Who doesn’t love a woman in (or out) of uniform? Personally, I get a little thrill every time I see a woman driving a police car, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. And when I heard of Sacchi’s anthology, that’s the image that sprang instantly to mind. I assumed that iconic vision, which affects me on a visceral level, would be central to the story I would submit.
So I let the idea simmer in the back of my mind. For months I waited for something to take hold, but nothing came to me. It was ridiculous. Short stories are my favorite kind of writing, quick in and out, a slice of a much larger life. And, frankly, cops are sexy. I began to think the creative part of my brain was broken. I had the perfect recipe (cop + anything = sexy good times), yet couldn’t convert it to a story. The deadline loomed and still, nothing.
I was chatting with a friend of mine (Gill McKnight) who basically told me to get over it and write already. She shot a few scenarios at me and told me to stop whining and just write.
And I did!
Frankly, I couldn’t be more surprised about the results. I found that I really like writing kink, something I’d never even considered before. I’m a bit of a prude (I was raised in southern Idaho for goodness sake), yet out poured this story with nipple clamps and riding crops and power dynamics and I loved every naughty minute of writing it.
I hope you all enjoy reading it, as well.
© Jove Belle
Sweat rolled down Jen’s back and saturated the waistband of her federal issue gym shorts. Her heart pounded as she gulped air. She’d been warned. Squad mates who’d previously attended the FBI anti-terrorism training session told her it wouldn’t be all book learning. They hadn’t, however, prepared her for the sadist instructor who’d made it her mission to make Jen’s lungs bleed.
Seven miles for fuck’s sake. When she chased perps, which wasn’t very often, they ran for a block or two. Half-a-mile, tops. They did not race full out through the woods, over trees, splashing through streams for seven fucking miles. She was here to learn how to catch terrorists, not Bambi.
For now, though, she’d settle for catching her breath.
“Move it, people.” Special Agent Hollis smiled. “Get a drink of water and let’s go. The American people don’t want to waste their tax dollars paying you to breathe.”
Jen pictured the instructor in a leather corset snapping a whip at their heels. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant image, even if the timing was crap. Forget the fact that they were surrounded by Jen’s classmates, or that she didn’t even know the instructor’s first name—Special Agent Hollis was far too long for an exhaled moan. The brutal, slipping-toward-middle-age truth was she was too damn tired to enjoy the fantasy.
Edited by Sacchi Green
Available now from Cleis Press