Caught by the Cop

Reagan's flipping through a book when a knock hits the door. Officer India stands there holding the chain on Amilia, caught red-handed spray-painting the school. Reagan promises to ground the girl, keep her locked up for weeks. India's heard that before. Says if words and phones aren't working, maybe something needs to land harder. She nods at Reagan, tells her to drop the jeans and lay a smack on that bare ass. Reagan freezes. Jail versus a quick slap. She picks the slap. Amilia bends over her knees, pants around her thighs. First tap barely leaves a mark. India isn't impressed. “Skin to skin, Reagan.” Clothes come off. Reagan’s palm cracks louder now, heat blooming across those cheeks with every strike. India slips her fingers between her own thighs while the sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the room. Reagan glances over, sees the officer stroking faster, and opens her mouth, but the two women cut her off in unison. “Keep spanking.” India’s hips buck; she pushes herself against Amilia’s tongue and comes fast, breath stuttering. Both of them turn to Reagan. If she keeps cooperating they’ll let the kid go. Reagan swallows, nods once, then leans in like she’s finally ready to play.