aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n
Weekly Poll #7 - OC / Amy Santiago {Story 14}
The interrogation room smelled like stale coffee, old sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the cuffs and chains. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, one of them flickering every few minutes like it was on its last legs. Ogden Celso sat cuffed to the metal chair—wrists crossed and locked behind the backrest, ankles secured to the front legs with short chains that rattled softly whenever he shifted. He looked bored more than anything. Dark charcoal suit still crisp despite the earlier scuffle during the bust, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar just enough to show a hint of tanned skin, hair slicked back neat, jaw shaved clean. He could've been waiting for a table at a midtown steakhouse instead of facing down federal charges.
Amy Santiago stood on the opposite side of the bolted-down table, legal pad clutched in one hand, pen in the other. She kept her shoulders square, chin up, trying to project the calm authority she'd practiced in the mirror a hundred times. This was it—the biggest case of her career so far. RICO indictment, human trafficking routes through the ports, extortion of half the commercial real estate in South Brooklyn, layers of money laundering that snaked through shell companies all the way to offshore accounts. The file on the table was three inches thick, color-coded tabs sticking out like battle flags. Close this properly and she'd get the commendation, maybe even the detective third-grade bump she'd been chasing. One more solved case and she'd finally pull even with Jake in their endless, stupid bet. She couldn't afford to let this slip through her fingers.
"Mr. Celso," she began again, voice measured, "we have wiretaps going back eighteen months. Bank records showing transfers you personally authorized. Three cooperating witnesses already in protective custody. You're looking at thirty to life in a federal supermax unless you cooperate right now. Give us the chain of command, the clean-up crew names, the politicians and union guys you've got on payroll. The DA's offering a deal—significant time shaved off, possibly WITSEC if the information's good enough. That's the smart play here."
Ogden didn't move at first. Just watched her with that small, almost amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he tilted his head slightly. "You've got nice posture, Detective Santiago. Straight back, shoulders open. Stands out in a room full of slouchers."
Amy's jaw tightened so hard she felt the muscle twitch. "This isn't a compliment hour."
Rosa's voice came low and clipped through the earpiece tucked under Amy's hair. "He's playing you. Push harder or let me come in there and press on his collarbone until he remembers how gravity works."
Amy ignored the suggestion—for now. She took two deliberate steps closer, reached across the table, grabbed the front of his crisp white shirt in her fist, and gave him a solid shake. The fabric bunched under her fingers. "You think you're walking out of here tonight? Talk. Or I make sure the federal holding facility in MDC Brooklyn knows exactly how uncooperative their new guest is. Special Administrative Measures. Twenty-three-hour lockdown. No contact visits. You want that?"
Ogden didn't even blink. If anything, his smile grew a fraction wider, eyes flicking down to where her hand gripped his shirt, then back up to her face. "You and Detective Diaz… damn. Both of you built like that? Full hips, thick thighs, that Latina fire in your eyes. A man could die happy between the two of you."
Amy's face flushed hot and fast—from her neck all the way to her hairline. She dropped his shirt like it burned her palm, stepping back so quickly her heel caught the edge of the table leg. "One more word like that and I'll—"
"You'll what?" he asked quietly, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Hit me? I'd pay good money to see you try."
Rosa's voice snapped in her ear, sharp enough to cut glass. "Amy. Say the word. I'll be in there in three seconds flat."
Amy raised a hand toward the one-way glass—wait—palm out, fingers splayed. She forced herself to take a slow, deep breath through her nose, then out through her mouth. The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker. "Last chance," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "Names. Now."
Ogden leaned forward as far as the cuffs and chains allowed—maybe four inches. The metal clinked. "I'll give you names. Good ones. Solid leads you can run with tonight. But I want something first."
Amy crossed her arms tight over her chest. "You're not in a position to bargain from that chair."
"Actually," he said, calm as if they were negotiating a car loan, "I am. This is your headline case. Reporters camped outside the precinct. Brass watching every move through the glass. And I know about the little bet with Detective Peralta. You're one case behind. You can't afford weeks—or months—of me sitting silent in holding while lawyers drag this out. So here's the price, Detective: you strip for me. Slow. No rush. Then you come over here and grind that big, perfect ass on my cock until I'm satisfied. Do that, and I start talking. Full cooperation. Names, dates, locations. The works."
The room went dead quiet except for the low, constant hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint tick of the wall clock.
Amy felt her whole face burn again—deeper this time, a full-body flush that made her ears ring. She couldn't even bring herself to look at the mirror where she knew Rosa was staring.
Rosa exploded in her earpiece, voice low but furious. "Are you fucking kidding me? Amy—punch him in the throat. Knee him in the balls. Something. I'm coming in right now."
"Wait," Amy whispered, barely audible even to herself.
Her brain was short-circuiting. This was insane. Beyond insane. Career-ending, badge-stripped, possibly prosecuted insane. She could already picture the IAB hearing, the headlines, the look on Captain Holt's face. But the case file sat there on the table like a brick—thick, heavy, full of leads that would evaporate if Ogden lawyered up and clammed up. The clock on the wall kept ticking. And Ogden… he was stupidly handsome in a way that made her stomach flip even as every rational part of her screamed to shut this down. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, that calm, predatory confidence that didn't crack even in cuffs.
She glanced at the glass. Rosa's silhouette stood rigid—arms crossed so tight the leather of her jacket creaked, staring daggers through the one-way mirror.
Amy swallowed hard. Her throat clicked. "Rosa…" Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "Turn off the cameras. And the audio."
Long silence on the other end. Then a heavy, exasperated sigh that carried every ounce of Rosa's disbelief. "You're actually doing this?"
"I can handle it," Amy said, forcing the words out. "If he so much as leans forward wrong—if he tries anything—you come in and shoot him in the leg. I trust you."
Ogden laughed low—quiet, amused, like he'd just heard a good joke at a bar. "Smart girl. Though… maybe both of you could tag-team the negotiation. Two thick Latinas working me over? I'd clear my whole damn calendar for that."
"Shut up," Amy snapped, sharper than she meant to.
Rosa muttered something fast and vicious in Spanish under her breath—Amy caught only half of it, something about "cabrón" and "testículos." Then, grudgingly: "Cameras off. Audio feed muted. But I'm still watching every second. One twitch, one wrong move—he's bleeding out on that floor."
Ogden's grin widened, slow and satisfied. "Love the enthusiasm, Detective Diaz. Really warms a man's heart."
Amy's hands shook as she reached for the top button of her blouse. The plastic felt cool and foreign under her fingertips, like it belonged to someone else's life. She hesitated for half a second—long enough to hear her own pulse thundering in her ears—then popped it open. Eyes locked on Ogden's. His gaze didn't waver, steady and dark, drinking her in.
Second button. The fabric loosened a little more. Third. Now the blouse gaped, revealing the plain black bra beneath—nothing sexy, nothing lacy, just the practical one she wore every day because it held everything in place during long shifts and foot chases. She shrugged the sleeves down her shoulders, let the blouse slide off her arms and pool on the floor behind her. The air in the room felt colder against her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and across her stomach.
Ogden exhaled slow, almost reverent. "Fuck. Keep going."
The words landed low in her gut, warm and heavy. She kicked off her low heels next—one, then the other—bare feet against the cold linoleum. Her fingers found the clasp of her slacks. The zipper came down with a soft rasp that seemed deafening in the quiet room. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed the fabric over her hips, shimmying just enough to let gravity do the rest. The slacks puddled at her ankles. She stepped out, careful not to trip, now standing in only the black bra, matching black panties, and black socks pulled halfway up her calves.
Her heart slammed so hard she was sure he could see it moving under her skin. Every inch of her felt exposed, even though she still had underwear on. She took one step forward, then another, until she stood between his spread knees.
She turned slowly—deliberately—giving him her back. Bent at the waist just enough so her ass—round, full, the one she usually tried to minimize with boxy blazers and straight-leg pants—hovered inches from his lap. She could feel the heat radiating off him already.
She started moving.
Small sways at first. Hips rolling gently side to side, testing the rhythm. The motion felt awkward for maybe three seconds—self-conscious, mechanical—then something shifted. Muscle memory from years of Zumba classes she'd only ever done alone in her apartment kicked in. She let her body take over.
She lowered herself a fraction more. The curve of her ass brushed the front of his pants. He was rock-hard beneath the fabric, the thick outline pressing insistently upward. The contact sent a jolt straight through her core.
"Good," Ogden murmured, voice rougher now. "Just like that, baby."
The word baby hit different this time—intimate, possessive. It coiled low in her belly and made her thighs clench. She arched her back more, pressing down harder. Slow, deliberate circles now, grinding the cleft of her ass along his length. She could feel every ridge and vein through the layers of cloth, could feel him twitch and throb in response.
Her own body answered without permission. Nipples tightened to painful points against the bra cups. Between her legs, slickness gathered fast, soaking the thin cotton of her panties. She was embarrassingly wet already, and they hadn't even gotten to skin-on-skin.
She glanced back over her shoulder. His eyes were locked on the motion of her hips, dark and hungry, pupils blown wide. "That ass is unreal," he said. "Made for this. Made to be fucked."
The compliment—crude, direct—sent another rush of heat through her. Her cheeks burned, but she didn't stop. Instead she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and dragged them down—slow, inch by inch—letting the fabric peel away from her skin. When they reached mid-thigh she let go; they dropped the rest of the way. She stepped out of them, completely bare from the waist down now.
She turned slightly, then straddled him backward—facing the one-way glass, facing Rosa. Knees bracketing his thighs, she lowered herself carefully until her bare pussy pressed against the hard ridge still trapped in his pants. The rough weave of his slacks dragged over her swollen clit. She gasped—sharp, involuntary.
Ogden groaned low in his chest. "Rub that wet cunt on me. Let me feel how much you want it."
The dirty words made her shiver. She rolled her hips again, sliding her slick folds along his covered length. Friction sparked everywhere—bright, electric. She braced both hands on his thighs for balance and ground down harder, faster. The denim rasped against her sensitive skin, almost too much and exactly right at the same time.
"You're soaked," he said, voice thick. "Loving every second of this, aren't you?"
She bit her lip hard to keep the moan inside. It slipped out anyway—soft, needy, unmistakable.
Behind the glass, Rosa's breathing had changed. Shallower. Faster. She couldn't look away. Amy's movements had started tentative, almost clinical—like she was performing a task. Now they were confident. Fluid. Desperate. Hips rolling in tight, filthy circles. Ass cheeks flexing and releasing with every grind. Rosa felt heat pooling low in her own stomach, a steady throb between her legs she couldn't ignore.
Her hand moved almost on its own—drifting down, slipping under the waistband of her jeans, past the elastic of her underwear. Fingers found slick heat. She pressed two inside herself slowly, biting the inside of her cheek to stay quiet.
Amy felt the shift inside herself too. Bolder now. Reckless. She reached back with one hand, fumbling for his belt. Leather slid through the loops. Metal buckle clinked. Zipper rasped down. She tugged the front of his pants open, worked the waistband of his boxers down just enough.
His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, flushed dark at the head, already leaking. Veins stood out along the shaft. It bobbed once, then settled against his stomach, obscene and perfect.
Amy wrapped her fingers around it—tentative at first, then firmer. Hot. Velvet over steel. She gave one slow stroke from base to tip, thumb brushing over the slit. Ogden hissed through his teeth.
She looked back again—eyes meeting his—and stroked him once more, deliberate, watching his jaw tighten. The vein along the underside throbbed under her palm. She twisted her wrist slightly on the upstroke, thumb dragging over the slick head, spreading the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there. Ogden's hips jerked once, involuntary, the cuffs rattling against the chair legs.
"That's it," he rasped. "Show me. Let me see how much you want this cock."
She parted her lips and took him in.
The first taste hit her tongue—salty, musky. Hot skin against the wet heat of her mouth. She swirled slow around the swollen tip, tracing the ridge with the flat of her tongue, teasing the slit until another drop welled up. Then she sank lower, lips stretching wide to accommodate his girth. Cheeks hollowed as she sucked, creating tight suction that made him groan deep in his chest.
Ogden's head tipped back for a second before he forced it forward again. "Fuck—look at me."
She lifted her eyes without hesitation. His gaze locked onto hers—dark, intense, full of raw praise and naked hunger and something sharper, something that felt like control even with his hands bound behind him. The look went straight to her core. Her clit throbbed hard, untouched, aching. Slickness dripped down her inner thighs now, cooling in the air of the interrogation room.
She bobbed faster. Hand twisting at the base in time with her mouth, stroking what she couldn't fit. Tongue pressed flat along the thick underside, dragging up every ridge on the pull-back. The wet, obscene sounds filled the small space—slurping, soft gagging when she pushed too deep, her own muffled moans vibrating around him.
Behind the glass, Rosa's fingers were circling her clit now—slow, firm pressure building in tight spirals. She'd pushed her jeans and underwear down just enough to give herself room. Two fingers slid in and out in shallow thrusts while her thumb kept working the swollen nub. Watching Amy's lips stretch around that thick shaft—watching the way Amy's throat flexed when she took him deeper—was hotter than Rosa wanted to admit out loud. Her free hand pressed flat against the glass for balance, breath fogging the surface in short bursts. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep quiet, but a low whimper escaped anyway.
Ogden swelled thicker in Amy's mouth. His breathing turned rough, uneven. Abs flexed under the open shirt. "Gonna come," he warned, voice gravel. "Swallow every fucking drop, baby."
Amy didn't pull back. She took him as deep as she could—nose brushing the coarse hair at his base, throat working around the head. He pulsed hard. Thick, hot ropes hit the back of her throat. She swallowed reflexively, greedy, milking him with her mouth and hand until there was nothing left. Not a single drop spilled. She kept sucking gently through the aftershocks, tongue lapping at the sensitive underside until he hissed and twitched from overstimulation.
When he finally softened just a fraction, she pulled off slow. Lips shiny, swollen. She licked them clean—deliberate, eyes still locked on his—tasting the last traces of him.
Ogden looked down at her, chest rising and falling hard. Voice rough, wrecked. "Good girl. So fucking good."
The praise landed like a physical touch. Amy felt it bloom in her chest, warm and dizzying. Her own arousal was unbearable now—pussy clenching on nothing, thighs trembling. She stayed kneeling between his legs a second longer, catching her breath, then whispered, voice small and almost pleading, "What else?"
He smiled slow—lazy, satisfied, dangerous. "Straddle me. Face me this time. Sink that tight little pussy down on my cock. All the way. I want to feel you take every inch."
Amy's heart stuttered. She rose on shaky legs, knees weak from kneeling on the hard floor. Turned to face him fully now. His cock—still semi-hard, glistening with her spit—lay heavy against his stomach. She climbed onto his lap carefully, knees bracketing his hips. The chair creaked under their combined weight.
She reached down between them. Fingers wrapped around him again—stroking once, twice, coaxing him back to full hardness. He was already thickening in her hand, responding to her touch like he'd never gone soft at all.
She lined him up. The fat head nudged her entrance—slippery, hot. She was dripping, embarrassingly so; the first inch slid in easy. Then the stretch started. Thick. Relentless. She exhaled shakily, sinking lower, feeling every ridge drag against her walls.
Ogden watched her face the whole time—eyes half-lidded, lips parted. "That's it," he murmured. "Take it slow. Let me feel how tight you are."
Amy bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, then lowered herself another careful inch. The stretch burned—good burn, the kind that made her toes curl against the cold floor. Another inch. Her breath hitched. She could feel every thick ridge dragging along her inner walls, pressing against spots she didn't even know were there. One more slow drop and her ass finally settled flush against his thighs, bottoming out completely. He was buried to the hilt, so deep she swore she felt him in her stomach.
The fullness hit like a punch—overwhelming, borderline too much, stretching her open in a way that made her head spin. Her pussy fluttered around him instinctively, walls clenching and releasing in frantic little spasms as her body tried to adjust. Slick heat coated him, leaked out where they joined, dripping down his balls and onto the seat of the chair. She stayed frozen there for a long second, chest heaving, forehead dropping forward to rest against his shoulder. His shirt smelled like expensive cologne and faint gun oil—sharp, masculine, grounding in the middle of the haze.
She lifted her head slowly. Met his eyes again. They were dark, half-lidded, watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Ogden's voice came out low, almost tender, a rough velvet edge to it. "Now ride me, Detective. Show me how bad you need it."
The words tipped her over.
Her eyes rolled back in her head. A sudden, sharp orgasm ripped through her without warning—zero buildup, just pure white-hot release. Her walls clamped down hard around his cock, spasming wildly. Thighs shook violently against his hips. A broken cry tore out of her throat before she could stop it. She hadn't even moved yet—just sitting there, full of him—and she was coming apart.
Ogden laughed low, dark, satisfied. "Came just sitting on it? Dirty fucking cop."
The humiliation of it only made the aftershocks worse. She whimpered, still fluttering around him, little ripples that kept him throbbing inside her. Her nails dug into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt, trying to anchor herself.
He leaned in without waiting. Mouth crashed against hers—hard. Tongue pushing past her lips. Then he broke away, dragged his mouth down the side of her neck. Teeth grazed skin, then sucked—hard enough to leave dark red marks that would bruise purple by morning. One hand couldn't move because of the cuffs, but the other—wait, no, both still bound, so he used his teeth and lips alone. He yanked the bra cups down roughly with his chin and teeth, freeing her tits. Mouth closed over one nipple—hot, wet suction. Tongue flicked fast, then slow circles. Switched to the other, sucking harder, pulling a fresh moan from her.
The aftershocks finally started to fade—just enough. Amy exhaled shakily, planted her hands on his chest for leverage, and lifted herself an inch. Then sank back down. Slow. Deliberate. Feeling every inch slide out, then back in.
Up again. Down. The wet drag of him inside her made obscene sounds—slick, filthy squelching that echoed off the concrete walls.
She picked up speed. Bouncing now. Ass slapping against his thighs with each drop. Skin on skin. Wet sounds filling the room like a rhythm.
Ogden kept talking, voice rough and steady. "Ride me harder. Take it all. Fuck yourself on it."
She did. Bouncing faster. Harder. Tits jiggling free, nipples still wet from his mouth. Moans spilling out openly—no more biting them back. Head tipped back, eyes half-closed, lost in it.
They kissed again—messy, desperate. Teeth clacking, tongues sliding, sharing spit and breath. His stubble scraped her chin. She didn't care.
Behind the glass, Rosa was gone—completely gone. Jeans shoved down to her knees now, one foot braced on the chair rail for balance. Three fingers buried deep in herself, pumping fast. Thumb grinding hard circles on her clit. Watching Amy fuck herself stupid on that thick cock—watching the way Amy's ass rippled with every bounce, the way her back arched, the way her mouth hung open in constant moans—had Rosa teetering on the edge. Her free hand pressed flat to the glass again, leaving sweaty prints. Breathing ragged. A low, choked groan slipped out when Amy slammed down particularly hard.
Amy felt the next orgasm building—deeper this time, heavier. Coiling tight in her core. She rode faster, chasing it. Nails raking down Ogden's chest through his shirt. Moaning his name without thinking—Ogden—fuck—please—
It hit harder than the first. She cried out into his mouth, walls clamping down like a vice. Whole body shaking, thighs locking around his hips. Vision whiting out for a second.
Ogden groaned against her lips. Felt her pulsing around him—milking him—and that was it. He pulsed deep inside her, thick spurts flooding her cunt. Filling her up again. Hot. Messy. Leaking out around his cock as he kept coming, hips jerking up as much as the cuffs allowed.
They stayed locked together for a long beat after. Panting hard. Sweat slicking their skin where they touched. Amy's forehead dropped back to his shoulder. His cock still buried inside her, softening slowly but still thick enough to keep everything plugged in. Cum dripped steadily now—down his shaft, onto his balls, pooling on the chair beneath them.
Neither moved right away.
Amy's breathing slowly evened out. Reality started creeping back in—small, cold pinpricks. The hard chair. The cuffs. The one-way glass. Rosa.
Ogden murmured against her ear, voice wrecked but still smug. "That's two for you, Detective. Think you've got another round in you?"
Amy didn't answer. Just stayed there, trembling, full of him, trying to remember how to be a cop again. Her thighs quivered against his, inner muscles still fluttering in weak aftershocks around his softening cock. Every small shift sent another trickle of warmth leaking out—his cum mixed with hers, sliding down her skin in slow, sticky paths. She could feel it pooling where they were joined, could hear the faint wet sound every time she breathed too deep. Her forehead stayed pressed to his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, like if she didn't look at anything she could pretend the last few minutes hadn't happened.
Then he murmured against her ear, breath hot and rough. "Turn around. I want to watch that fat ass bounce."
The command landed soft but undeniable. Amy's body responded before her brain could catch up. She obeyed.
She climbed off him carefully—slow, deliberate, because her legs felt like they might give out. As his cock slipped free there was a soft, obscene pop and a fresh gush of cum leaked down her inner thigh—warm, thick, trailing all the way to her knee before she could clench and stop it. She shivered at the sudden emptiness, the cool air hitting her swollen, sensitive folds.
She turned, facing away now, ass toward him. The chair creaked under his weight as she backed up, straddling his lap reverse-cowgirl style. Her knees settled on either side of his thighs again, the metal cuffs on his wrists clinking faintly against the chair back. She reached between her legs with one shaking hand, fingers brushing his still-hard length—slick with both of them, glistening in the harsh fluorescent light. She guided the head back to her entrance, lined him up, and sank down again—slower this time, letting him feel every inch stretch her open all over.
The new angle hit different. Deeper. The head dragged along her front wall right away, pressing against that spot that made her gasp. She lowered inch by inch until her ass was flush against his hips again, bottoming out with a soft thud of flesh on flesh. She paused there a second, adjusting—breathing shallow, walls rippling around him as her body remembered the stretch.
Ogden groaned deep in his throat, the sound vibrating through her back. "Fuck, look at that. That fat ass swallowing me whole."
Amy braced her hands on his knees for balance. She lifted herself a few inches—slow—then dropped back down. The motion sent a ripple through her cheeks. Another lift, another drop. Slow bounces at first, testing. Each time she sank, the wet slap of skin on skin echoed louder in the small room. Her ass jiggled with the impact—soft, heavy ripples that spread outward.
Ogden watched intently, head tilted just enough to see everything. "Goddamn. That's the view I wanted. See how my cock disappears inside you? Perfect fucking pussy gripping me like it never wants to let go."
The praise made her clit throb harder. She picked up speed. Bouncing harder now. Ass jiggling more noticeably with every slam. The motion sent bright sparks racing up her spine every time she bottomed out—his cock hitting deep, grinding against every sensitive spot inside her.
Ogden's voice stayed low, steady, almost conversational despite the roughness. "Wish my hands were free. I'd slap that ass red. Make it bounce even harder. Leave my prints all over it."
Amy's breath hitched at the image. Without thinking—without hesitation—she reached back with one hand and brought it down. Sharp smack on her own left cheek. The sound cracked through the room like a whip. The sting bloomed hot and immediate, making her clench hard around him.
Ogden hissed approval, hips jerking up as much as the cuffs allowed. "Again. Harder."
She did. Smack—right cheek this time. Then left again. Each hit sent a fresh jolt straight to her core. Made her walls flutter and squeeze. Made her moan louder—raw, unfiltered sounds she couldn't hold back anymore.
"Fuck yes," he growled. "Look at you. Good girl. Slapping your own ass while you ride me like a slut. Keep going. Faster."
Amy obeyed without question. Bouncing furiously now—ass rising and falling in quick, punishing rhythm. Hand alternating—left cheek, right cheek—red handprints blooming bright against her skin, stinging with every fresh impact. Her tits bounced free from the shoved-down bra cups, nipples hard and aching in the cool air. Sweat slicked her back, trickled down her spine, pooled in the dip above her ass. The room smelled like sex—sweat, cum, her arousal thick in the air.
Behind the glass, Rosa was completely lost. Jeans pushed down to mid-thigh, underwear tangled around one knee. Three fingers buried deep inside herself, pumping in frantic rhythm. Thumb mashing tight, relentless circles over her clit. She'd been soaked since Amy first started grinding earlier. Now—watching Amy bounce like that, ass rippling violently, self-slapping with sharp cracks, moaning without any shame left—pushed her right to the edge and over.
Rosa came hard. Thighs clamped tight around her own hand, muscles locking. A choked, muffled gasp slipped out despite her clenched teeth. Her forehead dropped forward against the cool glass, chest heaving in ragged bursts. Body shaking through the aftershocks. She kept watching—eyes glassy, still aching even as the orgasm faded.
Amy felt the next one building—fast, unstoppable. The new angle let him hit deeper with every drop. The constant praise. The stretch. The filthy wet sounds. The sting of her own hand on her ass. It all crashed together. She cried out—sharp, broken—walls spasming wildly, milking him in tight, rhythmic pulses. Legs shook so bad she almost lost her rhythm, thighs trembling violently against his.
Ogden groaned long and low—felt her clamping down—and that was enough. He pulsed again inside her—hot spurts flooding deep, filling her a second time. His hips jerked up in short, helpless thrusts against the restraints.
They stilled. Heavy breathing filled the silence. Amy slumped back against his chest, head lolling onto his shoulder. His cock stayed buried in her, softening slowly but still thick enough to keep most of the mess inside. Cum leaked out around him anyway—slow, steady drips onto his thighs, onto the chair seat.
Reality crept back in slow. Cold. Sharp.
Amy blinked. Looked down at herself—bra shoved down under her tits, cups wrinkled and useless. Panties lost somewhere on the floor. Skin flushed red, marked with handprints, bite marks on her neck, sweat making everything shine. Ogden still cuffed, suit pants open around his hips, cock slick and softening inside her, cum streaking his thighs.
Embarrassment slammed into her like cold water.
She scrambled off him—too fast. Winced as he slipped free with another wet sound. A fresh gush followed—thick, warm, running down both thighs now. She grabbed her discarded panties from the floor, wiped between her legs as best she could with the damp fabric. Hands shaking badly. Face burning so hot she felt dizzy.
Ogden just watched, lazy smile sliding back into place. "You're beautiful when you're wrecked, Detective."
"Shut up," she muttered. Voice small, cracked.
She yanked the bra cups back up—awkward, fumbling—then snatched her blouse off the floor and pulled it on without bothering to button it right. One sleeve inside-out. Slacks next—she hopped on one foot to tug them up, nearly tripping. Socks. Shoes. Hair a tangled mess sticking to her damp neck. She looked like she'd been through a fight. Or worse. Way worse.
Rosa finally straightened behind the glass. Jeans tugged back up. Face carefully blank again. But her eyes were dark, pupils blown. She cleared her throat, hit the intercom.
"Cameras back on in thirty seconds," she said. Voice rougher than usual. "You done playing, Santiago?"
Amy flinched. Didn't answer.
Ogden stretched his neck, casual as ever. "I'll give you a few names now. Low-level guys. Clean-up crew. Couple of dirty port inspectors. But the big ones—the captains, the politicians—they need more… persuasion."
Amy froze mid-buttoning her blouse.
Ogden's grin widened. "And I think Detective Diaz has the exact expertise I'm looking for."
Rosa's voice came back sharp. "Watch it."
Ogden chuckled. "Relax. I'm cooperative. For the right motivation."
Amy finished dressing. Straightened her spine. Tried to look like a detective again. Failed.
She glanced at the mirror. Rosa met her eyes through the glass—unreadable.
Amy took a slow breath. "Start talking."
Ogden leaned back as far as the cuffs allowed. "Turn the recorder on first. Wouldn't want anyone saying I didn't cooperate."
Rosa hit the switch. Red light blinked.
Ogden started listing names. Dates. Drop points. Enough to keep the case alive. Enough to buy time.
But his eyes kept flicking between Amy and the glass.
When he paused, he added quietly, "And when we're done here… I'd like another session. With both of you this time."
Amy's stomach flipped again.
Rosa didn't respond.
But she didn't say no either.
The red light on the recorder blinked steadily now. Ogden's voice filled the room—calm, precise, like he was reading off a menu. He gave up three names first: a mid-level enforcer who handled the docks, a bookkeeper who cooked the Vitale family's offshore accounts, and a retired NYPD sergeant on the payroll who'd been tipping them off about raids for eight years. Details followed—addresses, burner phone patterns, last known meet-up spots. Enough to make the DA salivate. Enough to keep Internal Affairs busy for months.
Amy stood against the wall, arms crossed tight over her chest like she could hold herself together that way. Her blouse was buttoned crooked. Hair still mussed. She kept her eyes on the notepad, scribbling fast, pretending the words he said mattered more than what had just happened on that chair.
Ogden paused after the third name. "That's the appetizer. Main course comes when I get what I asked for earlier."
Amy's pen stopped.
Rosa's voice cut through the intercom, flat. "Keep listing or we stop. Your call."
Ogden tilted his head toward the glass. "Come on, Detective Diaz. You watched the whole show. Don't pretend you're not curious what happens when it's your turn."
Silence stretched. Amy glanced up—Rosa's silhouette hadn't moved.
Ogden continued anyway. Two more names. A councilman's aide. A union rep who funneled cash through construction bids. He stopped again.
"That's it for now," he said. "Rest stays locked until I get round two. And this time I want both of you in the room. No glass. No cuffs if you're feeling generous."
Amy's stomach twisted. Part shame, part something hotter she refused to name.
Rosa finally spoke. "We're done here."
The door buzzed open. Rosa stepped in—boots heavy, expression stone. She didn't look at Amy right away. Just walked straight to Ogden, grabbed the back of his chair, and wheeled him toward the door.
"Enjoy the holding cell," she said. "We'll be back tomorrow. Maybe with warrants for every property you own."
Ogden laughed once—short, amused. "See you soon, ladies."
The door shut behind him. The hallway light clicked off as the transport officer took over.
Amy stayed rooted. The room still smelled like sex—sweat, cum, her perfume mixed with his cologne.
Rosa turned slowly. Locked eyes with her.
Neither spoke for a long beat.
Then Rosa exhaled through her nose. "You okay?"
Amy opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I… got the names. That's what matters."
Rosa's jaw worked. "Yeah. You did."
Another pause.
Rosa stepped closer—close enough that Amy could smell the faint leather of her jacket, the coffee on her breath.
"You didn't have to do that," Rosa said quietly.
"I know."
"But you did."
Amy looked down at the floor. "The case. The bet. I couldn't let it drag."
Rosa studied her. "Bullshit."
Amy flinched.
Rosa's voice dropped lower. "You liked it. The way he talked to you. The way he looked at you. You fucking melted for it."
Amy's throat clicked when she swallowed. "Rosa—"
"Don't lie. I watched. Every second."
Heat crawled back up Amy's neck.
Rosa took one more step. Now they were almost touching. "I watched you bounce on his dick like it was the only thing that mattered. Slapping your own ass. Begging with your eyes for more praise. And yeah… it was hot."
Amy's breath caught.
Rosa's gaze flicked down to Amy's mouth, then back up. "I came so hard watching you I almost broke the chair."
The admission hung there—raw, no filter.
Amy whispered, "You want him too."
Rosa didn't deny it. Just shrugged one shoulder. "He's got a monster cock and he knows how to use his mouth. I'm not blind."
Amy let out a shaky laugh—half nerves, half relief.
Rosa reached out, brushed a strand of hair off Amy's forehead. Gentle. Surprising.
"We're not telling anyone," Rosa said. "Not Jake. Not Holt. Not even Gina if she sniffs it out. This stays between us."
Amy nodded fast.
"And next time he wants to bargain…" Rosa's lips curved—just a hint. "We both go in. Together."
Amy's pulse jumped. "You serious?"
Rosa's hand dropped to Amy's hip. Squeezed once. "Dead serious. But we set rules. He doesn't touch unless we say. And if he tries anything outside the deal, I shoot him somewhere that won't kill him fast."
Amy stared at her. Saw the heat still simmering behind Rosa's usual calm.
"Okay," Amy said softly.
Rosa stepped back. "Clean yourself up before someone walks by. You look like you just got railed in an interrogation room."
Amy huffed a laugh. "I did."
"Yeah. And it was impressive." Rosa turned toward the door. Paused. Looked back. "Shower's free in the locker room. I'll grab you a spare shirt."
Amy nodded.
Rosa opened the door, then stopped again. "And Santiago?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time? I get to ride first."
Amy's mouth went dry.
Rosa smirked—just once—then walked out.
Amy stood there alone for a minute. Heart still racing. Body still humming. The recorder light blinked off when the session timer hit zero.
She gathered her notepad, the case file, the loose pages of notes.
Five names. Solid leads. Case still alive.
And something else alive too—something dangerous, addictive, waiting for the next round.
She flicked the lights off on her way out.
The hallway was quiet.
But tomorrow, when they came back for Ogden Celso, it wouldn't be.
aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n