Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ten thousand dollars. Two hundred a day whether I catch him or not,” Quint reiterated, barging into the shack with Brody close on his heels.

“You’ve got it,” the Chief replied without hesitation.

“And get the mayor off my back, so I don’t have any more of this zoning crap.” Quint dropped the knife he'd been using onto the workbench with a sharp clack.

Hooper followed behind, trailing her hand across the edge of the doorway as she stepped inside. She’d been warned about Quint, he was an ‘acquired taste’ as Martin put it, but she wasn’t put off. She’d dealt with her fair share of gruff sea captains. A smile and a well-placed compliment usually smoothed things over. To men like this, a woman was still a woman, no matter if she wore trousers and spoke in scientific jargon.

“You’ve got that,” Brody said again, more cautiously this time.

“One case of apricot brandy.” Quint stalked toward the back of the shack without so much as a glance in her direction.

Hooper looked around the shack in awe. The interior was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Rows upon rows of shark jaws hung on every wall, from reef sharks to makos, each set a trophy of white enamel and violence. Her grin grew wide and unguarded. She couldn’t hide her amazement even if she wanted to. Quint was definitely the right man for the job, Martin was right.

“You buy the lunch. Two cases. You get dinner when you get back,” Quint continued, as though reeling off a grocery list rather than his terms for hunting a man-eating shark.

Brody followed, shadowing the captain through the cluttered space, peering at him through gaps in the wide stairs. Hooper lingered behind, eyes scanning every relic nailed to the timber walls.

“Champagne, paté de foie gras, Iranian caviar…” Quint muttered, half to himself. “And don’t forget the colour TV.” He ducked under the sink and came up with a dusty bottle of clear liquid, pouring two shots.

“Hey, Chief. Try this—made it myself. Pretty good stuff.” He passed a glass through the gap.

“Thanks,” Brody said, the word catching in his throat as he accepted the drink reluctantly.

“Here’s to swimmin’ with bowlegged women.” Quint raised his glass in salute, eyes locked on the officer as he drank slowly, deliberately. He held the alcohol in his mouth, waiting until he was sure Brody had swallowed before doing the same.

“Excuse me, Chief,” he muttered, moving around the stairwell toward a pot boiling on the stove.

Hooper watched Brody’s face twist. The moment Quint’s back was turned, the man bent quickly and spat the alcohol into the vase behind him. She felt a flicker of admiration, the officer didn’t have the stomach for it, but he still played along. 

She stepped forward, crossing the room to stand near Brody just as Quint opened the pot. Steam hissed out, thick and pungent, revealing a massive set of shark jaws. He lifted them out with a pair of tongs, water dripping from the bleached bone. With a satisfied smirk, he replaced the lid, shook the blood from his fingers, and walked toward the stairs.

“Can’t get a good man these days under sixty,” he muttered, pulling off his apron as he began his ascent.

Hooper watched him go, the old man’s words pricking at her temper. As he passed her on the stairs, she snatched the untouched shot from Brody’s hand.

She was going to show this man she wasn’t just tagging along. If Quint wanted someone who could play his game, she'd give him exactly that.

“All gone at least thirty-five years…” Quint grumbled to himself.

“Don’t drink that,” Brody warned in a low voice as she raised the glass.

“Mr Quint?” Brody called out, stepping across the room to get his attention. Hooper tilted her head back and downed the shot.

“Mr Quint!” he called again, louder this time, but the old man kept climbing.

Hooper’s throat ignited, the stuff tasted like jet fuel. She gave one hard cough, unable to help it.  Brody shot her a look, unimpressed that she had defied his orders.

“Mr Quint,” Hooper rasped. She felt a swell of satisfaction when the captain turned around. Maybe the old man just needed to hear a woman speak to pay attention. “You’re gonna need an extra hand.”

“This is Matt Hooper,” Brody smiled, desperately attempting to remain friendly.

“I know who she is,” Quint said curtly, slinging his apron over a hook and grabbing his duffle from the floor.

“I’ve crewed three Transpacs—” Hooper began, stepping forward, eager to prove she’d earned her place here.

“Transplants?” Quint scoffed, leaning on the wooden bannister with a sneer.

“No, no, no, she’s from the Oceanographic Institute—” Brody tried to explain, as though the title alone might earn some respect.

“—and the America’s Cup trials,” Hooper added sharply, speaking over him.

Quint didn’t even blink. “Miss Hooper, I’m not talkin’ about pleasure boatin’ or day sailin’.” He hurled the duffle bag at the younger woman who caught it without strain. “I’m talkin’ about workin’ for a livin’. I’m talkin’ about sharkin’.”

“I’m not talking about hooking some dogfish or sand shark,” she snapped. She dropped the duffle bag to the floor with a thud and planted her hands on her hips. She frowned, lips tight with determination. “I’m talking about finding a great white.”

Quint arched a brow. The look he gave her was equal parts sceptical and amused.

“Porkers? You talkin’ about porkers, Miss Hooper?” He grinned, grabbing a coil of rope from the banister. As he walked back down the stairs, he tossed it square at her chest. “Just tie me a sheepshank.”

Quint moved without waiting, checking on the boiling jaws again. Hooper let out a frustrated sigh. 

“I haven’t had to pass basic seamanship in a long time,” she said, her voice slightly too loud. He was trying to get under her skin and it was working. Her hands began to move, muscle memory taking over. The knot came together quickly. 

“You didn’t say how short you wanted it.”

She threw the finished knot at Quint without bothering to inspect it.

“How’s that?”

He turned just in time to catch the rope mid-air. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face as he walked forward, discarding the rope carelessly on the chair beside him.

No praise. No acknowledgement. Just another test passed and promptly forgotten.

Hooper watched him. She wasn’t sure if she’d earned his respect but at least she had his attention.

“Give me your hands,” Quint demanded, reaching out to grasp Hooper’s hands before she realised she offered them up. Hooper winced as the older man squeezed as hard as he could, his grip firm and unyielding. Their eyes locked in a silent battle.

“Dogfish? You’ve got a $5,000 net, $2,000 worth of fish—” Hooper shot a quick look at Brody, disbelief flashing across her face. A sharp squeeze on her hands snapped her attention back to Quint. Her gaze dropped, shoulders tightening as she withered under the intensity of the older man’s stare.

“—Along comes Mr Whitey. By the time he’s finished with that net, it looks like a kiddie scissor class cut it up for a paper doll.”

Hooper tried to yank her hands free, but Quint held fast, applying more pressure with each word. Then Quint grinned, a sharp, knowing smile.

“You’ve got city hands, Miss Hooper. Been counting money all your life.”

Hooper ripped her hands back as though burned, her face flushing red with a mix of anger and disgust.

“How dare you!” she snapped. “I might not be a man, but my skills far exceed those of the men on this island. I’m just as capable as you are!”

“All right, all right,” Brody spoke up, trying to calm the tension that was about to boil over. 

Quint ignored the officer and let out a low, rumbling laugh. “You can’t even tell your own kind apart from men. What hope do you have of catching a shark?”

The anger on Hooper’s face faltered, shifting into something else, confusion. She studied Quint, trying to make sense of the words before finally speaking.

“You’re a woman?”

Quint smirked. “Where it counts.”

“I was told you were a man,” Hooper said slowly, turning to Brody, bewildered as to why he would have lied. But Brody looked just as stunned, he had been under the same impression.

“I am,” Quint replied, her eyes flicking toward the officer. “Where it counts.”

Quint gave Brody a knowing look, Hooper was unsure what it conveyed but it seemed to rattle the officer. 

Brody cleared his throat and stepped between the two women, shielding Hooper as if anticipating a physical altercation. He eyed Quint warily. “You’re not going to do this aboard the ship, are you, Mr Quint?”

Quint glanced over Brody’s shoulder to watch Hooper’s glare. 

“Maybe I should go alone,” she mused, shifting her gaze back to Brody. “Not much use for a saturday night butch.”

Hooper scoffed in disbelief. She dressed masculine every day of her adult life, much to her parents dismay. She was just as much a butch as Quint, and proud of it. She wasn’t the one masquerading as a man. 

She clenched her fists and bit back the retort forming on her tongue for Brody’s sake. 

The officer made a strangled noise. “It’s my party. It’s my charter.”

“Yeah, it’s your charter, your party, it’s my vessel,” Quint shot back, her voice rising with irritation. “You’re on board my vessel. I’m Mate, Master, Pilot and Captain.”

The only sound was the waves lapping against the shack as silence stretched between them.

Hooper waited, half-expecting Quint to show them the door and tell them not to come back. Brody, on the other hand, looked ready to plead if necessary.

The older woman gave a sharp nod toward Hooper.

“Take her for ballast, Chief.”

Brody turned to look at Hooper, releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Then he nodded.

“You got it.”

As soon as they were back in the safety of Brody’s police car, Hooper let out a long, exasperated sigh and rubbed both hands down her face.

“Told you he was an acquired taste,” Brody chuckled, starting the engine and pulling out onto the road.

“ She was so rude!” Hooper snapped, deliberately emphasising the pronoun. “How can she call me a ‘Saturday night butch’,” she made exaggerated quotation marks in the air, “when she’s the one pretending to be a man? Give me a break.”

Hooper turned, expecting Brody to laugh or at least share her annoyance. But instead, he just frowned.

“Matt…” he said, her name hesitant on his tongue. “You’re young, so maybe you don’t fully understand why someone like Quint lives as a man.”

Hooper’s stomach dropped. She knew that tone—the slow, patronising cadence of a disappointed father trying to teach a life lesson. She turned her gaze to the window, as Brody continued.

“As you know, it’s hard being a woman. Especially a masculine one. Your job options are limited, you earn less, and for God’s sake, you can’t even open a bank account without a husband or father signing off.”

Hooper sank further into the passenger seat, shoulders tight with frustration. This was her first time meeting Quint, Brody had only met her once before too, and yet he was speaking as if he had lived his whole life alongside her. It was odd. Most men didn’t care about this stuff. They nodded along when it came up, but they didn’t know. Not like this.

“And it’s not just the money,” Brody went on, his tone softer now. “You can’t marry your partner, not if you’re both women. You can’t adopt. You’re locked out of half the things straight couples take for granted.”

Hooper turned to look at him. Her brow furrowed slightly.

“You know an awful lot about this sort of stuff,” she said slowly. “Did you and Quint have a heart-to-heart the first time you met?”

Brody let out a sigh and offered her a tight, lopsided smile.

“Read between the lines, will ya?”

Hooper’s eyes widened. “You too?”

Brody made a small affirmative sound, almost a hum, and eased the car to the side of the road. The engine idled as she shifted into park, then turned to face the younger woman fully.

“I know it’s a lot,” she said gently. “And I don’t claim to understand all of Quint’s reasons. But I can tell you more about mine, if you want to hear them.”

Hooper’s mind was racing. She’d heard of passing butches, old tales traded between women with too much wine and nowhere to be, but she’d never met one. Not until Amity. Now, somehow, she’d met two.

She understood dressing masculine, there was freedom in it. A quiet sort of defiance. Being seen as ‘for women’ by default was a form of liberation, even if it came with its own complications. But this? Living full-time as a man? Wearing the skin of the oppressor? That was harder to swallow.

She’d never had to go that far.

At twenty-eight, she'd already earned her place at an Ivy League institution, secured funding for her research, and carved a niche in a field dominated by men. She thought she’d fought the hard fight. But everything Brody had said earlier echoed in her head: the legal limits, the locked doors, the invisible ceilings. It wasn’t the same fight. Not for everyone.

She must’ve sat silent too long because Brody spoke again, quieter now.

“I know what people say about folks like us,” she said. “But it isn’t true. I dress this way because I want to. I pass because it lets me give my family the best life I can. There’s pride in being the provider. The protector.”

Hooper looked up, met her eyes. There was something unguarded in Brody’s expression. Not pleading exactly, but open. Seeking understanding.

“Quint’s one of the first mainlanders who settled here, over twenty years ago. People see him as a fixture. If you start telling them he’s actually a woman…” Brody gave a soft shrug. “They’ll just look at you funny but nothing good comes of it. What do you gain by stirring the pot?”

Hooper crossed her arms and looked away. Her gaze drifted past Brody and out the window, to where the sea glittered in the distance.

“I wouldn’t out him,” she muttered, slipping back into masculine pronouns.

“I know,” Brody said softly. “He’s tough, I won’t lie. But we need him, Matt. He’s the best shot we’ve got.”

Hooper nodded, her voice barely a murmur. “I’m sorry.”

Brody gave her a gentle pat on the arm and a reassuring smile, the tension between them ebbing just slightly.

“It’s fine. Let’s forget about it for now.” She started the car again, easing them back onto the road. “How about I take you to lunch?”

Hooper grinned, grateful for the shift in tone. “Can’t say no to free food.”

Chapter Text

As Quint and Hooper giggled to themselves over their drinks, Brody glanced down at the only scar she had to offer in return. It wasn’t anything thrilling. No brushes with death or wild escapades, just the neat, pale line left behind by a routine hospital operation. She tugged her shirt back down, self-conscious, heat rising to her cheeks.

Quint, ever observant despite the alcohol, had been watching with a keen eye, admiring the toned cut of Brody’s stomach. “What’re you hidin’ over there, Chief? Knife wound from the big city?”

Brody’s head snapped up, startled. She hadn’t realised she was being watched. A dry cough escaped her as she tried to recompose herself, one hand moving instinctively to cover the mark. “No, nothing like that. Never picked up a scar on the job…” She hesitated, debating whether or not to tell the truth.

Fifteen years with the NYPD. She’d faced violence on a near-daily basis, seen the worst humanity had to offer, and lived each day not knowing if she’d make it home. And yet it was Hooper, the sheltered college girl, who bore the more dramatic battle wounds.

Hooper seemed to sense the discomfort radiating from Brody and offered a gentle out. “Hey, you don’t have to show us if you’re not comfortable.”

“It’s a hysterectomy scar,” Brody said at last, her voice barely above a whisper, bracing herself for laughter.

But there was none. Quint let out a low whistle, impressed rather than amused. “You’re more of a man than me, Chief. Let’s see it.” She leaned forward on her elbows, eyes gleaming with curiosity rather than judgement, inviting Brody in without pressure.

“I think even with a womb, you’re more of a man than me,” she said, stepping forward. She lifted her shirt and tugged down the waistband of her trousers just enough to reveal the scar.

The two women leaned in to inspect it. It ran low across her abdomen, nestled in the soft place between her happy trail and the edge of her pubic hair. It might not have come from a shark or a bar fight, but it was honoured all the same.

“To your missing womb,” Quint declared, raising her mug towards Brody in mock solemnity, seizing the opportunity for another drink.

Brody reached back for her own mug to clink against it, warmth blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Cheers!” they chorused, downing their drinks with competitive glee, each woman racing to be the first to drain her mug.

Hooper slammed hers onto the table with a triumphant thud, grinning wildly. “That was good,” she said, breathless with laughter. “But I think I’ve still got you both beat.”

“Oh yeah?” Brody asked, arching an eyebrow.

“See this?” Hooper began theatrically, unbuttoning her shirt to reveal a glimpse of her sports bra. She tapped her chest just above the sternum. “Right there. Mary Ellen Moffat. She broke my heart.”

That earned a roar of laughter from the table. The last of the tension dissolved completely, swept away in the wave of shared stories and alcohol. Brody slid onto the bench beside Hooper, refilling their mugs as Quint chimed in with a devilish grin.

“You ever get with this girl, or just hold hands?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

“We were taking it slow, if you must know,” Hooper replied, taking a long sip from her mug.

Quint snorted. “Broke your heart and you didn’t even fuck her? Christ. You city girls are something else. You ever even been with a woman before?”

Hooper’s mouth curled into a sly smile. “Why? Are you looking to get in line?” she shot back, refusing to blush, refusing to back down. If Quint wanted to prod, she’d prod right back.

Quint drained her mug and set it beside Hooper’s with a quiet thunk. She turned to face the younger woman, eyes glinting with amusement. “Tomorrow could be our last day on Earth, Miss Hooper,” she said, wiping a streak of liquid from her lip. “Would be a shame to die a virgin.”

She smirked as Hooper’s face turned bright red, her cocky smile slipping just for a moment. Quint glanced past her and caught Brody’s eye across the table.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Chief?”

Quint had overheard Ellen whispering on the docks, murmuring something to her husband about the things that go on between men at sea. She’d told Brody that if she ever got her hands on the tiny butch, she expected to hear every juicy detail.

At the time, Quint had rolled her eyes and kept hauling gear onto the Orca. This wasn’t a pleasure cruise. They were there to kill a great white, not flirt. Sentimentality was best left on land. But now, under the flickering light of the cabin, she was starting to see what Ellen had meant.

Brody grinned, recalling a sign she’d once seen in a lesbian bar back in the city. “Don’t die wondering.”

Hooper’s head whipped round to stare at her, shock painted across her features, the question spilling out before she could stop it. “But… your wife?”

Brody laughed, full and bright. “It’s fine. Trust me.” She patted Hooper on the back. “She’d be more jealous she wasn’t here to see your face.”

Hooper hesitated, glancing between them. She wasn’t quite sure how this had escalated so quickly and how she wasn’t already diving into the ocean out of sheer panic. But the truth was undeniable. Her heart was pounding, her breath shallow, and she was wet. The thought of being between these two older, masculine women, both sharp-edged and dangerous in their own ways, made something hot twist low in her belly.

Quint must have read it on her face because she grinned wolfishly and hooked a finger through the waistband of Hooper’s jeans. “You circumcised down there, sweetheart?” she teased, tugging her closer by the hips.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, a flush rising to her cheeks.

Quint laughed. “Just curious what the city’s packing.”

Hooper squeaked as Quint guided her onto her lap. Strong hands made quick work of Hooper’s fly, and then, before she could think to protest, her jeans and underwear were at her ankles. Quint used her boot to push them the rest of the way off.

Instinctively, Hooper’s hands flew to cover herself, thighs clamping shut. “Jesus—wait—”

Quint rolled her eyes fondly, pulling the younger woman’s legs open “Don’t be shy. Let the Chief see what we’re working with.” 

Brody, seated across from them, watched intently. Her eyes had gone darker, her body tensed with anticipation. One hand moved casually to her lap, pressing down against the bulge under her trousers with a quiet hum.

Hooper trembled slightly but nodded. Slowly, she let her hands fall to her sides, chest rising and falling as she tried to calm her nerves.

“Good girl,” Quint murmured, giving her thigh an approving squeeze before slipping a hand between her legs. She spread Hooper open wide, exposing the flushed, glistening folds. The wet sound made Hooper close her eyes in embarrassment.

“Christ, Chief, look at her,” Quint said, eyes never leaving the sight in her lap. “She’s soaked. Just from being manhandled.”

She ran two fingers slowly from Hooper’s clit to her entrance, then back again to demonstrate her point. The younger woman gasped, shuddering. 

“You never touch yourself? You’re cryin’ like a woman on her wedding night.” Quint mocked, giving the younger woman’s clit a few quick strokes.

Hooper squirmed in Quint’s lap, gripping the older woman’s thigh in an attempt to ground herself. “Of course I do,” she bit out. Her eyes cracked open to glare at Quint, trying to reclaim a little ground. “I’ve got a Hitachi Wand in my drawer if you must know.”

“God gave you two hands, what do you need toys for?” Quint said derisively. 

“I use those too,” Hooper shot back. 

Quint’s free hand had travelled up, slipping beneath Hooper’s shirt to find one small, sensitive breast. She rolled the nipple between calloused fingers while her other hand dipped lower, just barely breaching Hooper’s entrance.

“You keep that thing pressed against you too often, you’ll ruin your pussy for your husband,” she muttered, her voice rough now, slower, as if caught up in it herself.

Hooper’s breath caught, hips canting involuntarily. “God—”

“I’ll have—” she gasped again, head falling back to rest on Quint’s shoulder, “I’ll have a wife.”

Quint snorted at the remark. “Look how much you love dyke cock, you’re a faggot butch who wants to be bent over. A femme isn’t going to give you what you want.”

She curled her fingers inside Hooper, pressing deep, dragging slow, deliberate strokes along the sensitive walls. At first, it was almost lazy, coaxing the younger woman to open up, to writhe and gasp on her lap. But soon the rhythm picked up, Quint thrusting two fingers steadily, making slick sounds fill the quiet space between them. Hooper whimpered, clutching harder on the older woman’s thighs, hips twitching helplessly with every curl of Quint’s hand. Across from them, Brody watched intently, subtly but unmistakably grinding in time with Quint’s thrusts.

Quint angled her hand differently, running her fingertips over the shallow dip of Hooper’s cervix. The contact drew a sharp, helpless gasp from the younger woman, her thighs trembling with the effort of keeping still.

“Your cervix is low,” Quint smugly observed, dragging her fingers back and forth to draw a whimper from Hooper. “You must be startin’ your period soon. Dangerous situation to be in, don’t you think?”

Hooper ground down on the invading fingers as if she couldn’t help herself, the embarrassment and arousal mixing thick in her veins.

“You’d make good bait,” Quint continued, voice dark and teasing. “Put you in the cage, all that blood in the water... Bastard’ll come straight for you.” She thrust harder then, pumping her fingers into Hooper with force, angling her thumb so it bumped against the younger woman’s swollen clit with every movement.

“No…” Hooper whined, turning her head away, struggling weakly against Quint’s grip but it was all for show. Her body betrayed her, slick and trembling and desperate, hips canting up to meet every harsh thrust.

Quint caught sight of the stretch of Hooper’s tanned, vulnerable neck and couldn’t resist. 

She leaned in and bit down hard, sinking her teeth into the soft muscle like a shark claiming its prey. Hooper yelped, her whole body jolting, a strangled sound torn from her lips. Quint only chuckled low in her throat and sucked at the tender skin until she was sure it would bruise deep and purple. If Hooper ever made it back to her fancy institute, they'd all know exactly what their precious scientist had been doing during her week away.

A rough grunt pulled Quint’s attention back to Brody. The officer was sat back, legs splayed, her hand now moving openly beneath the open fly of her jeans, watching them with hooded, hungry eyes.

“You wearing a cock, Chief?” Quint rasped, her grin feral. She gave a light, taunting pat to the Hooper’s swollen pussy displayed between them. “Show her a good time.”

Hooper whimpered at the touch, overstimulated but greedy for more, her hips jerking helplessly at every teasing slap.

Brody didn’t need to be told twice. She stood, parting her jeans with one hand, her movements calm and practised. She slipped her fingers inside to part the Y-fronts she wore beneath, pulling out her strap. It was a simple, flesh-coloured cock—six inches, solid and practical, made for fucking, not showing off.

Quint watched the officer’s movements with keen interest, a slow smirk spreading across her face. She gave Hooper’s thigh a brisk pat. “On the table,” she said gruffly.

Without giving the scientist time to argue, Quint ducked down and hauled Hooper up by the arms, lifting her onto the worn surface. Hooper wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position, knees clamped together in a vain attempt at modesty, as if Brody hadn't just watched her get finger-fucked to the brink of orgasm moments earlier.

Quint made a noise of amusement and reached for Hooper’s shirt and sports bra, tugging them up and over her head with rough efficiency. Hooper yelped, arms flying up to cover her now bare chest, shooting an indignant glare at the older woman.

“You could have asked,” she whined, cheeks burning bright.

"Yeah, yeah," Quint muttered, unconcerned. She grabbed the scientist’s thigh, tugging it aside to expose her fully to Brody. Her other hand gripped Hooper’s chin, forcing her to turn her face back and watch as the officer stepped between her spread legs.

Brody took her time. One hand wrapped loosely around the base of her cock, the other gently stroking Hooper’s shin, a stark contrast to Quint’s rough handling. She ran the head of her cock up and down Hooper’s soaked slit, letting it catch deliberately against her clit, smearing wetness along the shaft. Hooper whimpered, thighs clenching involuntarily, her cunt twitching at the teasing contact.

"You ready?" Brody asked, voice low and patient, her cock poised at Hooper’s entrance.

Hooper nodded quickly, biting her lip, her wide eyes locked on the strap, her whole body tense with anticipation.

Brody pushed forward, slow and deliberate, letting Hooper feel every inch as she entered. The strap was thicker than Quint’s fingers had been, and Brody was careful, watching the younger woman's every reaction, refusing to rush even as her own restraint began to fray.

Hooper gasped, her nails scraping lightly over the table, back arching at the stretch.

"Good girl," Brody murmured, bottoming out with a final shallow thrust, her hands firm on Hooper’s hips to steady her.

Brody held herself there for a long moment, buried deep, feeling Hooper’s walls flutter around the cock. She pulled back only an inch before sliding back in, slow and deliberate, setting a languid, almost torturous rhythm. Every shallow thrust drew a soft, broken whine from Hooper, her body fighting to thrust back, to take more, but Brody’s hands moved to pin her hips firmly to the table, controlling the pace.

Hooper moaned helplessly, her hand flying to cover her mouth, desperate to hide the needy noises spilling out. Her whole body strained for faster, harder, more.

Quint watched with a grin, amused and fond, before reaching down with her free hand and catching Hooper’s wrist. She tugged the younger woman’s hand away from her mouth with ease.

“None of that,” Quint chided. “We want to hear you.”

Hooper moaned aloud, unable to help it, her thighs trembling, her chest heaving.

Brody exhaled heavily through her nose, concentrating on the slow grind, savouring every twitch and shiver of the woman under her. Her mind flickered to the thought of returning home, walking through the front door to find Ellen waiting. She'd offer up the strap still slick with salt, sweat, and Hooper’s dried cum, and her wife would know exactly what to do. Ellen would drop to her knees without a word, tongue out, desperate to taste every trace of the scientist before Brody bent her over and fucked her just as slow and deep as she was doing now.

The thought made the officer groaned, and she gave an extra sharp thrust that made Hooper cry out.

Quint barked a laugh, hand still curled possessively around Hooper’s jaw. "Hear that, Chief’s enjoyin' herself more than you are." She leaned down, voice dropping to a mockery of sweetness as she whispered near Hooper’s ear. "You want more, you’re gonna have to ask for it properly."

Brody pulled almost out, just the head left inside, and stilled completely.

Quint chuckled and gave a playful slap to Hooper’s flushed cheek. "C’mon, princess. Beg for it. Use your words like a big girl."

Hooper whimpered, toes curling against the edge of the table, utterly wrecked by the slow pace and the thick ache of being left empty.

"Please..." she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut.

Quint clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "That’s a start, but we need more than that, don’t we, Chief?"

“What do you want me to do to you, Matt?” Brody asked, thumb rubbing slow circles on Hooper’s hips.

Hooper whimpered, hips twitching with frustration, before forcing herself to meet Brody’s eyes. Her voice cracked with desperation. "Please… fuck me how you wouldn’t fuck your wife."

Quint laughed low and filthy, moving the hand holding Hooper’s thigh open to thumb at her clit.
She locked eyes with Brody. “Break her hymen, Chief.”

That was all Brody needed.

Without a word, she pushed her hips forward in a single thrust, bottoming out inside Hooper and wrenching a moan from her throat.

The officer set a savage rhythm at once, snapping her hips forward with controlled violence, driving her cock deep into the younger woman over and over, using her like she was made for it. Hooper cried out with every thrust, her hands scrambling uselessly against the table.

Quint released the grip on Hooper’s face to slip a hand down the front of her trousers, fingers seeking out her own clit, rubbing over the hood with fingers coated in Hooper’s drying cum.

Hooper’s head dropped back onto the table, too weak to hold her head up now that Quint wasn’t supporting her.

Brody reached up, running a hand through Hooper’s hair and giving it a firm tug, holding her in place. She fucked her harder, deeper, driving up into Hooper with a force that made the younger woman’s back arch off the table. She chased the broken, desperate noises spilling from Hooper’s mouth.

"That's it," Brody growled low, the rhythm of her hips relentless. "Take it. Take it for me."

Hooper sobbed helplessly, hips twitching as she tried to grind back, but Brody's grip in her hair held her still and forced her to accept every rough thrust exactly how Brody wanted to give it.

"Listen to you," Quint purred from beside them. "Squirming like a bitch in heat. You should be thankin' her properly, Hoop."

Hooper gasped, hands grabbling uselessly at Brody’s arms, overwhelmed by the brutal pace that left her no room to think.

"Go on," Brody encouraged, her voice a dark purr. "Tell us how good it feels."

Hooper choked on a sob, the words barely squeezing past her lips. "So good—feels so good—please don't stop—"

Quint smirked, lifting the hand slick with Hooper’s cum to pat her flushed cheek mockingly. Hooper flinched slightly at the touch, desperate and raw.

"All those fancy degrees—none of it matters now you’ve got a cock inside you," Quint crooned, before slipping two fingers between Hooper’s parted lips.

“Suck my dyke cock while she makes you cum,” Quint ordered, voice thick with satisfaction.

Hooper whimpered around the intrusion, her whole body trembling. She sucked and licked eagerly at Quint’s fingers, her eyes closing when the captain started to thrust the digits firmly down her throat.

Brody leaned down, the blunt head of her strap grinding deliberately against Hooper’s G-spot with every deep thrust.

"You like being fucked by older men?" Brody asked, her voice low, dark, and almost fond.

Hooper’s whole body jolted, cunt clenching so hard around Brody’s cock it was a miracle she could keep moving at all.

“Yes!” Hooper wailed around Quint’s fingers as her orgasm climbed closer.

"Let go," Brody ordered, snapping her hips ruthlessly forward. "Come on. Come for us."

Hooper's whole body stiffened, the pleasure cresting too fast, too violently to hold back. Her eyes flew open, hands batting Quint away as a sharp cry tore from her throat, hips bucked wildly.

Brody drove into her harder, and Hooper broke apart completely. A sudden gush of liquid burst from her, spraying over Brody’s strap and trousers, soaking the officer’s lower torso and thighs and collecting on the table beneath them. 

She kept Hooper pinned, ramming her cock through the wetness, grinding deep even as slick dripped off her.

Hooper thrashed helplessly, overwhelmed, legs kicking uselessly as her hands scrambled for purchase on the puddle-slicked table. Another gush of wetness sprayed out, adding to the mess, the sound lewd and wet every time Brody bottomed out inside her again.

The younger woman sobbed, loud and wrecked, her whole body shaking from the force of it.

"Christ," Quint grunted, rubbing furiously at her clit, eyes locked hungrily on the sight of Hooper falling apart. Her free hand gripped the table’s edge hard enough that her knuckles turned white, blunt nails gouging into the wood as she chased her release.

Brody fucked Hooper through it, relentless, each thrust punching another broken, desperate moan from the scientist’s throat, dragging every last twitch and sob from her overstimulated body.

"Can I cum inside you?" Brody rasped, voice rough and wrecked. "Would you like that?"

Hooper could only nod, moaning brokenly, thighs trembling violently as slick pooled under her ass and ran in rivulets over the table’s edge.

Quint finally gave a guttural, strangled sound as she came, shuddering hard, hips jerking forward violently. Her eyes squeezed shut as she savoured Hooper's whimpering and crying.

Brody gave a few more brutal thrusts, her hands squeezing Hooper’s hips hard enough to leave deep bruises, before slowing just slightly. She stayed buried to the hilt, grinding down into Hooper's overstimulated cunt in slow, punishing circles.

A low, ragged sound tore from the officer’s throat as she pressed harder, chasing that phantom release, forcing the cock as deep as it could go. The sensation of Hooper trembling and clenching so helplessly around her made the officer's knees almost buckle.

"There you go," Brody panted, grinding her hips down hard, making Hooper whimper. "Take it all."

Hooper writhed under her, barely coherent, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes as another weak gush of cum seeped out around Brody’s cock, adding to the mess flooding the table. 

She sobbed with overstimulation; the sensation of Brody grinding and filling her made her whole body jolt.

"That's it," Brody murmured roughly, voice thick with dark affection. "Good girl."

She ground down one last time, hard enough to wrench a hoarse cry from Hooper’s throat, before finally going still, strap buried deep inside the younger woman’s cunt.

Brody stayed pressed against her for a moment longer, savouring the twitch of Hooper’s muscles around her. Then, with a grunt of effort, she pawed at her pockets, eventually pulling out a battered pack of cigarettes. She slid one between her lips, flicking the lighter once with ease. The flame briefly illuminated the sweat still slicking Brody’s brow, before she inhaled deeply.

She closed her eyes, letting the smoke settle in her lungs, then exhaled with a heavy, satisfied sigh. Only then did she open her eyes again to take in the sight before her.

Hooper lay sprawled on the table, utterly wrecked, chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Her thighs trembled, pussy fluttering involuntarily around the silicone, drawing a low, pleased hum from the officer.

The sea breeze slipped through the cracks in the cabin, cooling the sweat on Hooper’s skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She gave a soft, broken whimper, too exhausted to even shy away from the chill.

Nearby, Quint finally moved, removing her hat to swipe a forearm across her damp brow. Her grin was slow and lazy as she looked down at the wreck they'd made of their scientist.

"Well, Chief," she drawled. "Think you damn near killed her."

Brody huffed a tired laugh around her cigarette, smoke curling lazily from her lips. "She’s still breathing," she said, voice rough with satisfaction.

Quint leaned over, tucking her hat under one arm. She ran a hand casually up Hooper’s trembling thigh, dragging her fingertips through the mess Brody had forced out of her.

"Messy little thing," Quint said fondly. "Not seen anyone squirt like that in a long time. You’re damn lucky the table didn't snap."

Hooper let out a weak sound but otherwise stayed boneless and pliant.

"Think we might’ve broken her brain," Quint added with a smirk.

Brody finally pulled back, slowly, the wet squelch loud in the quiet of the cabin. She watched as more slick dripped from Hooper’s stretched pussy, joining the puddle below.

"She’ll be fine," Brody said, voice softer now, reaching out to brush a damp curl from Hooper’s sweaty forehead. "Just needs a minute."

Hooper didn’t respond. She lay there, breathing heavily through her nose, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though she wasn’t quite sure what century she was in.

Brody rolled her shoulders and took a final drag from her cigarette, exhaling slowly before flicking the butt into a chipped, long-abandoned mug. She tucked her strap back into her Y-fronts, adjusting it with the ease of habit, and fastened her trousers again.

“Alright,” Quint said, giving Hooper’s thigh a light slap. “Up you get. We’re not leavin’ you there to soak through the woodwork.”

Hooper let out a noise of protest, but Quint was already moving, slipping her arms beneath the younger woman’s shoulders to haul her upright. Hooper groaned, sluggish and shaky, but didn’t resist.

Brody moved to the counter and grab a rag, tossing it to Quint, who caught it without looking. Quint used it to wipe the wet trail glistening down Hooper’s thighs, then turned her attention to the spreading puddle left on the table.

“Could wring you out like a sponge,” she muttered, amusement colouring her voice.

Hooper only managed a faint hum in reply as Brody stepped forward, holding out her crumpled shirt. The matching bra wasn’t offered, whether by accident or design, Hooper couldn’t tell. She accepted the shirt with a quiet 'Thank you,' pulling it over her head and wincing as the damp fabric clung to her still-sensitive skin. She then shuffled off the table and wriggled awkwardly back into her jeans, wincing at how much effort it took just to dress herself.

As she fastened her fly, Hooper caught sight of Quint’s forearms tensing with each firm pass of the rag. For a moment, she just watched, still slightly dazed.

“Don’t tell me you had a tattoo that said ‘Mother’,” Hooper said with a crooked smile, pointing towards the faded, blocky mark on Quint’s forearm. Her giggle was still breathless, soft around the edges.

Quint froze mid-wipe. Her expression shifted, subtle but immediate, and she raised a hand to cover the ink with the rag. When she turned back to Hooper, her voice was quiet, but carrying the weight of something darker beneath.

“Miss Hooper,” she said, “that’s the USS Indianapolis.”

Chapter Text

Martin woke slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains, casting a pale glow across the room. Ellen was curled up beside her, loosely nestled in her arms, her skin warm and familiar against Martin’s own. She didn’t need to look to know her wife wasn’t asleep. She could feel it in the way Ellen’s body held just a little tension, the way her breathing was too shallow, too careful.

She’s been awake for a while , Martin thought. Worrying again .

She tightened her arm around her wife gently, nuzzling into Ellen’s hair as she mumbled, voice still rough with sleep, “I can hear you worrying.”

“I can’t stop thinking about what could have happened to you,” she whispered. “What would I have told the kids? What would I do? What would we do without you?”

Martin’s chest ached. She hated that she’d put Ellen in this position again, that they were having the same conversation they used to have almost every week when they’d lived on the mainland.

She pressed a kiss into Ellen’s hair, holding her closer. “I know,” she murmured. “I know. But it didn’t. I’m here. I’m okay.”

She paused, then tried to add something reassuring. “I worked in New York for twenty years and didn’t get so much as a scar. A shark wasn’t going to be the thing to do me in.”

Ellen let out a shaky huff of laughter, her fingers finally starting to move in slow, soothing circles over Martin’s forearm. Martin felt the tension begin to melt from her wife’s body, just a little.

But Martin didn’t relax. Not yet. The fear still lingered, quiet but persistent, like a bruise beneath the skin. It had settled deep in both of them, and no amount of warm sunlight or half-hearted reassurance could wash it away in one go.

Still, she had one idea.

“I’ve got something that’ll make you feel better,” Martin said, letting a note of mischief slip into her voice.

Ellen turned her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Martin gave a quick glance towards the bedroom door, assessing whether it was locked or not, before remembering the kids were staying at Mrs Silvera’s until noon. The house was quiet, but Martin still dropped her voice.

“I got my hands on that little butch,” she said with a crooked grin.

Ellen’s eyes widened, a spark of heat igniting there instantly. “You did?” she whispered, half disbelieving and already halfway aroused, the last of the worry fading from her brow.

Martin grinned, warm and sly. “Oh yeah. We couldn’t let her die a virgin, could we?”

Ellen’s lips curved into a grin. For the first time that morning, the fear had truly slipped away, replaced by delight and hunger. “ We? Martin Brody, you dirty old man.”

She giggled, rolling onto her back to face her husband properly.

Martin shifted with her, staying close, curled comfortably into Ellen’s side. One hand came to rest possessively across Ellen’s chest, while the other slid beneath her own chin, so she could keep watching every flicker of emotion dance across her wife’s face.

“What?” Martin asked, drawing the word out with playful offence. “Quint started it. Captain gets first dibs, I’m told.”

Ellen ran her nails lightly over the back of Martin’s shirt. “And what did he do?”

Martin’s grin deepened. Her hand drifted lower, tracing idle shapes down Ellen’s front, her fingertips warm and unhurried.

“He pulled Matt into his lap…” she said, voice growing huskier as her touch slid over Ellen’s stomach, teasing at the hem of her nightdress. “Unbuttoned her jeans…” Her hand slipped beneath the fabric now, grazing bare skin. “And tugged her briefs down.”

She eased Ellen’s underwear past her hips with slow precision, pulling them free and letting them fall to the floor.

“She tried to cover herself,” Martin continued, her palm cupping Ellen’s pussy with warm, deliberate pressure.

Ellen sighed, low and full of pleasure, her nails curling into Martin’s back on instinct.

“But Quint spread her legs open, so I could see how wet she was.” Her hand then slid to Ellen’s thigh, squeezing gently before easing her legs apart, carefully mimicking the story, letting her wife feel every beat.

“You should’ve seen her,” she said, her voice thick with affection and arousal. “She was dripping onto the bench just from that.”

She let go of Ellen’s thigh, smiling when it stayed parted. Her wife’s pussy glistened in the morning light, flushed and eager, aching to be touched, to be filled.

“And the sounds she made when Quint barely touched her clit…” Martin’s fingers ghosted over Ellen’s with an almost maddening tease.

Ellen let out a soft, desperate noise that made Martin’s stomach flutter in triumph.

Martin slid her hand up beneath the nightdress, fingers seeking out Ellen’s breast. She circled one areola slowly, gently teasing the skin until the nipple stiffened under her touch. Her thumb brushed back and forth before giving it a firm, satisfying tug.

Ellen arched into the touch, her breath catching, her hips shifting in a silent plea for more.

Martin chuckled low, dark and indulgent. She pinched the nipple between two fingers, twisting gently until Ellen gasped, then flicked it with just enough force to make her moan.

She leaned down and took the other nipple into her mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, her tongue laving over it before giving a sharp little flick. Ellen gasped again, her fingers threading through Martin’s hair.

“Quint teased her an awful lot,” Martin murmured between kisses. She gave the nipple one last tug with her mouth before shifting back to the first, determined to give it equal attention. She grinned as cool air swept over the wet fabric clinging to Ellen’s nipple, making her whine softly.

“Got her to admit she uses massage wands when she masturbates.”

Ellen moaned at the words, a shiver running through her, and Martin revelled in the sound, feeling heat coil low in her belly.

Martin pushed herself upright, settling between Ellen’s thighs. Her hands slipped under the hem of Ellen’s nightdress and eased it upwards, lifting it higher and higher until she tugged it over Ellen’s head, leaving her completely bare.

Martin paused for the briefest moment, breath catching as her gaze swept over her wife.

She was perfect.

Ellen’s breasts rose and fell with shallow breaths, nipples still flushed from teasing. Her skin was tinged pink from arousal, limbs relaxed now in a way that made her look worshipped, not just wanted. And between her thighs, her thick, dark bush just as Martin loved it, framing the glistening, swollen pink of her pussy.

Martin’s hands came to rest on her wife’s thighs, fingers flexing with restraint. She wanted so badly to press in and take, to make Ellen sob but she had a script to stick to.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss just above Ellen’s heart, then another, slow and deliberate. A trail of heat drawn with her mouth across Ellen’s chest, over her collarbone, up to the tender skin at the base of her neck.

“We didn’t fuck her just yet. Quint left some marks on her before he decided to share.” She whispered, her breath warm against Ellen’s throat. 

Her lips found the hollow beneath Ellen’s jaw, where the skin was soft and begging to be marked. Martin sucked there, gently at first, then bit down hard enough to make Ellen gasp.

Her poor wife would have to wear a scarf for the next few days, god knows she had hundreds, but only Martin would know what was hidden beneath.

“I’m starting to feel sorry for her,” Ellen breathed out, closing her eyes as Martin’s mouth moved lower. “You’re playing too rough.”

“I wouldn’t,” Martin said, pausing just enough to speak. “I think she likes it.”

“What self-respecting woman would like that?” Ellen teased, grinning even as Martin bit down again, a little lower this time.

Martin hummed against her skin, low and indulgent. She suckled harder, tongue flicking against the bruise she was building until Ellen let out a shaky, helpless moan.

Fingers slid into Martin’s hair, nails scratching lightly across her scalp in slow, maddening circles. Ellen’s breath came quicker now, hips already twitching for friction.

“You know…” Ellen said, voice airy with arousal, “there’s a lot of Quint in this story. Where was the chief of police while all this was happening?”

“Enjoying the show,” she said, voice thick with heat. “Quint was getting her pussy ready for me. But as soon as he said the word, I was in.”

She kissed over the fresh marks she’d left, softer now, slow and adoring.

“Want me to get my cock?” she asked.

“No,” Ellen whined, her fingers tightening in Martin’s hair. “Later. Don’t waste time.” Her eyes fluttered open, heavy with heat, her hips lifting in silent plea. “Please.”

“In that case…” she said, leaning back on her knees. “How about I tell you the next part of the story?”

She didn’t wait for permission. She knew what Ellen wanted.

“Quint strips Matt bare. Lifts her onto the table.” She went on, her voice dragging like silk across skin.

“Pulls her legs apart—” Martin mirrored the action, forcing Ellen’s thighs wider with a steady, possessive pressure. A sharp sound escaped Ellen’s throat, somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

“—and makes her watch while I rub my cock against her pussy. Nice and slow.”

Martin ran two fingers up the length of Ellen’s soaked cunt, dragging deliberately over her clit on every other pass. Her other hand held Ellen open, unrelenting, commanding.

“You should’ve seen her face,” Martin purred. “She couldn’t decide if she wanted to hide or beg.”

Then she slid two fingers inside until her wedding ring just grazed the slick heat of Ellen’s entrance. The reward was immediate: a deep, broken moan that vibrated through Ellen’s chest and straight into Martin’s bones.

“I was gentle with her,” Martin murmured. “Gave her time to get used to my cock. Fucked her soft, even though her cunt squeezed me so tight, it was like she never wanted to let go.”

Her fingers mirrored the memory—slipping in and out, slow and precise, her thumb brushing Ellen’s clit with every thrust. Each pass built another wave, each flick another gasp pulled from Ellen’s throat.

“I thought about you ,” Martin said, voice darker now, filthier, “on your knees. Mouth open. Cleaning my cock when I got home. Tasting what Matt left you. Taking it like my good girl.”

Ellen moaned, loud and desperate, hips jerking up, body arching for more.

“You’d clean it real good, wouldn’t you?” Martin asked, each thrust now punctuated with a drag of her thumb over her wife’s clit.

“Yes!” Ellen cried, her voice ragged with need.

“But it wouldn’t matter,” Martin growled. “Because as soon as you were done, I’d bend you over and fuck you harder than she could ever take.”

Her fingers thrust deeper now, harder, no longer teasing but claiming,fucking Ellen with a steady rhythm, slick sounds filling the room. The air was thick with the smell of sex and skin and summer heat.

Ellen writhed beneath her, eyes wild, mouth open as if trying to catch her breath or beg for more.

Martin watched her come undone. Watched her fists clutch the sheets, her thighs trembling, her body pleading. Every shiver, every cry, every helpless jerk of her hips fed something deep and possessive in Martin’s chest.

“She begged me to fuck her,” Martin said, her voice rough with the memory, thick with arousal. “You know what she said? ‘Fuck me like you wouldn’t fuck your wife.’ ”

Ellen let out a breathless chuckle, even as a groan slipped free. “So you fucked her nice and slow, like you had all the time in the world?”

“I gave her what she really wanted.”

She slowly pulled her fingers from Ellen’s slick heat, teasing her entrance with feather-light strokes. Ellen whimpered at the loss and bucked against her husband’s fingers for more.

Then, without warning, Martin pushed four fingers into her, stretching her wide and filling her completely.

Ellen cried out, her hands flying to Martin’s shoulders, gripping hard as her body bowed up, caught between pressure and pleasure.

Martin stilled, letting her wife adjust, her other hand stroking Ellen’s thigh, grounding her, anchoring her. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Take it for me.”

She could feel Ellen fluttering around her fingers, hot and wet and already pulsing. Her wife’s head tipped back, mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut as she rode the stretch with open need.

Martin bent forward slightly, pressing a soft kiss to Ellen’s stomach, tasting salt on her skin. She wanted to keep this moment forever, where nothing existed but the way Ellen’s body clenched around her fingers and the shaky little sounds spilling from her lips.

“Barely had to force my way inside,” Martin said, her breath warm against Ellen’s damp skin. “Does it turn you on that much when I play with younger butches?”

Ellen let out a ragged moan, her nails digging into Martin’s shoulders hard enough to leave marks of her own. Her hips rocked, desperate and searching, silently begging for more.

Martin gave it to her, plunging her hand deeper, her fingers curling and spreading to stretch her open. Her thumb found Ellen’s clit again and began rubbing firm, steady circles, catching the slickness that spilled out with every thrust.

The heat between them built thick and heavy, every breath soaked with sex, every sound a shared hunger neither of them tried to temper.

Martin kept her fingers thrusting deep, twisting slightly as she pulled back just enough to feel Ellen’s walls clutch at her, greedy and desperate.

“She loved it, you know,” she murmured. “Being fucked by older men.”

Ellen let out a breathless whimper, eyes fluttering. Her hips rocked helplessly into Martin’s hand, trying to chase every thrust.

Martin’s grin turned sharp, predatory. “She wanted to feel someone bigger than her, stronger than her, owning every inch of that tight cunt.”

Her fingers plunged deeper, harder, her knuckles brushing the slick heat of Ellen’s entrance on each thrust. She angled her hand until the pads of her fingers grazed the textured swell of her wife’s G-spot.

“And I fucked her hard. Drove into her until I could feel the tip of my cock bumping her cervix.”

She punctuated her words with a sudden sharp thrust, fingers hitting against Ellen’s cervix, forcing a strangled cry from throat

“Quint stuck his cock in her mouth to keep her quiet,” Martin went on, savouring the memory. “Her cunt wouldn’t stop squeezing me while she drooled on his fingers. Like she needed me all the way in, as deep as I could go.”

Ellen sobbed, moving her body to meet Martin’s thrusts.

“She didn’t even choke on his cock,” Martin purred. “His fingers were so deep down her throat, you’d never know she was a virgin.”

She dragged her thumb in tight strokes over Ellen’s clit, each flick sending jolts of sensation spiralling through her wife’s trembling body.

“Please don’t stop… don’t stop…” Ellen gasped, her words dissolving into shaky moans as her thighs quivered around Martin’s hips.

Martin’s breath quickened, but her voice stayed low and controlled. “Gonna cum thinking about how I made that sweet little butch squirt?”

“yes—yes—”

Martin curled her fingers again, pressing mercilessly into Ellen’s G-spot, while her thumb circled faster over her clit.

Ellen’s breath hitched, her body seizing, every muscle locking tight as a strangled cry ripped from her chest.

“Come for me, baby,” Martin commanded, voice low and dark. “Let me feel it.”

Ellen shattered beneath her.

A sharp cry tore from her lips as her orgasm crashed over her in waves, her pussy clenching wildly around Martin’s fingers, slick gushing out to coat Martin’s hand and drip down her wrist. Her hips jerked uncontrollably, fingers clawing at Martin’s back, nails leaving vivid red lines in their wake.

Martin rode her through it, fingers still thrusting, her thumb gentler now but relentless, milking every last tremor from Ellen’s trembling body.

“That’s it,” she whispered, eyes locked on her wife’s face, drinking in every gasp and flutter. 

Ellen collapsed back into the pillows, boneless and shaking, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. A blissful, dazed smile curled her lips as Martin finally stilled her hand, withdrawing slowly and tenderly.

Martin lingered between her wife’s thighs, pressing gentle kisses to every inch of soft skin she could reach while Ellen caught her breath. She loved the heat radiating off Ellen’s body, the faint shiver that still ran through her muscles as the aftershocks ebbed.

Ellen let out a content sigh, eyes half-lidded, and reached out to touch Martin’s cheek, coaxing her gaze upwards.

“Lie down,” Ellen murmured, voice still husky and rough-edged. “Let me get you off.”

Martin didn’t need to be told twice. She gave Ellen’s thigh one last kiss before shifting onto her back, stretching out on the bed. Her heart beat a little faster as Ellen moved between her legs, fingers already working to tug down her shorts and part her thighs.

It had been a few months since Ellen had last sucked her off. Martin’s mind flicked back to that particular afternoon. It had been a manic day at the station, full of endless paperwork and vetting new officers for the summer rush. Ellen had turned up unannounced, bringing lunch under the guise of running errands nearby. She’d claimed she wanted to discuss something about Michael, and Martin, weary and braced for news of whatever trouble their son had managed to stir up, had sat back in her chair to listen.

Instead, Ellen quietly closed the door with a wicked glint in her eye, strode across the small office, and pawed at her husband’s trousers like she was starved for a taste. The door had barely clicked shut before she was sinking to her knees, ready to suck clit like her life depended on it. The rest of the day had been spectacularly unproductive once Ellen finally slipped out, leaving Martin half-dazed behind her desk.

The memory made Martin’s breath hitch as Ellen now traced slow, teasing circles over her thick clit, fingertips feather-light but achingly precise. A deep groan rumbled from Martin’s chest, her hips lifting instinctively towards her wife’s touch.

Ellen glanced up, grinning, her voice as casual as if they were discussing the grocery list.

“We should invite Matt to dinner sometime,” she said. “I could teach her how to suck cock properly… if she wants to keep sleeping with older men.”

Martin barely had time to process the words before Ellen dove forward, mouth greedy and eager as she worshipped Martin’s clit with her tongue.

A sharp gasp burst from Martin’s lips, her hand shooting down to cradle the back of Ellen’s head, fingers threading into her hair, pressing her closer.

The image bloomed in Martin’s mind before she could stop it.

Matt, sitting across from them in the lounge, looking curious over the rim of her wine glass. Ellen, elegant and playful, reaching down to stroke Martin through her trousers as they talked.

Ellen would ask if Matt wanted to join. Martin imagined her blushing, then shyly nodding, letting herself be coaxed over and guided to kneel on the carpet. Ellen would follow, settling beside her, both of them gazing up with eager eyes.

Martin’s breath shuddered as Ellen sucked her clit into her mouth, tongue flicking in rapid strokes that made her hips buck.

She thought of Ellen and Matt kneeling together, vying for space between her thighs. Ellen’s voice low and instructive, patient and precise, showing Matt how to hollow her cheeks, how to tease the thick ridge of Martin’s clithood until she was trembling.

She pictured both of them worshipping her in tandem, Ellen’s eyes glittering with pride as she coached the younger butch in the art of pleasuring an experienced dyke.

Martin’s voice broke on a moan, her thighs trembling as heat coiled low in her belly.

Fuck, she wanted that.

Wanted Ellen’s clever tongue and soft lips. Wanted Matt’s eager mouth, still learning. Wanted to come while they both knelt there, soaking the carpet beneath them.

“Thinking about it, aren’t you?” She nipped gently at Martin’s labia, earning a sharp gasp. “About me teaching her how to make you scream?”

Martin growled low in her throat, fingers tightening in Ellen’s hair. “Don’t stop.”

Ellen didn’t. She dove back in, licking Martin with long, firm strokes, sucking her clit into her mouth over and over, relentless and hungry.

Martin’s hips rolled upwards, chasing the heat, her breath coming in ragged, desperate pants.

“Just like that…”

Her muscles tensed as Ellen flattened her tongue, dragging it broad and slow over Martin’s swollen flesh, then flicking rapidly until Martin felt herself tipping helplessly towards the edge.

swollen flesh, then flicking rapidly until she felt herself tipping helplessly toward the edge.

“After we make you come,” Ellen purred, “you can fuck her as a reward… while I teach her how to use her fingers on me.”

Martin tried to reply, but the words dissolved into a deep, helpless moan as Ellen sucked her clit hard.

White-hot pleasure seared through Martin, her eyes shutting as her orgasm tore through her in a violent, exquisite rush. She felt her hips jerking wildly, the world reduced to heat, wetness, and encouragement spilling from her lips in raw, guttural moans.

Ellen held her steady, coaxing every last tremor from her body, never letting up until Martin finally slumped back, utterly spent.

When Martin cracked her eyes open, she looked down to find Ellen’s flushed face nestled between her thighs, the lower half of it slick with cum, beaming with satisfaction.

Martin wordlessly threw her arm across the bed, inviting Ellen to curl up at her side now they were both satisfied. Ellen used her husband for support as she crawled up to her side, slipping an arm around Martin’s waist and resting her head on his chest.

Martin stroked her back in long, soothing lines, letting the quiet settle around them. Her breath had steadied, but her thoughts hadn’t quite yet. There was a softness in the air, warmth, gratitude, a kind of reverence.

She was alive. She was home. She still had this.

“I think I’m going to try contact lenses again,” she said at last, her eyes drifting shut once more.

“Oh yeah?”

Martin didn’t need to say it was because her glasses had gone down with the ship, that she’d blindly stumbled her way to the hospital with Matt after the shark was finally dead. Ellen already knew. Saying it aloud would’ve ruined the moment.

“They’re meant to be softer these days,” Martin elaborated. “No more losing them down the side of the sofa when we’re watching the TV.”

“You mean when you fall asleep during Saturday Night Live,” Ellen teased.

Martin huffed a soft laugh, too tired to argue. Ellen shifted closer, draping a leg over Martin’s hips, the weight of her both comforting and possessive. For a few moments, they lay in easy silence, the sheets tangled around them, the soft hush of the ocean outside the window a steady, familiar presence.

“Maybe we should have Matt over for dinner,” Ellen murmured eventually, voice light, fingers tracing idle patterns over Martin’s chest. 

“Yeah, could be fun,” Martin grinned.

Ellen lifted her head and pressed a quick, searing kiss to Martin’s mouth.

Martin kissed her back, slow and lingering, then rested her forehead against Ellen’s.

She held her wife a little tighter, grateful for the laughter, the shared hunger, and for the simple, impossible miracle of still being here to enjoy it all.

Chapter Text

On the one-month anniversary of the Great White’s death, Matt returned to Amity Island. She had intended to keep things simple—just book a room at the motel, avoid intruding. The Brodys had two young boys and more than enough to juggle without her underfoot. But both Martin and Ellen had insisted she stay in their spare room firmly enough that saying no would have seemed rude.

The sun was beginning to set when she climbed the front steps of the Brody residence, her travel bag slung over one shoulder and a carrier bag of gifts weighing down the other. She reached for the handle, intending to let herself in, but the latch resisted. Locked. Odd. The Brodys never locked their door in the daytime; Amity wasn’t that sort of place.

She hesitated, half-ready to knock, when the sound of clattering and dogs barking carried from inside. A moment later, the door flew open and Ellen appeared, flushed but smiling broadly.

“Matt!” She greeted enthusiastically.

For a moment, Matt forgot how to breathe. Ellen wore a loose, plunging blue dress, the kind that fell carelessly but knew exactly what it was doing. The neckline revealed a glimpse of tanned skin, the swell of her breasts. Matt’s eyes flicked there before she could stop herself, shame flooding her veins. God, she shouldn’t even look. Not when she’d already crossed an unforgivable line with Martin a month ago. Not when she still thought about it more often than she wanted to admit. But she was caught, struck dumb by how beautiful Ellen was.

And then Ellen was in her arms, wrapping her in an easy, affectionate hug that only made things worse. The scent of her perfume curled around her like a trap. Matt went stiff, fighting the urge to hold on too tightly, to let herself sink into the warmth. Her cheeks burned. She forced herself to relax, though her pulse was pounding.

“Ellen!” she managed at last, words tumbling out in a rush. “The door was locked.”

“I didn’t want you sneaking in and surprising me,” Ellen teased, releasing her and stepping aside to usher her in.

Matt ducked her head as she crossed the threshold, grateful for the distraction of unloading her bag onto the counter. She pulled free two bottles of wine and a couple of local beers, lining them up neatly as if that might steady her. “Brought a few things,” she said, flashing a grin she didn’t quite feel tugging at her mouth.

“You shouldn’t have,” Ellen said smoothly, already reaching for glasses. “You’re the guest.”

“Yeah, well, I got Martin some local beers. Thought he’d like those better than wine. Didn’t know what you’d be serving, so you know...” She joked, trying for nonchalance, hoping the chatter disguised the way her throat was dry.

“I’m sure he’ll drink whatever you’ve bought him the second he gets home,” Ellen sighed fondly, setting the cork aside. “He’s running late.” She glanced at Matt, her smile easy, her movements graceful in a way that made it impossible not to notice her again.

Matt’s stomach tightened. The thought of Martin joining them and having to confront what she’d done left her unsettled. Memories rushing back like a tide she had to force down. Guilt itched beneath her skin, raw and insistent, as though Ellen could read every secret straight off her face.

“Leave your bag and go sit down,” Ellen said, shooing her with a playful flick of her hand. “You’ve had a long journey. I’ll be through in a moment.”

Matt obeyed, though her heart was pounding too hard for such an ordinary request. She told herself Ellen was just being kind, nothing more, but as she walked across the room, she couldn’t shake the prickling sense of Ellen’s gaze following her, weighing her down. Like Ellen already understood everything Matt was fighting so desperately to conceal.

She perched on the couch, rigid, travel bag abandoned by the counter, her hands clasped too tightly in her lap. The living room was familiar and safe, but she felt like an intruder trespassing in it. Maybe she should have kept making excuses. She could have claimed she was leaving for an extended expedition on The Aurora, and with no way to be reached, but the Brodys weren’t fools. They would have seen straight through her.

Her thoughts tangled and spiralled until a sudden flash of movement jolted her: a glass of red wine appeared in her line of vision. She started violently, and Ellen laughed, startled too.

“You were so deep in thought, I must have said your name five times,” Ellen teased, her eyes bright with amusement.

Heat flushed across Matt’s cheeks, scarlet and unmistakable. “Sorry… It's been a long journey.” She grabbed the glass, clinging to it like a lifeline.

“I bet,” Ellen murmured, setting her glass aside as she sank onto the couch. Their knees brushed, light and accidental, yet the contact sparked through Matt like a live wire. Her pulse skittered.

“If you want to freshen up or change, please, make yourself at home,” Ellen said, voice warm and inviting.

“No, no, I’m fine. Really.” Matt’s reply came too fast, her nerves betraying her. She took another gulp of wine to cover it, though the liquid only made her throat feel tighter. “Where are the kids?”

“The boys are having a big sleepover at Larry’s house this weekend, so it’s just us and the dogs,” Ellen answered easily, as though nothing in the world could trouble her. Then, casually, she reached out and rested a hand on Matt’s knee.

Matt’s breath snagged. The touch was feather-light, almost innocent, but her body reacted as though struck by lightning. Every nerve sang, her skin burning where Ellen’s palm lay. She stared into her glass, willing herself not to flinch, not to bolt, not to give herself away.

“Martin got a Saturday off?” she asked, voice too sharp, attempting another joke.

“He’s on call,” Ellen replied smoothly, her thumb beginning to trace slow, idle circles against Matt’s knee. “But hopefully Leonard can hold down the fort, so we can show you what the island has to offer.”

Matt’s stomach knotted hard. We. Ellen said it so casually, so lightly, but all Matt could hear was the weight of her guilt. She had no right to sit here. No right to want this. Yet Ellen’s hand stayed where it was, steady and unhurried, as if it belonged there.

They lapsed into an awkward silence. Matt nursed her wine in shallow sips, hardly tasting a drop. Her fingers twisted compulsively around the stem of the glass, clinging to it like an anchor. Ellen made no effort to fill the quiet. She simply watched: calm, steady, gaze too intent, too knowing.

The weight of it pressed down until Matt thought she might suffocate. She couldn’t sit here pretending. Not when her chest was raw with secrets, not when every breath seemed like a lie. She had to confess. Better to rip it out, to suffer whatever came, than sit steeped in this unbearable silence.

“Ellen, I—” she began, the words scraping jagged in her throat.

But Ellen moved first. She leaned in, her hand rising to cup Matt’s cheek, comforting and certain. The touch froze her in place.

“I heard what Martin and Quint did to you,” Ellen said softly.

Matt’s blood turned to ice. Her lips parted, desperate to stammer out an apology, to beg forgiveness, but Ellen’s thumb swept across her cheek, shushing her before the words could spill.

“Men don’t know their own strength,” Ellen murmured, coaxing and intimate. “They’re too rough. You’re just a boy.”

The words struck her like a brand. ‘Just a boy. ’ No one had ever called her that. She’d never wanted to be called that. She’d always been forthright about being a woman, unlike Martin and Quint. Yet hearing it now, in Ellen’s voice, soft and approving, sent heat flooding low in her belly. Three simple words, and she felt stripped bare, exposed in a way she hadn’t known she craved.

“You… you knew?” Matt whispered. Her hand shook as she set her glass aside, terrified she might drop it.

Ellen chuckled, unbothered, as if this were nothing unusual. “We’ve been talking about it since you first came to dinner. You were loud and passionate; it was very cute.” Her hand slid from Matt’s cheek to her jaw, tilting her chin in a subtle gesture that left no room for refusal. “Come here.”

She opened her arms—not an invitation, but a gentle command, impossible to mistake, harder still to disobey.

Matt didn’t resist, folding into Ellen’s embrace. Her face pressed into the soft curve of Ellen’s collarbone, skin warm, perfume dizzying. Ellen held her steady, secure, and absolute. She shuddered, guilt gnawing still, but dulled beneath the certainty of those arms.

Then Ellen’s nails grazed gently over her scalp, slow and deliberate, each careful scratch unravelling something raw inside her. Her eyes fluttered shut before she could fight it. A tremor rippled down her spine.

“That’s it,” Ellen murmured, voice low and steady. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“I… I shouldn’t—”

“Shh.” Another soothing drag of nails. “Martin told me everything. How sensitive you were. How wet you got for him.” The words were tender, but they struck sparks deep in Matt’s belly. “He said you took him so well, like you’d been made for it.”

Ellen’s nails kept up their steady rhythm, her other hand stroking the nape of Matt’s neck in unhurried passes. “You were so good for him. So eager. He said you clung to him like you never wanted it to end.”

The words wrapped around her, threaded through Ellen’s touch until thought was impossible. Each sentence was a reminder of what she’d done, how she had betrayed Ellen—and yet Ellen’s calm, forgiving tone turned shame molten. Her thighs pressed together, wetness spilling, a helpless whimper escaping as she burrowed deeper into Ellen’s skin.

“You made such needy sounds for him,” Ellen teased fondly. “Moaning loud enough for the whole island to hear.”

Matt whimpered louder, her face burning. She wanted to deny it, to protest, but the words stuck in her throat.

“That’s my good boy,” Ellen cooed. “I know how good you were for him, and I know you’ll be good for me too.”

Her hand drifted lower, guiding Matt’s trembling fingers towards the swell of her breast.

“Go on,” she coaxed, nails stroking lightly through Matt’s curls, soothing her like a skittish animal. “Touch me.”

Matt’s fingertips had barely brushed the curve of her breast when the front door slammed, sharp and sudden, like a gunshot.

She jerked upright, heart battering her ribs, and sprang to the far end of the couch. Every nerve screamed, caught, guilt burning hot across her face. She sat rigid as Martin’s low grumble carried down the hall, followed by the clatter of the fridge door.

Ellen, maddeningly calm, only smoothed her skirt and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “You’re late,” she called, as though nothing unusual had happened. “I told you to be back for eight.”

Martin appeared with one of Matt’s beers in hand, shoulders loose, irritation dissolving the moment her gaze fell on them.

“Miss anything?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Ellen’s mouth curved, her tone teasing. “If you’d taken any longer, you’d have missed it all.”

“Can’t have that.” Martin’s grin spread as she crossed the room and sank into the armchair opposite.

Matt’s stomach tightened. She tried to sink back into the couch, to make herself smaller, but the couple’s gaze pinned her in place.

“You want this, don’t you?” Ellen murmured. She shifted closer, a hand returning to the nape of Matt’s neck. Nails traced lazy, deliberate circles, each stroke sending shivers down her spine. Heat flickered back to life in her belly.

Matt’s pulse stuttered. She should apologise and get out before things spun further out of control. “I—”

“Matt, relax.” Martin’s voice cut across hers, low and grounding. She tipped her beer towards Ellen, as though sealing some unspoken agreement. “Let her take care of you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Matt muttered, nerves fraying her attempt at bravado. She wanted to argue, to retreat into sarcasm, but Ellen’s nails stole the fight clean out of her.

“Come on,” Ellen coaxed, slow and certain.

Her other hand closed gently over Matt’s, guiding those trembling fingers upward until they pressed against the soft swell of her breast once more.

“That’s it,” she murmured, her thumb stroking the back of Matt’s hand, coaxing her deeper into the touch. “Good boy.”

From the armchair, Martin’s voice slid in, low and sure. “That’s it, Matt. You’re doing fine.” She sipped her beer, gaze steady, tone heavy with quiet approval.

The words poured through Matt like honey, clinging and irresistible. With Ellen’s certainty and Martin’s calm encouragement, guilt dissolved, leaving only hunger.

Ellen’s arm circled her waist, drawing her close as though she’d known all along this was where Matt would end up.

“My sweet boy. Touch me properly,” she urged, voice low, assured.

The praise lit something sharp in Matt’s chest. Her hand flexed, tentative at first, as her thumb brushed clumsily over the fabric-covered peak.

Ellen sighed, indulgent, leaning into the touch as though Matt’s hand belonged there. “Good boy,” she whispered, nails scratching lightly at her scalp. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Her movements grew steadier, more deliberate — thumb circling, palm pressing firmer. Ellen’s approval wrapped around her, melting the last of her hesitation.

From the armchair, Martin’s voice drifted in, amused and sure. “See? Knew you’d be good for her.”

Matt slid her hand inside the plunge of Ellen’s dress. The fabric gave way, and then her palm found bare skin — warm, supple, perfect.

Ellen sighed, low and approving against her temple, nails grazing her nape in reward. “That’s my boy. So eager. Just what I wanted.”

A shaky laugh broke from Matt, dizzy with the rush of being seen, wanted, claimed. For the first time, she didn’t feel like an intruder in the Brody house. She felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Without thinking, she bent to Ellen’s skin, lips grazing the curve of her collarbone. A clumsy nip, then another, kisses trailing after. Her breath became uneven, small sounds slipping free with each press of her mouth, betraying how undone she was.

Ellen’s sigh deepened into a low hum of pleasure. “Mmm… good boy. Learning so fast,” she murmured, nails raking gently over Matt’s scalp.

The praise drove Matt further. Her lips wandered lower from Ellen’s collarbone, scattering hungrier kisses as the neckline slipped looser with each shift.

She hesitated only a heartbeat before tugging at the fabric, baring Ellen’s breast. Her breath caught at the sight, soft, flushed, perfect, and then she bent forward, lips closing around the peak.

Ellen moaned above her, hand cradling Matt’s head as if to keep her there.

“Yes,” she sighed, hips arching slightly. “Just like that.”

Matt suckled greedily, lips closing tighter around Ellen’s nipple, tongue dragging over the peak until another moan spilled from Ellen’s throat. The sound made her dizzy, her whole body buzzing with heat.

From the armchair, Martin’s voice cut in, low and directive. “Use your hand, too, Matt. Don’t just sit there with your mouth; touch her. She wants more of you.”

Matt obeyed without hesitation, sliding her free hand up to cup Ellen’s other breast. She squeezed, a little awkward at first, then firmer when Ellen arched into it with a sigh of approval.

“Better,” Martin drawled. “Squeeze and roll, that’s it. Don’t be shy, you won’t break her.”

Matt’s thumb brushed Ellen’s nipple, then circled just as Martin told her to. Ellen’s moan deepened, lips parting in soft surrender.

Matt’s thumb brushed Ellen’s nipple, circling just as Martin told her to. Ellen’s moan deepened, head tipping back, lips parting in sweet surrender.

“Good boy,” Martin praised, voice cutting straight through Matt’s chest, grounding her even as it set her aflame.

Matt tugged and teased, desperate to draw out more sounds, desperate to earn every scrap of praise. Her mouth tugged at one nipple while her fingers worked the other, clumsy eagerness quickly giving way to rhythm.

“That’s it, my boy,” Ellen sighed, low and breathless. “Keep going.”

Martin’s voice rolled across the room, calm and knowing. “Now slow your tongue down, Matt. Don’t rush. Tease her. Circle the tip nice and slow.”

Matt gave a weak nod, dragging her tongue in a slow circle before suckling again. Ellen’s answering moan vibrated through her chest, pride flaring hot in Matt’s belly.

“Good,” Martin approved, steady and sure. “Hear that? She likes it. Now, use your teeth. Just a little. Enough to make her shiver.”

Matt gave a tentative nip, then soothed the sting with her tongue. Ellen gasped, nails tightening in her hair. “Oh, yes,” she whispered, hips shifting restlessly against the couch.

A shaky laugh escaped Matt, muffled against Ellen’s breast. She tried again, bolder this time, and Ellen’s moan spilled free, raw and helpless.

“That’s my boy,” Martin encouraged, indulgent now, savouring the sight as much as Ellen savoured the touch. “You’re making her wet for you. Keep one hand working the other breast—pinch, roll, keep her begging.”

Matt obeyed, rolling the nipple between thumb and fingers just as directed. Ellen cried out, pressing herself harder against Matt’s mouth, the sound making her dizzy with want.

“Perfect,” Martin murmured, rich with approval. “Look at you—like you were made to please her.”

The praise sent Matt deeper, greedy for more, desperate to earn every gasp and groan.

Soft sounds spilled from Ellen with every flick of Matt’s tongue. Her nails stroked lazy patterns over the young butch’s scalp, indulgent, encouraging.

Martin’s voice threaded in again, steady and precise. “You’ve got her humming for you, Matt. Good boy. But don’t keep her waiting, go lower.”

Matt’s pulse hammered. “Lower?” she breathed against Ellen’s skin, unsure but aching to obey.

“That’s right,” Martin coaxed, grin audible in her tone. “Work your way down. Make her feel every step.”

Ellen’s fingers tightened in Matt’s curls, urging. Her voice was thick with heat, low and coaxing. “Listen to her, sweetheart. I want more of you.”

The words lit something fierce in Matt’s chest. Her free hand slid down, smoothing over the curve of Ellen’s waist before daring lower, tracing the line of her hip. Ellen shifted, parting her thighs in quiet invitation.

She stroked lightly along the inside of Ellen’s thigh, fingertips trembling with the thrill of permission. The dress hitched higher under her touch, silky fabric sliding up until her hand slipped beneath, palm gliding over warm, bare skin.

“Good,” Martin drawled from her chair, her tone rich with approval. “Now, don’t just follow; guide her. You want her laid out for you? Show her. No words. Just body language.”

Matt gave Ellen’s breast one last desperate suck before tearing herself away, panting against her skin. Reluctance burned, but she followed Martin’s direction, pressing soft nudges with her cheek and shoulder to ease Ellen back against the couch.

Ellen yielded easily with a smile tugging at her lips, as though she enjoyed being coaxed this way. She let Matt settle her down until she reclined along the cushions, hair spilling loose, dress riding high.

Matt hovered, breath sharp, caught between awe and hunger.

“That’s it,” Martin said, lazy satisfaction in her voice. “Keep her open like that. She’s waiting for you.”

Ellen tilted her head, voice soft. “Don’t be shy. You’re doing so well.”

“Get between her thighs,” Martin instructed, grin audible. “That’s where you belong.”

Matt’s stomach flipped, nerves and want twisting together. She climbed onto the couch, edging forward until she was nestled between Ellen’s parted legs. The closeness alone made her dizzy, her hands trembling at the hem of Ellen’s dress.

“Now take your time,” Martin went on, teasing but firm. “Pull it up slow. Make her wait.”

Matt swallowed hard, gathering the fabric inch by inch until it bunched at Ellen’s stomach. A low moan escaped her at the sight of Ellen’s pussy glistening, wetness already darkening the cushion beneath her.

“Keep going,” Martin urged, savouring Matt’s awe.

Matt bent and pressed a kiss to the inside of Ellen’s knee. Then another, higher.

“That’s it,” Martin coaxed. “Tease her. Kiss every inch. Make her crave it. Don’t give her what she wants too soon.”

Matt obeyed, trailing kisses higher while her palms stroked reverent paths across Ellen’s thighs. She rocked unconsciously as she worked, hips grinding in small, desperate motions against the cushion beneath her.

Ellen let out a low, pleased sound, legs spreading wider.

“Now taste her,” Martin said, calm but edged with command, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Go on, Matt. Show her how hungry you are.”

Matt’s lips hovered only a moment before she leaned in, breath shaky, and dragged her tongue through Ellen’s slick heat. The taste hit her: salt, musk, warmth, and she moaned helplessly into it.

Ellen’s answering moan was deeper still, her body relaxing instantly as her hand curled into Matt’s hair.

“Good,” Martin murmured, satisfaction thick in her tone. She didn’t press further, letting the moment belong to them.

Matt licked again, bolder this time, exploring with eager, clumsy strokes. Each flick of her tongue drew a different sound from Ellen, soft sighs, sharp gasps, and the feedback drove her on. She mouthed at slick folds, circled where she thought Ellen might want it most, her own hips rocking harder against the cushion beneath her.

Only when Matt had lost herself in the taste, moans growing shameless, did Martin’s voice cut in again, low and steady:

“Slow down, Matt. Don’t rush it. Control yourself. Feel her, don’t just dive in.”

Matt froze mid-lap, breath coming in quick pants, chest heaving. She forced her tongue into slower, more deliberate motions, letting the heat coil inside her without chasing release. Ellen’s moans softened into low hums, nails stroking her scalp as though rewarding restraint.

“That’s better,” Martin said. “Take your time. Let her body tell you what she wants.”

Matt’s tongue traced lazy circles, exploring with careful attention. Each sigh, each tremor from Ellen guided her, teaching rhythm and restraint. The tension of anticipation was intoxicating.

“Find her most sensitive spots. The tip, the slit, the folds. Linger where she reacts most. Make every touch count.”

Matt obeyed, lips and tongue working in smaller, exacting motions. She flicked, circled, traced with growing confidence, and Ellen’s moans sharpened, thighs tightening around her head. Each sound mapped out what worked, guiding her closer to mastery.

“Yes,” Martin said, voice low with approval. “Just like that. You’re learning fast. Keep her melting for you.”

The words filled Matt with giddy pride. Her pace quickened, hungry for more, but Martin’s voice slid in again, firmer now.

“Enough listening, Matt. Take the initiative. Don’t just wait for approval, show her what you want to do.”

Her heart pounded. But she obeyed. She pressed her mouth harder against Ellen, tongue circling with purpose. Ellen shuddered, a sharp gasp tearing from her lips.

Encouraged, Matt slid down further, tongue delving into Ellen’s folds, teasing at her entrance.

She moved a hand from Ellen’s thigh and, with cautious pressure, pushed a finger inside, earning a breathless cry that made her own hips jerk against the couch.

She barely registered the sudden heat at her back, a firm hand cupping her pussy through her jeans. Matt froze, startled, until she realised with a jolt that Martin had moved silently from the armchair. Her fingers pressed against the large, damp patch on the denim, stroking slow and deliberate.

“Keep going, Matt,” Martin murmured, her voice low and teasing right against Matt’s ear. “Don’t let that distract you. Use it.”

The dual sensations made Matt whine, hips rocking reflexively against Martin’s hand as she licked and fingered Ellen with renewed desperation. Ellen’s moans urged her on; Martin’s strokes kept her trembling and greedy.

“Such a greedy little boy,” Martin breathed, her words dirty, curling heat into Matt’s spine. “Show me how good you can make her feel while I take care of you, too.”

She obeyed, rocking harder, licking, teasing, plunging, consumed by the need to please Ellen while soaking up Martin’s filthy encouragement.

Martin’s hand pressed firmer, squeezing Matt through the soaked denim before sliding around to the front. With a slow, deliberate tug, she worked at Matt’s belt, the jingle of the buckle sharp in the haze. She didn’t bother with buttons or zips—just yanked the jeans roughly down to her knees.

A loud moan tore from Matt’s throat, muffled against Ellen’s cunt as cool air hit overheated skin. She arched instinctively into the touch, hips lifting towards Martin in naked want.

“That’s it,” Martin purred.

Her hand slipped between Matt’s thighs, stroking slow, maddening lines across the damp cotton of her underwear.

Matt whimpered, hips rolling helplessly against the teasing touch, and mimicked the motion with her tongue, pressing harder against Ellen’s clit, then dragging down to lick into her again.

Ellen cried out, fingers clutching at Matt’s curls, thighs tightening around her head. “Ohhh, just like that.”

“Good boy. Don’t hold back.”

Matt obeyed, tongue working with frantic devotion as she rutted shamelessly against Martin’s hand, desperate for Martin to slip past the last barrier and touch her properly.

But Martin only chuckled, low and composed, fingers stroking at her covered slit. “Easy,” she commanded. “Good boys don’t cum before their femme is satisfied.”

A whine tore from Matt’s throat, muffled against Ellen’s slick folds. She bucked helplessly, frustration mounting, but forced herself to keep her tongue steady.

“Don’t get sloppy just because you want it,” Martin warned.

Ellen tugged Matt closer, grinding down, using her nose and chin for more friction. “Don’t stop. You’re doing so well.”

Matt’s jaw ached, her tongue heavy, but she forced herself to keep moving, breath coming ragged against Ellen’s slick heat. Her hips rocked hopelessly into Martin’s hand, denied but aching to the point of pain.

“Stay with it, Matt,” Martin ordered. “Focus on her clit. Keep it steady.”

Matt obeyed instantly, lips sealing over Ellen’s swollen clit, tongue flicking in small, relentless strokes. Ellen gasped, thighs clamping tighter, hips rolling up into her mouth.

“Yes,” Ellen cried, her voice breaking into fragments. “Yes—that’s it, that’s it—”

“Now add another finger,” Martin instructed smoothly. “Stretch her open.”

Matt’s hand trembled as she slid a second finger inside. Wet heat clutched at her, drawing a moan from her chest. She pumped carefully, curling her fingers as she worked her tongue.

Ellen’s cry rang out, nails biting into Matt’s scalp as her whole body shuddered. “Oh, that’s perfect—don’t stop.”

Matt whined and licked harder, desperate to please.

“That’s right,” Martin coaxed, stroking lazy circles over Matt’s clothed clit. “Your turn comes after hers.”

Ellen shuddered, cries dissolving into broken gasps, thighs trembling as she pushed harder against Matt’s mouth and fingers. Her voice fractured into raw babble: “Your cock feels good—your butch cock feels so good—make me cum, please—”

The words shot through Matt like lightning. A guttural moan vibrated against Ellen’s clit as she drove her fingers deeper, stretching Ellen wide, tongue flicking in hungry strokes.

Ellen’s body seized, a cry tearing from her chest as she came hard. Her cunt fluttered around Matt’s fingers in tight, wet spasms. She thrashed against the cushions, grinding into Matt’s mouth as though she couldn’t get enough.

“Don’t stop,” Martin snapped, her palm pressing firmly against Matt’s pussy.

Matt struggled to pump her fingers while Ellen writhed, orgasm tearing through her in waves. She clung to Matt’s hair, pulling her closer, sobbing praises: “Good boy, good boy—”

Martin’s voice threaded through the chaos. “Give her what she needs. That’s your job. Your pleasure comes second.”

Ellen convulsed again, body arching, cries spilling raw as Matt worked her through every shudder.

At last, she sagged back, limp with aftershocks, thighs falling open in surrender. She stroked Matt’s cheek, not to guide but to bring her up.

Matt blinked, lips and chin slick, chest heaving. Before she could catch her breath, Ellen cupped her face and kissed her fiercely.

Her tongue slid into Matt’s mouth with hungry affection. She tasted like wine and cum.

Matt whimpered into it, overwhelmed. Ellen kissed her again and again, lips brushing Matt’s damp cheeks, her temple, her mouth; every touch threaded with praise. “So good… so sweet… my boy.”

Matt melted, trembling, body aching, undone by the tenderness.

Ellen shifted, sitting a little higher against the cushions. She pushed Matt back gently with a whisper: “Take these off for me.”

Matt obeyed, fumbling out of her clothes piece by piece until she was bare before them, skin flushed, chest rising fast.

“Oh, look at you,” Ellen whispered, reverent. Her fingers traced along Matt’s collarbone and down to cup her breast. Matt gasped, trembling as a thumb brushed lazily over her nipple.

“My handsome boy,” Ellen cooed. Her touches were light, leaving Matt squirming.

Then she patted her thighs, parting them in quiet command. “Sit back against me. I want you between my legs when Martin fucks you.”

Matt didn’t need to be told twice; she turned quickly, pressing back against Ellen’s chest. Ellen’s arms wrapped around her, palms roaming over her breasts and belly.

“There we go,” Ellen murmured, lips brushing her ear.

Martin’s knees sank into the couch, grin slow and wolfish as her gaze drank Matt in. She ran her fingers down the slick inside of Matt’s thigh, brushing her soaked cunt.

“You’re dripping,” Martin teased, circling lazily. “I could slide three fingers into you right now.”

Matt’s head tipped back with a broken moan, hips canting up in helpless invitation.

Ellen chuckled softly, teasing her nipple until Matt cried out again.

“Please,” Matt gasped, voice ragged.

Martin leaned down, lips brushing her cheek as her hand kept circling, never quite giving enough. “You know,” she murmured, low and conspiratorial, “I don’t usually wear my cock to work. But today, I strapped in before my shift. Because I knew you’d be here.”

Matt’s eyes flew wide, a whimper tearing from her throat, her body jerking at the thought.

Martin unzipped her work trousers, pulling the cock through the fly. Matt whined, grinding back against Ellen, desperate to feel it.

She didn’t wait long. A moment later, the blunt head nudged against her folds, thick and hot with slick.

Matt gasped, hips jerking up instinctively. But Martin only slid the length through her wetness, teasing, never pushing in.

“Fuck,” Matt whimpered, thighs trembling. “Come on—”

Martin chuckled, pressing the head snug against her entrance without entering.

Ellen pinched her nipples lightly, her other hand stroking down to rest above her mound. “Tell him how much you want it.”

Matt writhed, voice spilling in broken fragments. “Please—I haven’t stopped thinking about your cock since you fucked me—I’ve been so good—Please—”

Without another word, Martin drove forward, burying herself deep in one smooth thrust. Matt cried out, raw and wrecked, her whole body arching at the sudden fullness.

“Fuck—yes!” she gasped, clutching at Ellen’s thighs for grounding. Relief tore from her throat with the stretch.

Martin didn’t waste time now. She set a steady, driving rhythm, hips snapping hard, giving Matt exactly what she’d begged for. Wet slaps filled the room, underscored by her desperate moans.

Ellen held her close from behind, stroking her breasts and belly, lips warm at her ear. “Is it as good as you remember?”

Matt could only sob her approval, every thrust carving it deeper into her bones.

Ellen’s hand slid lower, fingers parting Matt’s folds until she found her clit. The first touch was enough to make Matt jolt, a raw, startled cry breaking free. Ellen laughed softly against her ear, the sound dark with delight.

“Do you like it when I touch your cock?” She cooed, stroking in time with her husband’s thrusts.

Matt nodded, hips thrusting wildly. Martin’s pace was relentless, fucking her with deep thrusts that left her open and shaking, each one pushing her harder into Ellen’s waiting hands. The two of them worked in perfect rhythm: Martin’s hips driving her forward, Ellen’s fingers drawing her back, trapping her in the middle until there was nowhere to run.

Ellen’s voice came again, lower now, a steady stream of filth cascading from it. “The day after Martin came home, he fucked me while telling me what he’d done to you.”

Matt moaned loudly, hips stuttering at the thought. It was quickly becoming overwhelming, caught between Martin’s rough thrusts and the slick, insistent circles at her clit.

“Let go,” Ellen murmured, fingers moving faster now. “Make a mess for me.”

Matt’s body clenched, hands grasping helplessly at the older woman’s thighs and the back of the couch. The pleasure came hard and fast, a gush of liquid shot up, hitting Martin’s chest and covering her uniform, Ellen’s arm, and her own stomach. Tears pricked at her eyes as pleasure ran through her in waves that left her shaking, her cries spilling freely.

Martin kept thrusting through it, slower now but no less deep, drawing out every tremor that rippled through her body. She could feel her pulse everywhere—in her skin, her chest, between her legs where Ellen’s fingers still teased her through the aftershocks.

She slumped back against Ellen’s chest, boneless, gasping for air as the rhythm eased. The wet, slick sounds softened to a low hum, replaced by Ellen’s gentle hands gliding over her stomach and thighs, grounding her trembling body.

“That’s it,” Ellen soothed, kissing the side of her neck, her voice tender. “Good boy… breathe.”

Matt tried, her chest rising in shallow, uneven bursts. She could feel Martin inside her, withdrawing slowly, pausing just for a heartbeat before slipping free. The sudden emptiness made her shiver, her pussy fluttering as if begging for the strap to return and fill her again.

A moment later, Martin hoisted herself off the couch. Matt watched, dazed but mesmerised, as Martin shrugged the sodden khaki shirt down her shoulders, revealing her breasts, small enough to be mistaken for pecs. Then the trousers followed, yanked down quickly, dragging the fabric to the floor. She stood there, magnificent and unfazed, thick pubic hair emerging from the leather harness in every direction. The sight sent a fresh, desperate wave of desire through Matt’s exhausted body; she never got to see Martin naked on the boat.

“Are you going to be a good boy and suck my husband’s cock?” Ellen asked with confident expectation.

“Yes, ma’am,” Matt replied, her voice cracking, her eyes fixed on the damp, exposed skin between Martin’s legs.

“Go get him.” Ellen’s hand slid from Matt’s stomach to push gently but firmly at her shoulders, encouraging her to move forward.

Matt didn’t hesitate. She slid off the couch, her bare knees landing on coarse carpet. She crawled forward until she was nestled between Martin’s wide, powerful thighs. The scent of leather, sweat, and Martin’s own musk enveloped her.

She looked up, meeting Martin’s gaze, a look that demanded obedience, then lowered her head. Her tongue was already aching with exhaustion, her jaw tight, but the thought of disappointing Martin after coming so far filled her with a desperate resolve.

She reached up with trembling hands, parting the soft folds of Martin’s labia. Her clit was large, thick, and taut, glistening slightly—the sheer size and readiness of it made Matt’s mouth water.

She bowed her head further, pressing her lips to the warm flesh, and began to suck gently.

Martin gasped, a sharp, surprised intake of breath. It was a sound of vulnerability, a tiny crack in the officer’s controlled façade, and it thrilled Matt to her core.

Ellen, still on the couch, leaned forward, her voice low and intimate, meant only for Matt’s ears. “Show him how good you are, Matt. Make him forget everything but you.”

Matt focused, the small space between Martin’s legs becoming her entire world. She was desperate to earn that approval, to taste Martin’s complete, total surrender just as she had demanded hers moments before. The older butch’s fingers sank into her hair, holding her steady, anchoring her right where she belonged.

Matt licked upward fiercely, tracing the underside of the thick clit before plunging back down to suck hard again.

“Yes, there,” Martin groaned and began to move her hips in a slow, deliberate tilt that pressed her closer to Matt’s face.

She flicked her tongue rapidly, a blur of motion against the sensitive flesh, circling the tip repeatedly until Martin let out a sharp, choked noise that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

The intensity of Martin’s reaction fueled Matt, making her greedier. She parted her lips, letting air rush in, only to seal them again, pushing her tongue hard at the head of Martin’s clit.

Martin cried out, her fingers shifted in Matt’s hair, moving from anchoring to pulling.

“Keep going,” Martin growled, the words thick with effort.

Matt used her mouth like a demanding pump, drawing Martin in, her tongue spiralling and flicking, mewling with every tug at her curls.

Martin’s breathing quickened, becoming shallow and harsh. Her hips started to snap with each pass over the head, which Matt took as confirmation she was doing everything right. 

“Martin, come for your boy,” Ellen purred softly from above. 

Matt pressed her face hard into Martin’s thigh, mouth working with frantic urgency, driving the officer higher and faster.

With a final, desperate noise, Martin seized up. Her legs tensed, trapping Matt’s head, as her body bowed backward against the sudden, overwhelming release. Her hand gripped hard on Matt’s skull, holding her fast, plunging her deeper into the moment, demanding she feel every exquisite ripple of the climax that tore through her.

Matt keened as she felt a wave of slick gather on her tongue. She didn’t move until Martin’s shaking lessened and her hands softened in her hair, becoming gentle again.

Matt keened, low and muffled, as she felt a sudden, heavy wave of slick gather on her tongue. It was hot, musky, and visceral. She didn’t move, held captive and necessary, until Martin’s fierce shaking lessened and her hands softened in Matt’s hair, becoming gentle again, the tension draining away to leave a deep, possessive tenderness.

When Martin finally released her, Matt pulled back, breathless, her face shiny with sweat and cum, feeling utterly transformed. She lifted her head, neck stiff, to look up at the officer. The stress of the long workday was all but gone, leaving behind a relaxed and sated butch in its place. Martin looked softer, her features smoother, her eyes hazy with lingering satisfaction.

Martin slowly bent down to retrieve the crumpled packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her discarded trousers, voice rough. “You did good, Matt.”

She pulled a cigarette and lighter out of the box, wasting no time in lighting it with the sharp flick of the wheel, taking a long, deliberate drag. The smoke curled around her head like a momentary halo. Her attention moved to her wife, a slow, satisfied exhale accompanying the question. “Everything you hoped for?”

“Even more so,” Ellen grinned, fixing her dress, smoothing the wrinkles from the blue fabric with a gentle, proprietary hand. She looked down at Matt, still kneeling on the rug, mouth agape, utterly spent. “I’m sure you’re starving now, aren’t you, Matt?”

She couldn’t help the lazy, triumphant grin that pulled at her wet cheeks. “If you’re offering…”

“Of course,” Ellen let out a soft chuff of air, and stood, holding her hand out to help Matt up.

She struggled to her feet, her muscles screaming with delayed protest, her knees stiff from the carpet. She felt clumsy, exposed, standing naked between the two women. She glanced down at herself, wet, sticky, thoroughly used, and felt a fresh wave of heat rise on her cheeks, not of shame, but of acknowledgment.

“Go freshen yourself up while I reheat dinner,” Ellen instructed, her thumb stroking Matt’s cheek before turning to her husband. “You too, Chief.”

Martin took another deep drag of her cigarette, a spark of amusement lighting her eyes as she inhaled, and nodded. 

Matt picked up her clothes and draped them over her arm, clutching them like a modesty shield. 

When Ellen reached the threshold of the living room, she turned, pausing dramatically, her smile bright and completely devoid of innocence. She looked from Martin, cool and smoky, to Matt, flushed and submissive.

“I hope you’re ready,” Ellen announced, “because the weekend is ours and we still have so much to teach you.”

Chapter Text

Matt sat alone on the dunes behind the Brody residence, shoes and socks discarded beside her, toes buried in the warm sand. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, and the salty breeze tousled her hair as she stared out at the ocean, watching the gentle rise and fall of the waves. The sea was deceptively calm. It always was, until it wasn’t.

Ellen had taken the boys out for a few hours, telling Matt with a knowing smile that she was giving them some man time. Martin had said she'd be home around six, but was running late. Probably helping a cat out of a tree, Matt thought dryly. If anyone would be suckered into that sort of thing, it was Martin—the last good man standing.

The scientist chuckled, the sound barely audible over the incoming tide, and slowly exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the breeze. She'd picked up her pot habit from college again after the shark. Back then, it helped with sleep and post-exam jitters. Now, it just took the edge off being here. Amity. The ocean. Martin and Ellen.

The familiar sound of shoes crunching across the sand broke Matt out of her hazy introspection. Her heart picked up before she even turned. She already knew who it was.

“That’s a misdemeanour, you know.”

The voice, warm and unmistakable, sent a ripple of heat down her spine. A grin pulled at the corners of Matt’s mouth before she could stop it.

“I can pay the fine,” she said, feigning laziness as she took another hit. “Or would you rather I do some community service?” Her voice dipped suggestively, giving the officer a lopsided smirk.

Martin rolled her eyes, though her mouth twitched with amusement. “How much of that stuff have you had? I could smell you the second I stepped outta the car.”

“Cah,” Matt teased, drawing out the vowel. The New England in Martin’s accent had grown stronger since she was last here.

The officer made a low, disapproving sound in her throat as she came up directly behind Matt, casting a long, imposing shadow. Then, without any further warning, Martin’s hands slipped beneath Matt’s arms and hoisted her effortlessly to her feet.

Matt’s body betrayed her instantly. Her pussy grew wet at the casual authority of the movement. It was humiliating in its immediacy and erotic in its execution.

“Miss Hooper,” Martin said now, the voice dropping into something deep, official, and unforgiving, making the small hairs on Matt’s neck stand on end. “I believe you are currently in possession of a Schedule 1 controlled substance. I’m afraid, given the circumstances, I’m going to have to perform a thorough strip search.”

She let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Are you serious?”

Martin didn’t answer. Instead, her fingers slipped beneath the fabric of Matt’s shirt, brushing the curve of her ribs in slow, feather-light strokes, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Matt shuddered. Her nipples peaked under the subtle friction, and she had to bite her lip to fight the moan rising in her throat. The temptation to lean back, to press herself against Martin’s solid chest, was overwhelming.

“What do we have here?” The officer murmured as her thumbs found the stiff, erect buds of Matt’s nipples, circling them with agonising slowness. She applied just enough pressure to make Matt’s knees feel weak. “No bra today?”

Matt sucked in a desperate breath. She’d taken it off an hour ago, in the bathroom, hoping to tease Martin when the officer returned.

“You’re exceptionally thorough, Chief,” she managed to grit out.

“I wouldn’t want to miss anything,” came the reply, Martin’s hot breath tickling the shell of her ear.

Then, Martin’s fingers pinched, tugged, and teased at the tender flesh. A small whimper left Matt’s lips, her pussy growing wetter with each touch. 

“Sensitive,” Martin said with dark satisfaction.

“God,” Matt groaned, hips jerking forward, seeking friction. Her head fell back against the older butch’s shoulder, eyelids fluttering shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not before I finish my search,” Martin corrected. In one swift motion, she gripped the bottom of Matt’s shirt and ripped it upward, tossing it into the dune grass without ceremony.

The cool evening air rushed across her bare skin, and she let out a low, strangled moan. Her hips rolled back, pressing against Martin, silently begging for contact.

“Now, unbutton your jeans and pull them down. Slowly. No sudden movements.” Came the command.

Matt blinked, startled. “You can’t do this out here,” she said weakly. “What if someone sees?”

“I can do anything,” Martin whispered, smirking against her neck. “I’m the chief of police.”

“Oh, fuck,” Matt groaned. That casual declaration of power hit her like a gut punch. The idea of being caught, of someone stumbling across them, only made the moment more electric. They were a mile from the nearest neighbour, secluded in the dunes, but still. The risk made her skin hum.

“Are you going to cooperate, Miss Hooper?” The officer asked, the tone tightening now, leaving no room for argument. “Or am I going to have to use force?”

Matt’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her fingers, trembling slightly, moved to the fly of her jeans, fumbling with the button.

“Yes, Chief,” she breathed out.

She eased the zipper down; the cold metal kissed her skin, causing her to flinch at the contact. Martin didn’t move, didn’t help, just stood solid and steady behind her.

Matt pushed her jeans down, inch by inch, baring her legs to the breeze and the butch behind her. The heavy denim snagged around her thighs before finally slipping down to pool around her ankles. Her wet cotton briefs stuck uncomfortably against her skin.

Martin offered a low, appreciative hum that vibrated directly against Matt’s back.

One hand held her steady while the other followed the slit of her pussy through the fabric, tracing the length gently from clit to hole. The younger woman bucked violently at the contact, but instead of giving her more, Martin gave a single, firm squeeze and pulled away entirely.

“These need to go too.”

Matt obeyed without thinking, pulling them down faster and with far less ceremony, kicking them to one side. She felt anxious, exposed, and wildly aroused all at once. 

She moved to cover herself as though anyone who looked wouldn’t know what was happening.

“Hands where I can see them, Hooper,” Martin commanded.

Whimpering softly, Matt forced her arms back to her sides. Her fingers twitching helplessly against her thighs.

Martin dropped to her knees and began her 'search' at the ankles, slow and meticulous, thumbs brushing up the inside of Matt’s legs, tracing every inch of muscle and skin. The touch was excruciatingly thorough, clinical in its slowness, but charged with far too much heat to be mistaken for anything but desire.

Matt let another whine escape, unable to suppress the sound.

“If you attempt to rush me, I’ll have to start the inspection over,” Martin murmured, the threat made Matt’s heart twist.

Part of her wanted to test the limits, to push, to be punished for disobedience, to draw out every inch of this torture until she was fully, shamelessly begging. But the other part wanted nothing more than to obey. To give herself over to the older butch completely.

Matt swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “Whatever you say, Chief.”

“Good girl,” Martin cooed, the voice low and dark. “Why don’t you bend over for me now?”

Her body responded before her brain could catch up, folding at the waist as if summoned by instinct. Hands braced against her knees, spine curving with the stretch, pulling her ass into sharp prominence. She felt exposed—vulnerable to the breeze, to Martin’s intense gaze, to her own trembling want.

She felt Martin’s hands smooth over the swell of her ass, fingers exploring the curve like it was a terrain that needed to be mapped. Martin kneaded the cheeks gently at first, spreading her with slow, unhurried pressure. Matt’s breathing grew shallow. She could feel her pulse throbbing in places she didn’t even know blood could flow.

The kneading grew stronger, firmer, pulling her cheeks further apart, exposing her wet pussy. The sound of her cunt spreading open was obscene in the quiet air.

Then, she felt a sudden rush of warmth hit her asshole. A thick, hot glob of spit slowly trailed down the crevice before dripping onto the sand below. 

A strangled sound broke from her mouth, somewhere between a moan and a plea. Her fingers dug hard into her thighs as she tried to ground herself.

“Still sensitive,” Martin murmured behind her, the amusement in her voice unmistakable. “That’s good.”

Then came the slightest pressure of a fingertip—just one. Pushing the remnants of saliva inside, the delicate, tight ring of muscle. Matt felt her heart skip a beat at the sudden stretch. She’d never touched herself here before.

The feeling was undeniably strange, but even as the initial shock registered, her clit throbbed at the taboo nature of the act.

“Relax, Miss Hooper,” Martin soothed. “We’re just checking for contraband.”

The officer’s finger began to circle the entrance, not pushing further in, but working the taut muscle, softening it slowly. 

“I don’t think you’re going to find anything, Chief,” Matt gasped, the words thin and breathless.

“Oh, I think I will,” Martin countered. The circling stopped. There was a devastating moment of stillness that made Matt brace.

Then, with gentle insistence, Martin slid her finger in, past the initial tightness. Matt cried out, a muffled, sharp wail that was swallowed instantly by the vast, indifferent ocean.

Martin didn’t move, just held the position, allowing Matt’s body to accommodate the thickness of her finger. 

“We’ve barely started the cavity search,” Martin chided.

Matt felt a tremor run through her entire body. The shame of being this vulnerable, this dominated, was eclipsed entirely by the need to feel more. She pressed back slowly, a silent plea for depth.

Martin obliged, pushing in another inch. Then, with excruciating slowness, the officer began to flex her finger inside the tight hole, rotating it subtly, testing the resilience of Matt’s restraint.

“God, Martin,” Matt whimpered.

The older butch’s finger curled, hooking gently just past the internal curve, pulling on the muscle. That movement was intense, sending a sharp, blinding spike of heat directly to her cunt. She felt herself clenching instinctively, trying to hold on to the sensation, to tighten around the intrusion.

“Is something wrong, Miss Hooper?” Martin asked innocently.

“No,” Matt choked out, tears of pain and pleasure pricking at her eyes. She felt helpless, gripping her thighs hard, her ass presented flawlessly for inspection. 

Martin began to work her finger in a steady, deliberate rhythm of thrusts and curls, exploring the virgin territory with rapt attention.

Matt could only moan, her hips rocking slightly in a silent, pleading tempo. She wanted Martin to claim both holes, use two fingers, three, her whole fist. She wanted to be split wide and claimed completely. But Martin maintained the pace, owning the moment, stretching Matt’s will along with her body.

After a few more intense seconds, Martin finally paused. The finger remained fully buried, and Matt whimpered at the stillness.

“Inspection complete,” Martin declared, the tone crisply official. “Nothing of interest found in the lower access point.”

Then, the finger was abruptly gone.

The sudden cold void left Matt gasping, her muscles clamping down fiercely on empty air. 

“Now for the primary cavity,” Martin continued.

Martin reached out, her hands surprisingly gentle after the aggressive work she’d just completed. The officer’s large thumb and forefinger carefully separated Matt’s slick, swollen lips. 

“Very… wet, Miss Hooper,” Martin noted, her voice flat.

Matt moaned softly, finding her voice useless. The steel gaze of the Chief felt like a physical weight on her clit.

Martin pushed the outer labia wide, her fingers tracing the path of the wetness down the soft skin, moving towards the slick head of Matt’s clit, applying firm, even pressure. The promise of being touched where she most wanted it made her jolt. 

“Keep those hips still, or this procedure will take significantly longer.”

Without waiting for a response, Martin pressed onto the engorged head of Matt’s clit and slipped a finger into her soaked pussy.

She gasped, the internal focus immediately shifting from the deep, violating pleasure of her ass to the familiar hunger of her cunt. Martin didn’t thrust, simply filled the space, moving her index finger to examine the smooth, hot walls.

“Fuck, Martin—please…”

“Hmm?” the officer asked calmly, thumb continuing its steady pressure on Matt’s clit. “You saying something, Miss Hooper?”

Matt groaned, arching her back as though the movement alone might convince Martin to accelerate the process, to break character and simply take her. 

“Want you to fuck me,” she managed. The words came out thin, more breath than voice. 

“Patience,” Martin murmured and withdrew her finger, making Matt’s muscles seize with disappointment. “You said I could search you,” she continued, voice smooth and infuriating. “I’m just being thorough.”

Matt swore under her breath. Shameless now, she arched again, rocking her pelvis back, openly presenting herself, trying to lure the older butch back in with the sheer desperation of her body.

“Come on…” she whined, her voice high and ragged with frustrated lust. “This has to be police brutality by now, Chief. Torture even!”

The officer chuckled low in her throat. Instead of pushing back inside, she dragged her fist slowly over the slick, swollen mound of Matt’s cunt. The press was more a suggestion than a threat. It was a reminder of the power she held, of what she could do if she chose to.

“I don’t think you want to see how brutal I can be, Matt,” Martin murmured, her tone almost conversational, yet laced with something harder underneath.

Matt huffed out a breath, shifting her weight again, a small, futile act of rebellion. “I do if it means you’ll fuck me already.”

There was a brief pause, making Matt’s heart hammer against her ribs. She felt like she was being assessed: would Martin spank her for speaking out, or would she tease her into complete submission?

“On your knees,” Martin commanded, the voice devoid of warmth.

Matt dropped immediately, obedient and unthinking. Her palms sank into the sand as she settled onto all fours, ass elevated, her position one of absolute surrender.

She didn’t dare look back; she didn’t trust herself to hold it together if she made eye contact with Martin right now. Just the sheer, demanding weight of command in her voice had Matt already on the brink of losing control. 

A moment later, Matt felt the undeniable press of three fingers.

She let out a guttural moan as they slid in. Her body seized and relaxed around the thick intrusion all at once, welcoming the sensation.

Martin didn’t rush. She resumed the role of the meticulous investigator, moving her fingers in slow scissoring motions, working Matt open with firm, measured strokes.

“So loose,” Martin muttered, almost to herself, her voice tinged with admiration.

“Martin…”

“That’s Chief Brody to you, Miss Hooper,” Martin chided, her fingers pausing briefly in punishment.

“Chief Brody…” she panted. “I want another finger.”

Matt felt herself be spread wider by steady, authoritative hands. Then came the brutal entry of the fourth finger.

“Oh—shit,” Matt gasped, the air knocked from her lungs in a burst of overwhelming pleasure. Her hands clawed helplessly at the sand, her fingers sinking deep into the earth as she tried to stop herself cumming right there.

Behind her, Martin let out a low groan, rough with the strain of holding back.

Matt loved the stretch, the stinging, the slow burn of being filled until she couldn't possibly take any more. She loved being manhandled, loved that Martin knew exactly which buttons to press to turn her into this squirming, desperate, articulate mess.

The officer’s nails dug sharply into Matt’s hips, anchoring her position. Then, without warning, she set a devastating pace—deep, sharp thrusts that forced Matt to take every single inch of her hand, whether she was ready or not.

“You feel so fucking good,” Matt panted, shoving her hips back against the solid mass of Martin with each frantic movement, desperate for more depth, more friction, more everything.

Martin’s fingers were merciless, delving deep with a punishing pace that was far too fast for exploration and perfectly tailored for relentless friction. She kept the pressure hard and constant, stretching Matt’s entrance to its limit with every withdrawal and re-entry. Matt rocked back violently against the hand, grinding her cunt against the hard knuckles, wanting to feel Martin hit her cervix.

“You wanted thorough, Hooper? This is thorough,” Martin grunted. 

Matt tried to lift her head, to gain some semblance of control, but the intensity of the finger-fucking made her neck muscles seize. She was locked into the position, a trembling whore pinned by her own desire.

“Are you going to cum from being searched?” Martin asked with faux disgust, slowing the pace just enough to drive Matt crazy.

“Yes!” Matt wailed, the word muffled against the sand.

“Pervert.” 

The word was barely out before Martin slammed her hand forward, resuming the harsh, relentless pace, driving her four fingers to the absolute limit of Matt's capacity.

Then Martin shifted behind her, the rhythm faltering just enough for Matt to register the change. The older butch pressed her chest flush against Matt’s back, the heat of her solid body suffocating in the best way. Her breath was hot and heavy against the skin of Matt’s neck, a stark contrast to the relentless grinding of her fingers—still moving in slow, measured circles deep inside the scientist.

Matt tilted her head to the side in silent invitation, baring her throat. She wanted to be claimed, and Martin didn’t hesitate. Blunt teeth sank into the flesh of her neck, biting hard. 

Matt cried out, her eyes rolling back as the pain hit, perfect and electric. The sound that tore from her throat was loud and desperate. She didn’t care who heard. Let the whole damn island hear.

Her spine arched like a bowstring pulled tight, offering herself up without hesitation. Her entire body ached for more.

“Oh fuck, please, Martin—touch me!” Matt begged, her voice cracking, breath hitching violently with every punishing thrust. “Please, please, please—”

When Martin finally pressed her thumb back against Matt’s straining clit, Matt nearly sobbed with immediate, blinding relief.

“Fuck—” she gasped, her hips jerking helplessly against the sand. The relief was immediate, the contact overwhelming. Martin didn’t tease this time; her strokes were firm, sure, and measured, coaxing Matt toward the edge like she knew exactly how close the younger butch already was.

The burning inside her, the stretch, the heat of Martin’s body pressed against her everywhere—she couldn’t hold out. Every single nerve ending in her body was screaming Martin’s name.

Martin’s hand stroked her with perfect rhythm, matching the roll of Matt’s hips, sending sharp, deep bursts of pleasure through her overstimulated body.

“Yes, yes, yes—”

Her body gave in before her mind could catch up. She tensed, toes curling into the sand, hips twitching helplessly as the orgasm overtook her. She came with a broken cry, squirting into Martin’s hand and onto the sand below. She collapsed forward onto the sand, shaking uncontrollably.

Her body trembled, slick with sweat and cum, the muscles in her thighs and back twitching from the release. Stars danced behind her eyes, and all she could do was breathe, ragged and uneven, entirely owned.

The older butch didn't stop. She fucked her through her orgasm, the four fingers deep inside Matt continuing their punishing thrusts. Matt’s overstimulated body clenched around the invading hand, drawing the officer’s fingers deeper with every residual spasm.

“Fuck,” Martin ground out,  her voice fraying at the edges. The scent of salt, sex, and sweat was overwhelming.

Matt whined weakly, shifting her collapsed weight slightly, trying to meet the continued violation, even in her exhausted state. “Don’t stop,” she groaned, the plea half-drunk on the recent pleasure. “Use me.”

“Turn over.” The officer’s fingers, coated in Matt’s cum, abruptly stopped their furious thrusting and pulled out.

Matt moaned at the sudden loss, feeling so empty and stretched. She shakily turned herself onto her back, knees still bent, her hair clinging to her scalp and neck, saturated with sweat. Her overstimulated pussy was now angled up and toward Martin, wet and glistening in the fading light.

Matt’s eyes, glazed and half-lidded with exhaustion and residual heat, tracked Martin’s movements with hungry, exhausted focus. The older butch stood, towering over her, hands moving to the waistband of her work trousers. With a loud zip, Martin shoved the thick, khaki fabric down, letting it pool around her ankles, revealing the dark briefs beneath. She didn't pause; the briefs were tugged down next, carelessly discarded onto the crumpled trousers and kicked to the side.

Martin remained standing momentarily, solid and formidable, still wearing her heavy, sand-caked work boots. The sight of her body, the strong, thick legs leading up to a densely packed bush of coarse, dark hair, made Matt’s heart stutter.

Martin moved forward, straddling Matt’s head before dropping onto her knees. The sudden proximity was dizzying. Martin’s toned thighs rested on either side of Matt’s shoulders, the hem of her utility shirt brushing Matt's forehead. The air immediately filled with the deep, earthy musk of Martin’s body.

Matt could see the heavy folds of the Chief’s wet cunt hanging just above her face. She lifted her head and instinctively shot her tongue out. The movement was futile; Martin had positioned herself just out of reach. Matt could only taste the salty air, drooling at the intoxicating proximity of the thick, masculine clit she craved.

Martin watched Matt’s tongue dart out and up, a small smirk on her lips. Then her hand disappeared between the folds. Her knuckles were white as she set a blistering pace, rubbing her clit with quick, hard strokes. Her breathing hitched, transforming into shallow, ragged gasps.

“I’m gonna to cum on your face,” Martin threatened, her hips beginning a frantic bucking motion.

“Please, I want it, Martin, please-” Matt whined, opening her mouth wider.

Martin’s head tilted back, her eyes squeezed shut in the final rush of sensation.

A few seconds later, with a heavy, broken roar, Martin’s body convulsed. Her muscles seized and tightened around Matt’s head. The younger butch moaned loudly, imagining Martin shooting streaks of cum across her face.

Martin kept riding the wave of her powerful orgasm. As the shaking subsided, she lifted her pelvis slightly, her hand slick with her own cum. She reached down, gathering the fluid from her entrance and smeared the load across Matt’s forehead and cheek, painting a thick, white stripe right over her face.

“There,” Martin said, her voice rough, heavy with satisfaction. “Kept my promise.”

Matt hummed happily as the cooling fluid was rubbed into her skin. She didn't dare wipe it yet; she didn't want to break the intensity of Martin’s triumphant gaze.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the waves, the distant cry of gulls, and their ragged breathing. Salt clung to her lips, mixed with sweat and the odd grain of sand, and now, the heavy, tang of Martin's fresh cum.

Martin moved first, standing slowly and then manoeuvring herself to sit beside Matt, grunting from stiffness as she stretched her legs out. 

The younger butch turned her head and blinked up at Martin through half-lidded, foggy eyes, vision slightly blurry as her glasses lay abandoned in the sand.

Something had piqued Martin’s interest. She followed the officer’s line of sight, trying her best to make out what it was.

The joint. Half-buried now, likely dropped when Martin had hoisted her to her feet and manhandled her into compliance. Martin picked it up between two fingers, carefully brushing the sand off, and held it up, arching an eyebrow in mock disapproval.

“Gonna have to fine you for littering,” she said, deadpan.

Matt let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re the one who interrupted me mid-crime,” she said hoarsely. “You should fine yourself for entrapment.”

Martin snorted and leaned back on one arm, rolling the sandy joint between her fingers. “You’re lucky I’m a very lenient officer.”

“Lenient, my ass,” Matt mumbled, running a hand over the clammy slickness of her face. “You nearly fucked me through the Earth’s crust.”

“Complaints?” Martin asked, amused.

“None worth filing,” she replied, grinning lazily.

They lapsed into easy silence again. The ocean lapped at the shore behind them, wind tousling Matt’s sweat-damp curls. She blinked up at the sky, one knee bent loosely, the other leg stretched long and useless in the sand.

Martin reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out a battered lighter. She lit the joint, shielding it from the breeze with one hand before taking a slow drag. A moment later, she exhaled through her nose and handed it over.

“Civil forfeiture,” she said with a smirk. “But I’m feeling generous.”

Matt took it with a grunt of effort, forcing herself to sit up. She took a deep drag and let it out in a long, satisfied sigh. The ache settling into her hips and neck was a warm and welcome souvenir.

She passed the joint back to look at Martin. “You gonna write that in the report?”

The officer flicked ash into the sand. “What, the contraband or the part where you begged to be touched?”

“Either. Both. For posterity.”

Martin looked at her, face unreadable for a beat. Then she chuckled, low and rough, and leaned against Matt’s side.

“It’d make for a hell of a report,” she murmured.

Matt hummed, resting her head on Martin’s shoulder. “Think it’d get you promoted?”

“Fired, more like.”

“Mm. Worth it.”

Martin took another drag and let the smoke curl slowly from her mouth, watching it drift into the evening air. “You’re a menace,” she said after a moment, affection colouring her voice.

Matt smirked and stole the joint from her fingers, “Thought I was your good girl.”

Martin snorted. “You’re something, all right.”

The younger butch took a final drag before carefully snuffing it out in the sand. She held the spent butt up between two fingers. “I’ll dispose of it properly, don’t worry. Wouldn’t want another fine.”

A quick shiver ran down her spine as the words left her mouth. The post-heat chill was starting to set in.

“You cold?” Martin asked, brows drawing together slightly.

“A little,” she admitted. The sweat cooling on her skin made the breeze feel sharper than it should.

“C’mon,” Martin said, getting to her feet and offering a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up before everyone gets home.”

Matt took it, letting the officer pull her up. Her legs wobbled beneath her, still weak from the aftermath, but Martin’s grip was steady, anchoring her.

They didn’t speak as they collected their clothes and made their way up the dunes, feet sinking into soft sand, sun now hidden behind the horizon. 

Matt grinned mischievously as she watched Martin walk ahead. She was already calculating the angles of the next encounter. If she played her cards right, she could get another round in while they showered.