen headlong into the speed trap. I heard the door of the police cruiser click open, and glanced idly in my wing mirror – and then stiffened in shock. Advancing towards the rear of my Ferrari was not a male police officer – but a woman! A quick second glance suggested that she was attractive and striking, tall and quite imposing in the severe uniform, with its dark blue knee-length skirt, light blue shirt and black utility belt holding various gadgets – including her pistol holster – around her waist. She was also wearing shades below her peaked uniform cap, so I could not see much of her face or work out her expression. Still, I thought with a sudden quickening of the pulse, who knows? … and in the last seconds before she arrived at my car door, I spread my legs wide, so that the wool skirt rode up my legs revealingly, and then left them casually open, and I arched my back to pull the thin material of the dress tighter against my breasts.

A figure loomed over me, silhouetted partly against the direction of the setting sun – she was a taller and more intimidating presence than I had realised. I looked up at her, and decided it was more polite if she could see my eyes, so I removed my sunglasses and said:

‘Good evening, Officer, how can I help you?’

Was there the hint of a smile about her lips? – I couldn’t be sure, it might just be my wishful imagination.

‘Good evening, Ma’am’, she responded, ‘are you aware of the speed at which you were travelling?’

There was no point in my being difficult about this – it would only make matters worse, whatever direction this encounter might take. I smiled rather sheepishly, but also as one woman taking another into her confidence.

‘I’d taken my eye off the speedometer, I’m afraid, Officer; I know I shouldn’t, and I expect I was going over the limit? I haven’t had this car for long, you see, and I’m still not used to it.’ I smiled winsomely again, but did not seem to be evoking a sympathetic response.

‘Well over, Ma’am, a good twenty above the limit’, she said rather curtly.

‘Oh, dear!’ I said, rather lamely, ‘I am sorry – how careless of me!’

Although with her shades it was hard to tell, it seemed to me that she was looking down at me rather intently. As I made that last, rather feeble, remark, I let my thighs fall a little further apart, the ribbed bottom hem of my dress sliding upwards another couple of inches. I thought I detected a slight tautness in her posture as I did so, and if she were to …

Ah! I thought so, yes!! – game on, perhaps! For the police officer had shifted her stance slightly, moving just a couple of inches towards the front of my car, and turning at just such an angle … yes, from there she would definitely be well-placed to see the crotch of my panties, which were a neat little thong in black with lace trim. Neatly done, oh! neatly done, I thought in admiration of the casual – indeed, imperceptible – way in which she had carried it off: if I hadn’t been looking out for exactly that move, I probably would have missed it.

‘Licence and registration, please’, she asked, her voice perhaps a little less cool. This gave me another opportunity to give her an eyeful, for these were in the glove compartment in front of the empty passenger seat. To reach into this and retrieve them, I had to sprawl almost across the width of the car, deliberately sticking my ass up in her direction more than was really necessary, and pretending not to realise that my skirt had rolled up nearly to my hips so that my panties were now very visible.

‘I really am sorry, Officer,’ I said, as sat back in my seat and proffered the documents to her, ‘I’m normally a very careful driver. If there’s anything I can do …’ I let that hang in the air.

She regarded me quizzically: ‘What are you meaning, Ma’am?’

‘Oh, nothing’, I said unconvincingly, ‘I wouldn’t wish to suggest anything you would consider inappropriate.’

She gave a little snort, as if to say ‘clever answer, you avoided that trap neatly’. Then, after a cursory glance at my licence, she surprised me by remarking:

‘I know who you are – you own that little factory on McKinley Street, don’t you?’

I acknowledged that with a nod, and introduced myself properly: ‘Yes, Trudi Durhiem, that’s me.’

I wondered how she knew that: the only sign outside simply said ‘TD Plastics’, and we were a small and deliberately low-key affair. I had founded the business six years before, investing the money that I had earned whilst modelling; I designed our products and managed everything, and I employed five people – two on the production side, and three to process the orders, pack and mail them out. My question must have been obvious from my face, for she responded as if I had asked it aloud, giving a slight laugh and patting the side of my red Ferrari.

‘I’ve seen this little beauty outside there – it’s kinda noticeable – and I was curious about who drove it.’

Her next move was to say that she had to check my alcohol level, and she produced a small inhaler which I breathed into. However, after a moment she looked a little cross, shook the inhaler and then put it aside.

‘Something’s not right with that,’ she said ‘we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.’ Then she took two steps backwards, put her right hand on her hip just by the gun holster (but this seemed like an ingrained routine, not because she thought there was any threat from me), and gestured for me to get out of the car.

I opened the long low door of the expensive sports car, and uncoiled myself from the driver’s seat; to step out, I had to spread my legs even wider in her direction, and I made sure of doing so slowly, pausing to stretch slightly as if my back was a bit stiff from the driving. I was more and more sure that she was taking in the views offered, and with interest – that time, she must have had a full view of my panties, and seen how skimpy they were.

She instructed me to do the ‘walk in a straight line’ and the ‘stand on one leg’ balance and co-ordination tests, the latter of which made my skirt – which, after I had got out of the car, I had demurely pulled down to its normal position (although that was still pretty revealing!) – ride well up on one side, for a moment definitely showing the full front crotch of my thong, which I also suspected might have a noticeable damp patch by now. This authoritative woman, in her very sexy and commanding uniform, and with what looked like nice tits and a shapely ass under it, was really starting to arouse me.

The police officer admitted that there was no sign of alcohol, but said she must also do a routine body search to see if I was carrying any drugs. I forbore to point out that my dress was so tight and clinging that nothing could possibly be hidden, for I was now quite sure that she was departing from the normal script and intended to exploit my situation for sexual purposes – at least, I was fervently hoping so!

The next thing was that she ordered me to stand against her patrol car, with my hands flat on its roof and my legs two feet apart. She made me do this on the side of the cruiser which was away from the road, so that a passing vehicle (of which there had been only been one in all this time) would see nothing strange going on.