Author’s Note: Penelope Bishop first appeared in my story ’Cop Town Girl’. This saga stands on its own but if you want to read about Penelope’s past, the story is available for your perusal. I hope you enjoy this thriller.

Penelope Bishop woke up to the ringing of her cell phone, her head groggy; to her it sounded like Quasimodo was ringing the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral inside her head.

“Fuck!” she reached out to her bedside table and on the third attempt snatched up her phone and silenced it by answering it.

“Yeah,” her mouth tasted like someone had taken a dump in it.

“Is that the way to greet your partner and currently your best, no scrub that, only friend on the Balwyn PD?” Silvia Bickle replied.

“Fuck you Silvia. It’s Monday, our day off,” Penelope yawned into the phone.

“You gotta give up or at least cut down on the booze princess, it’s fuckin’ Tuesday and we caught a case,” Silvia answered in a voice that sounded bright and cheery.

“Get up. Get dressed and I’ll meet you out front in twenty minutes.”

“Fuck!” Penelope’s head was throbbing and her whole body ached.

“Nice. See you in twenty sister,” Silvia cut the connection.

Penelope knew that being cheerful early in the morning was Silvia's way of torturing her.

Penelope forced herself to get up. She sat on the side of the bed dressed only in her panties and put her head between her legs until the dizziness and nausea went away sufficiently for her to stand. She made her way haltingly to the bathroom and opened the lid of the toilet. She reached inside the leg opening of her panties and extracted her penis; she had a morning glory which began to deflate immediately she got a steady stream going.

“Fuck being ladylike,” she wheezed as she guided the stream into the bowl.

Normally she would have lowered her panties and sat down to pee like a woman but this morning she just couldn’t be bothered.

She came back out of the ensuite bathroom and examined the damage. The work suit she had taken off two days ago still hung over the back of the chair in front of her vanity. The leather miniskirt and leopard-skin skank outfit she had worn last night was balled up in the corner along with her bra. Her high heels tossed on top of them. Her nylons hung over the bedhead.

Penelope saw two empty spirit glasses on her bedside table and two bottles of beer, one of which appeared to be half full.

She picked it up and took a slug and immediately spat back into the bottle. Someone had put a cigarette out in it.

Penelope made it back to the toilet bowl just in time to upchuck last night’s dinner: a hotdog and a few peanuts from the communal bowl at the bar. She rinsed her mouth and drank greedily directly from the tap. She went back into the bedroom and heard a snore come from the mound of bedclothes on the other side of the bed from which she’d slept.

She picked up a high heel and threw it at the mound and congratulated herself for hitting the mound about where the head should be.

“Hey!” a slumberous male voice called from the mound.

“Hey! Whoever the fuck you are,” Penelope yelled at the mound.

“I’m taking a shit and a shower and if you’re not out of my apartment when I come out of the bathroom I’m going to open my gun safe and show you my weapon.”

“I don’t know if I told you last night that I am a cop but just take it as wrote. If you take anything with you that isn’t yours, I’ll find you and beat you to a pulp before I bring you in and then call your wife and tell her that her husband spent last night with a tranny and would she like to pick him up from jail,” Penelope burped up a vile gobbet of mucus and then swallowed, wincing.

Penelope punished herself not only by drinking herself to oblivion, she brought home faceless men, some of whom had watched internet tranny porn and wanted to try the real thing until they did and then they felt remorse and disgust with themselves. She was surprised this one had stayed the night.

She went back into her bathroom and closed the door. She looked at herself in the mirror.

She was still wearing last night’s makeup, no surprise there. Her lipstick, eyeshadow and mascara were streaked across her face and her hair was a tangled mess; clumps of it were stuck together by substances that she’d rather not guess. She took her toothbrush and toothpaste into the shower and ran it at full force as hot as she could stand it. She brushed her teeth three times, rinsing with mouthwash each time, and then she washed her hair and scrubbed her face. She lathered her body, rinsed off and felt a little better.

That was until she looked at herself in the full length mirror in the bedroom. The good thing about having breast implants was that her tits were always going to look good but the rest of her body was a testament to hard living. Her skin was pallid, she had the beginnings of a potbelly, her legs were still good but they needed shaving and she had bruises and contusions in several places and she didn’t know how she had got them.

Her face, once pretty, had hardened, she was still beautiful but her beauty had an edge to it, she had bags under her eyes and wrinkles in what she called her laugh-lines; not that she laughed much anymore.

“Thank fuck for makeup,” she whispered to herself.

She dried her hair as best she could with the hairdryer but it was still damp when she brushed it out. She put on her makeup and went searching for clothes to wear.

Penelope opened her lingerie drawer and saw that she had only one pair of clean panties, big white nylon granny-panties but they would have to do. She snagged the pantyhose off the headboard and the bra from the pile of clothing in the corner. It was then that she noticed that her ‘gentleman friend’ had left and she breathed a sigh of relief. She sat on the bed to pull on her pantyhose, tucking herself between her legs; she wasn't up to gaffing today. She pulled the granny-panties over the hose and was happy with the result. She put on her bra and took her suit into the lounge and threw it on sofa.

She looked at the clock and realised that there was no time to make coffee, no matter how desperately she needed it. She opened her refrigerator and saw that the shelves were bare except for a single bottle of beer, a half carton of orange juice with a use-by date of five days ago and two Tupperware containers of something mouldy.

She eyed the bottle of Lone Star and imagined drinking down the cold refreshing liquid but knew the beer would stay on her breath. She opened the freezer section and took out a half-bottle of vodka and put a slug in her cleanest dirty glass and topped it off with orange juice.

Penelope drank it in one long swallow and resisted the urge to make a second drink. Instead she went into the laundry and rummaged around until she found her cleanest dirty blouse. It was one of those days when cleanest dirty would have to do.

“Christ I gotta do some laundry,” she whispered to herself.

“I gotta get my life in order,” she whispered again, pulling on the blouse and using a wet washcloth on a stubborn stain on the front of it.

Her work suit was a little better. It was rumpled but at least it wasn’t stained.

Penelope unlocked the gun safe and took out her Glock, her gold shield and her ID. She pinned the shield to the waistband of her skirt, put the Glock in its pancake holster and threw her ID into her purse. She sat down and squeezed her feet into her black low-heels and rubbed them with the same washcloth which she had used on her blouse.

“Fuck!” she sighed again as another wave of nausea washed over her.

She stood up, found her keys and tossed them into her purse and made her way to the front door. She ran back to the kitchen and took another slug of vodka straight from the bottle and then she took a deep breath and opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

“Not too bad,” she lied to herself as she checked herself out in the mirror in the elevator.

Penelope put on her sunglasses and walked to the kerb checking her watch. Silvia Bickle was sitting in the driver’s seat of a city owned Crown Vic and she looked pissed.

Penelope slid into the front passenger seat and closed the door with a hefty thunk, pretending to be bright eyed and bushy tailed but the slamming door triggered another headache.

“You look like shit girl,” Silvia stated the obvious.

Silvia was thirty-five, slim but powerful, and was wearing a pristine dark-grey pantsuit, dazzling white blouse, and polished black low heels. Her makeup was perfect and complimented her complexion, her loose black curls cascaded to her shoulders. A native Texan, she was African American, incredibly beautiful and a lesbian. She had been Penelope’s partner for just over a year.

“What have we got?” Penelope yawned.

“What time did you get to bed or more importantly what time did you get to sleep girl?” Silvia asked.

“None of your beeswax honey; what we got?” Penelope reiterated.

“SWF aged thirty-eight, cocktail waitress, found dead in her apartment, almost certainly a homicide and sexual assault,” Silvia replied.

“Another woman who brought home the wrong guy, jealous partner, robbery gone wrong?” Penelope speculated.

“Well you’d know all about bringing home the wrong guy,” Penelope said sarcastically.

“Fuck you. Let’s get to the scene,” Penelope mooched in her handbag for cigarettes and pulled one out.

“You light that and I’m going to throw it out the window and you will follow,” Silvia said through gritted teeth.

Penelope tossed the cigarette back in her bag and leaned back in the seat. Five minutes later she was propped against the window, fast asleep. Her legs were wide open, her skirt hiked up and she was snoring. Silvia noted that Penelope had a runner in her stocking on the inside of her right leg running from ankle to thigh.

“You’re all class girl,” Silvia said to herself.

She reached over and pulled down the hem of Penelope’s skirt.

“Don’t touch what you can’t afford,” Penelope said; her eyelids slitted.

“You got nothing under that skirt that I’m interested in girl,” Silvia replied.

Penelope slept until they were a half block from the crime scene when Silvia shook her awake.

“Rise and shine sugar; get your game face on,” Silvia said.

Outside a three-story redbrick apartment block, cordoned off with police tape, were the corner’s van, a CSI van, and three cruisers with their top lights spinning lazily. Uniformed cops stood around keeping a small crowd outside the barrier but mainly shooting the shit and trying to look like they were actually working.

“Let’s get those assholes busy going door to door,” Penelope yawned and shook her head to wake herself up.

Silvia tossed Penelope a bottle of spring water which she opened and gulped down and then she gave her a stick of gum.

“I love you partner,” Penelope smirked.

“I fuckin’ hate you partner, you’re hard work,” Silvia got out of the car.

Penelope got out and did her best to straighten her skirt and jacket.

“Here comes the alphabet twins,” one of the cops joked.

He was referring to the joke about the LGBTI community highjacking twenty percent of the alphabet.

Silvia walked up to a Sargent who was leaning on a cruiser.

“You guys got an identity on the vic? This her place?”

He opened his notebook.

“Rhonda Stevens. The building manger confirmed that a woman fitting the description of the deceased is the registered tenant. Lived here for two years plus, good tenant, pays her rent on time, no noise complaints yadda yadda yadda,” the cop flicked through the pages of his notebook.

“Did you just yadda a potential murder victim Sargent?” Silvia gave him a grave look.

“Sorry Lieutenant,” the Sargent replied with no remorse whatsoever.

“The vic’s friend was worried because she didn’t make her shift at the Starlight Lounge and wasn't answering her calls. The friend had a key to the apartment and let herself in. Found Ms Stevens dead and dialled 911,” the Sargent continued.

“Leave one officer to secure the scene and get those other guys and gals canvassing the neighbourhood,” Silvia was no nonsense.

“Yes ma’am,” the Sargent replied.

“Ok assholes. Hoofs and elbows; get canvassing,” the Sargent yelled out and Silvia cringed.

Penelope had taken the time to smoke half a cigarette which she crushed out on the pavement when Silvia approached her outside the entrance to the apartment.

“You did the class on crime scene integrity right?” Silvia was getting pissed.

Penelope bent down gingerly and picked up the butt. She followed Silvia inside the building.

Unlike the characters in CSI television shows, the crime scene techs didn’t wear Armani, Gucci, or look like fashion models or rock stars or have large calibre pistols on their hips. They were mostly pale dweebs who wore disposable, papery-plastic protective material called Tyvek on top of their own clothes, and latex gloves, and hair coverings to prevent them from contaminating the scene. They wore disposable Tyvek booties over their shoes and were meticulous about where they trod.

As the detectives assigned to the case, Penelope and Silvia were allowed access to the crime scene but had to wear booties, gloves and hair coverings. The CSI team had laid plastic mat strips over the carpet in Rhonda Stevens’ bedroom where they were allowed to walk.

“Welcome Lieutenants Bishop and Bickle. You know the drill and if you see anything we need to process, please advise me accordingly,” Bob Tanner was leader of the CSI team.

He was a hair and fibre specialist and was accompanied by a fingerprint expert, currently using a brush and black powder on the hard surfaces, and a crime scene photographer who was taking snaps with a high resolution camera. Yellow and black numbered tags were placed next to items considered significant to the crime.

Silvia had taken the PD issued iPad from their vehicle and was entering in data in a newly created case file. Penelope surveyed the crime scene and a shiver ran down her spine. This was no ordinary murder scene.

Rhonda Stevens lay on her back on her bed. She almost looked serene, like she was sleeping. Her hands were opened, arms by her side, her legs spread. She was wearing a white see-through bra and translucent white hipster panties, white sheer stockings clipped to a white satin and lace garter belt, and white high heels. She was also wearing a white satin and lace wedding veil, pulled back to reveal her face.

Her makeup was perfect and her brunette hair, worn short with bangs was coiffed. She looked like a bride on her wedding night.

“Maybe she got fed up of being a spinster and took a permanent vacation?” the officer standing at the doorway controlling access to the crime scene added helpfully.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and face front officer,” Penelope said brusquely to the rookie who was obviously trying to ingratiate himself with the detectives, ridiculously offering suicide as a cause of death.

The officer turned away and faced front but turned around to watch again after he was no longer the focus of attention.

Brendan Scott, the medical examiner, was packing his valise and when he was finished he walked over to where Penelope and Silvia were standing, surveying the crime scene.

“Cause of death?” Silvia asked.

“There are no obvious signs of a gunshot wound, stabbing, or strangulation but there are puncture wounds in the crook of her left elbow; looks like she was recently injected with something but there is no evidence of her being a drug user,” Brendon shook his head.

“There are also no defensive wounds I can see but she has obviously had sexual relations recently. I’ll have a better idea once we get her to morgue. There is something strange about the whole thing,” Brendon Scott said, scratched his balding pate.

“I’ll have my guys collect her when you release the body from the scene,” he walked away gripping his medical bag.

“It’s staged,” Penelope said, regarding Rhonda Stevens’ body.

Both women moved in to examine the body being careful where they stood and not to touch anything. Penelope’s hangover diminished as she focussed her mind on the crime scene.

“Definitely staged, look at how her arms and legs have been arranged; her legs lewdly spread. You can see the semen glistening in her vulva though those transparent panties. I’m guessing was raped, probably before she was killed, and was possibly unconscious when intercourse took place,” Penelope studied the corpse.

“Look; it’s not only how she’s dressed, the fetishism of it, she was obviously dressed by someone else while she was either dead or unconscious. Nothing really fits right. Look at those heels; they have to be two sizes too big for her feet. I bet you that the murderer brought those clothes to the scene,” Penelope shined her small torch over Rhonda Stevens’ body.

“The makeup too; I bet that was put while she was unconscious or dead. Whoever did it did a great job, a bit heavy for my taste though,” Penelope directed the beam of her torch onto Rhonda Stevens’ face.

Silvia Bickle harrumphed when Penelope made her comment about the woman’s makeup being heavy; Penelope was known to ‘slap on the paint’ herself.

“What’s that smell; perfume? It’s really strong,” Penelope sniffed the body.

“I think I know that smell; Poison, it was a really popular perfume in the eighties,” Penelope sniffed Rhonda Stevens’ neck.

“Hey. Look at this,” Penelope leaned in, and used a magnifying glass she had borrowed from the forensic team.

“Her lipstick has been reapplied. It’s been smeared and then a second coat has been put over. I think the murderer was kissing her and smeared her makeup and then reapplied the lipstick,” Penelope leaned away from the body.

“You ready for my take?” Penelope asked Silvia.

“Sure professor; tell me what you think,” Silvia replied.

“The murderer drugged her, that’s the needle mark in her arm. He knocked her out and dressed her like this including putting on her makeup and brushing her hair. He had sex with her, hence the semen inside her panties, during which he kissed her, rather passionately to smudge that expensive two-coat lipstick,” Penelope began.

“When he finished with her, and we don’t know how long he was here, he fixed her makeup, rearranged her lingerie and posed her like that, legs spread.”

“I bet we find that none of her own lingerie comes close to the sort of stuff she’s wearing; I bet you he brought the clothing to the scene, probably the makeup too.”

“When he was done he jabbed her again to kill her, if she wasn’t dead before,” Penelope hypothesised.

“Thank you Sherlock. Shall we work the scene?” Silvia was being flippant but she agreed with Penelope’s theory.

They let the CSI guys go to work on the body and they worked the crime scene, Silvia entered data into the tablet, which had an encrypted link to Police Plaza, a grandiose name for the building annexed to the Balwyn municipal building.

“Ok, let’s tag her and bag her,” Bob Tanner was ripping off his gloves.

“Don’t talk like that Bob. I know this job hardens us, but have a little respect please,” Penelope said.

Bob nodded apologetically.

Penelope and Silvia sat down to compare notes on the couch in Rhonda Stevens’ small combined living room, kitchen.

“You first,” Penelope was thirsty and jonesing for a cigarette.

“No sign of forced entry, my guess is the guy came home with her or was invited inside,” Silvia began.

“The little cocktail waitress dress and the underwear that she wore for work at the Starlight Lounge were folded up on a chair in her bedroom. Her heels are under the chair. I took photos and bagged it for forensics to look at.”

“I checked her wardrobe, clothes drawers and all the cupboards. Her underwear is as about what you’d expect for a working cocktail waitress; lots of nude pantyhose, plenty of satin panties and half cup bras. That cocktail waitress dress is low-cut and short-skirted but there is nothing like the fetish lingerie she was wearing.”

“There is no packaging for the lingerie or the heels either. I agree with you that murderer or murderers for that matter, we still don’t know it was only one person, brought the white lingerie and heels with him.”

“The shoes she’s wearing are indeed two sizes bigger than the size she wears, which is odd.”

“No signs of a struggle but obvious signs of sexual activity. That’s what I got,” Silvia put down her tablet.

“What if it’s one size fits all?” Penelope mused.

“What the fuck you talking about girl?” Silvia looked puzzled.

“The lingerie fits fine; sort of. Stockings come in short, medium, long or extra-long but the larger sizes will fit a smaller woman. I bet those are long. The bra and panties she’s wearing are bed-wear, not really suitable for anything else. They’re clingy nylon, maybe some spandex, but I bet they too are a larger size. The shoes, I checked, are a size twelve; almost any woman could get her feet in them but they’d be loose-fitting unless you are a really big girl; but then it’s not like he was taking her dancing was he?”

“My bet is this guy bought the lingerie and heels in larger sizes so they would fit pretty much any victim he chose,” Penelope posed.

“So you are ruling out family, friends and acquaintances already?” Silvia asked.

“Not ruling them out but this is a sex crime. The victim was selected, I don’t know, maybe wooed over time but I doubt it, a pick up is more likely. I think he had bought the fetish-wear already and was just looking for a victim to put in it.”

“Rhonda Stevens has still got it going for a thirty-eight-year old. Good looking, great tits, good figure and long legs; your typical cocktail waitress. Christ; that dress they made her wear for work is almost a fetish garment in itself,” Penelope said

“I don’t like where this is going; you’re suggesting we have a fetish killer on our pad and those guys normally don’t just stop at one murder,” Silvia shivered.

“Look that’s an early hypothesis. We’ll follow procedure and put together a timeline and interview her family, friends and co-workers first to see what shakes loose,” Penelope said.

“Yep we gonna do all that but then I think we’re going to tell the Chief that we suspect we have a thrill killer on our hands,” Silvia said.

The two women wrapped up the crime scene and left the apartment. They ditched their scene of crime over-boots, hair caps and gloves in the receptacle provided by CSI.

Penelope immediately lit a cigarette while Silvia went to talk to the Sargent. She came back shaking her head.

“Nobody saw anything useful. The guys are collecting any CCTV footage taken in the vicinity; there’s a bodega across the road that might have something useful. Let’s go interview her friend who found the body,” Silvia nodded to a woman sitting in one of the cruisers.

Julie Swindon was also thirty-eight, a good looking woman who looked a little world-weary and tired. She was wearing a red satin and lace, low cut, short-skirted, cocktail waitress dress, nude pantyhose and black high heels. Her makeup was heavy, as you would expect, and her bottle-blonde hair was teased out.

They took her to a nearby coffee lounge rather than taking her down to Police Plaza, she wasn't a suspect and it was less threatening. Julie was tired and emotional.

“Rhonda works the graveyard shift at the Starlight Lounge, same as I do, and she didn’t show up last night so I called her after work. We both need the money bad, why else would we do that shitty job, so I thought she had to be really sick not to come to work or answer the phone,” Julie began.

“I went to her place this morning after I finished my shift, I have my own key, and I found… well you know what I found,” Julie began to sob.

“Do you know anyone who might want to hurt her or anyone who was stalking or harassing her?” Silvia asked.

“I don’t know anyone who would want to hurt her. Rhonda was single and she’s had a few beaus over the year and half that I’ve known her but they all seemed like good guys,” Julie wiped her eyes with a tissue smearing her already smudged mascara.

“There are a lot of creeps at the Starlight. They think because our tits, legs and asses are on show they can cop a feel and then tip us two lousy dollars for delivering a drink,” Julie said bitterly.

“Tell me about the Starlight?” Silvia coaxed Julie to open up.

“The place sells cheap booze and has a ‘bargain buffet’; the cocktail waitresses are mainly mature women, all the young girls work in Reno or Vegas where the money is. You can see how we have to dress. The place is also a haven for hookers so you can imagine the clientele it draws.”

“Out back is a gaming room featuring eight-liner electronic gambling machines. By law the maximum cash payout is five dollars but Zeke has ways to get around that, usually by providing a debit card that can be topped up and withdrawn from,” Julia spun her coffee around on the table top.

“Yeah; it’s not the most salubrious joint in town,” Penelope piped in.

Silvia gave Penelope a knowing look; she knew that the Starlight was one of Penelope's hangouts.

“I don’t know of anyone that might want to hurt Rhonda. What I do know is that the night before last, a tall good looking guy in the Starlight was chatting her up. She seemed keen on him,” Julie said and Silvia and Penelope’s ears pricked up.

“We aren’t allowed to date customers, Zeke says because we could be charged with soliciting, but I think it’s so the real hookers get first dibs.”

“But there is nothing stopping the waitresses arranging to meet the guy somewhere else after work,” Julie explained.

“Is that what Rhonda did? Did she arrange to meet this guy?” Silvia asked.

“I honestly don’t know. I didn’t see her after work; she left before me,” Julie said.

“Is that usual? Do you usually leave together?” Silvia leaned in.

“Not always, we live at different ends of town. Sometimes we have coffee together and gossip; sometimes we go straight home; we’re always tired after work. I just wish I’d have been with her and not the sicko who did what he did to her,” Julie started to sob again.

“I want you to come downtown and sit with our sketch artist and see if we can get a composite of this tall handsome guy she was talking with ok?” Silvia asked and Julie nodded.

*****

The woman looked at herself in the mirror. Her makeup was perfect. The brunette wig was short with bangs, almost the exact same colour and style that Rhonda Stevens had been but not quite. It was the best she could do. She sprayed herself liberally with Poison perfume.

She was wearing a white see-through bra and translucent white hipster panties, white sheer stockings clipped to a white satin and lace garter belt and white high heels.

She was a lot taller than Rhonda Stevens and bigger built, the lingerie fit but some of it was tight; she didn’t mind.

She walked over to the bed, her high heels squeezed her feet but they were the largest size they had in white, not that it mattered, it’s not like she was going dancing.

She checked that her tablet was mounted securely in the stand attached to the bedhead and clicked play on the video she had cued up. It was set in a continuous loop; it would automatically restart when it got to the end. Then she double- checked that the door to the hotel room was securely locked and put a chair up against it for added protection, once she started she would be unable to help herself in any way for about three hours.

The woman took a vibrator out of her suitcase; it was almost the exact same shape and size as her own penis. The crossdressed man’s anus was pre-lubricated and he slid the vibrator all the way inside himself and slipped the gusset of his panties back in place, he did not want it coming out.

The tall crossdresser lay on the bed and got comfortable, then flicked the switch to turn the vibrator to full power; he adjusted the tablet so that the screen was about twelve inches from his face. Then he put on the white satin and lace wedding veil and pulled it back so he could see the screen clearly.

“Perfect,” he said.

Now that he was comfortable and confident that he could see the screen of the tablet perfectly and the vibrator was snugly fitted, he picked up the syringe. Keeping his head still and his eyes locked on the screen, he plunged the needle into the vein in the crook of his arm which he’d previously tied off. He was just able to release the tourniquet before he felt the chemical take effect.

He was almost immediately paralysed. The only thing he could move was his eyes. He could feel everything, see everything but he couldn’t move no matter how hard he tried. He inhaled the orangey scent of the perfume.

He looked at the screen and watched himself lift Rhonda Stevens’ legs and plunge his cock into her. He watched himself fucking the helpless woman. He could see that on the screen he was enjoying himself immensely and now he honestly believed that he could feel what Rhonda was feeling; his big cock right up inside her.

The crossdresser was erect; the vibrator pressed on his prostate as he concentrated on the screen and imagined that he was Rhonda Stevens. He ejaculated after about thirty minutes; the feeling was amazing, unable to move but totally immersed in his bliss and concentrating on the pleasure of his intense orgasm.

Rhonda Stevens’ murderer figured he would be paralysed for at least another two hours and if he was lucky he would orgasm twice again, hopefully it would coincide with when he came inside Rhonda Steven on the screen. That would be nice, or maybe while he was kissing her, that was naughty but he couldn’t resist doing it.

*****

The composite sketch looked useless as far as Penelope was concerned. It looked like some generic guy, it looked like every good looking guy you had ever seen and it looked like no one you had ever seen, but at least they had tried.

“How are we going with forensics?” Silvia Bickle asked Penelope.

“Autopsy is in progress but the hair and fibre guys tell me that they found very little on the body and on the bed. The fingerprint guys said the same thing, no prints on the body or on the bed; plenty in the apartment but they will have to run them through IAFIS,” Penelope was sitting in her chair, her feet up on her desk sipping coffee.

“I’m hoping we get a hit on one of the prints but I’m not confident. No hairs or fibres, no prints at the actual murder site, the way she was dressed and displayed, I’m convinced that this is some kind of a fetish killer.”

“Well that’s all we can do for the day; I’m heading home. Sarah and I have a special evening planned,” Silvia picked up her purse off the desk.

“How long has it been now?” Penelope asked.

“Three months,” Silvia said proudly.

“Did Sarah bring a U-Haul to the first date?” Penelope asked and ducked when Silvia threw a stapler at her.

“Try to stay sober honey; and try not to fuck the first guy you run into at the Longhorn,” Silvia hefted her purse and turned towards corridor that led to the elevator.

“I’m going nowhere near the Longhorn. I have chores to take care of,” Penelope called after her, tracing her finger down the runner in her nylons.

Penelope went home and resisted the temptation of the single cold Lone Star calling to her from the refrigerator. She picked up all her laundry and filled all three machines in the basement then she went back upstairs and cleaned her apartment. She went down to the corner store and bought two bags of groceries, resisting the temptation to buy more booze. She bought half a dozen pairs of pantyhose and three pairs of hold-up stockings. She came back and put her groceries away, after ditching the two mouldy Tupperware containers, and went down to the basement and put her laundry in the dryers.

Feeling proud of herself Penelope took off her work clothes and jammed the suit into a laundry bag. She didn’t bother showering or changing her underwear, she just slipped into a skirt, blouse and heels. She picked up the overstuffed laundry bag and bundled it into her shitty old Mustang. The back seat was littered with candy wrappers, empty beer bottles, old newspapers, even a crunchy pair of pantyhose. She scooped it all up and dropped it in the trash.

“What a good girl you are Penelope,” she said to herself as she pulled up at the twenty-four hour drycleaners and dropped off three suits, two dresses and a couple of skirts.

Penelope was proud of herself. She had gotten her house in order and hadn’t taken a drink since breakfast. She had to drive past The Longhorn on the way home and her car seemed to drive itself into the parking lot.

The Longhorn was the city of Balwyn’s cop bar and even at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night there were plenty of drinkers, some were guys and gals who had just come off shift and some of the cops seemed to live there. Penelope pulled up her usual seat at the bar and a JD on ice and Lone Star chaser appeared miraculously in front of her. The bartender knew her almost better than Silvia did.

She raised her glass to a photo of her father, Charlie Bishop, hanging up on the wall behind the bar with a bunch of photos of other dead cops.

Her father was a legend in the Balwyn PD and was honoured and revered by most of the other cops, the white Anglo cops anyway, but Penelope knew better. She had solved his murder when she was still a rookie and had found out the truth. That he was a corrupt, philanderer and a racist who got killed by his own kind. But never let reality get in the way of hero-worship; she still felt like she walked in his shadow.

Further along the wall was a photograph of Sargent Randolph Cody who had been awarded the Police Medal of Valour. He had been her husband but their marriage had been falling apart long before he got killed by a hit and run driver whilst attending to a MVA. Penelope didn’t know why she felt responsible for his death but she did, even after all these years.

She ran her finger down the neck of the beer bottle following a bead of condensation when she became aware that someone was sitting beside her.

“Hi Mitch,” she said without looking up.

“Hi princess,” Mitch O’Donnell replied.

“Don’t call me that. You can call me Lieutenant, Ma’am, or call me Penelope when I’m off duty and that’s all,” She replied dryly.

“Even when I’m fucking you?” Mitch grinned.

“Well you aint fucking me tonight Mitch because I’m having this one drink and going home,” Penelope said forcefully.

“Sure you are princess,” Mitch chuckled.

Penelope and Mitch fell through the door of her apartment two hours later.

“God you get me hot woman,” Mitch pulled her to him and kissed her passionately.

“Shut up and take to the bedroom, fuck me, and then let me sleep,” Penelope was drunk and tired.

Mitch kicked the door closed and picked up Penelope and put her over his shoulder.

“Put me down lunkhead, you’re drunker than I am,” Penelope kicked her legs and batted at him.

“Stop that missy!” Mitch paddled her butt with his free hand.

Her skirt had ridden right up and he had free access to her ass.

He walked her to the bedroom and threw her on the bed; they were both laughing uncontrollably.

Mitch quickly kicked off his boots and shucked out of his jeans and shirt; he was sporting a good size erection in his jockeys. Penelope unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it on the floor.

Penelope lifted her legs off the bed and took off her the high heels.

“You know I like to fuck you wearing high heels,” he helped her put them back on.

Mitch chuckled and reached for the hem of her skirt. Penelope had unzipped the side and the button on the waist and it slid down her legs and she tossed it aside.

“What the fuck are they!” Mitch pointed at her big white nylon granny panties.

Penelope blushed scarlet.

She put her fingers in the waistband to pull them down but Mitch jumped on the bed beside her and stopped her.

“Uh uh! You leave those puppies on I think they’re sexy,” Mitch stroked the front of her panties.

He kissed her passionately and she reached for his hard cock and stroked it, feeling the heft of it in her hand. Mitch kissed her harder as she worked her fingers up and down his cock; he reached for her breasts and tweaked her nipples bringing them to tumescence.

Penelope made another effort to take off her panties and once again Mitch stopped her.

“I really, really like them,” he teased her.

“Well they are going to have to come off when you fuck me,” Penelope laughed and kissed him again.

“Oh you know me better that that,” Mitch said and climbed on top of her and spread her legs.

He pressed his cock against her panties and began to thrust.

“Mmm that’s nice,” he grinned down at her.

“Let’s see,” Penelope put her hand inside the waistband of her panties and pantyhose and freed her semi-erect penis from between her buttocks.

Mitch rubbed his cock against hers through the double layer of nylon and they both groaned. It was nice.

Penelope wrapped her legs around him and they rutted against each other, kissing and moaning, Mitch sucked on her breasts for a while until Penelope pulled his lips back to hers.

She reached out awkwardly but she managed to open the drawer in her bedside table and her fingers found the tube of lubricant she kept there. She handed it to Mitch who stopped molesting her long enough to lubricate his penis.

“What now big boy? You finally going to let me take my panties off?” Penelope grinned up at him.

“Fuck no!” Mitch grinned back at her.

He thrust a hand inside the leg-hole of the granny panties and tore a hole in the gusset of her pantyhose and before she could do or say anything he fell on her and drove his cock into her anus.

“Oh god!” Penelope moaned.

She wrapped her legs around him and kissed him, holding him to her, whispering obscenities into his ear, encouraging him to fuck her.

Mitch had a decent size cock and it filled her anus nicely, evoking a gratifying tingling sensation from her sphincter and a deep throbbing delectation from her prostate.

Mitch felt her anus squeeze his cock, he’d fucked Penelope often enough to know that she could manipulate the muscles in her sphincter and her anus to evoke the most wondrous of sensations and she was doing so now. They kissed and caressed and scratched and moaned, grinding against each other, each seeking to slake their lust.

Finally the big cock thrusting in and out of her anus combined with the delicious feel of Mitch’s hard belly pressing on her nylon-swathed cock induced Penelope’s orgasm. She pulled Mitch hard against her and drummed her heels on his back as she came, writhing beneath him, kissing him so hard that their teeth clicked.

Her anus spasmed and wrested Mitch of his seed. He clung to her as he ejaculated, his cock buried deep inside her. He could feel the warm viscous nectar of Penelope’s semen soaking her panties, smearing on his belly.

They clung to each other until they were both drained; then Penelope pushed him off her.

“Can I stay the night?” Mitch asked sitting on the edge of the bed lighting a cigarette.

“Fuck no!” Penelope said through a yawn.

“Can I have those panties then?” he smiled cheekily at her.

“Fuck no!” she replied but she was smiling.

Mitch put his cigarette down and play-wrestled with her and eventually she gave up her panties.

“I’ll treasure them,” Mitch held them out and surveyed the large pair of underpants and laughed.

Penelope pulled up the covers and snuggled into the pillow.

“Fuck off Mitch. Go home to your wife. Lock the door on your way out,” she was annoyed by his antics and sleepy.

To be continued