Pretty Peggy-O


It would never have occured to Meg that such a thing was even done if it weren't for the ruffians Constable Fraser had locked in the consulate while he waited for the second Detective Vecchio to arrive with backup. Fraser, being Fraser, hadn't just cuffed the hoodlums and tossed them in an empty office. Oh, no; he'd escorted the three molasses-soaked young men into Meg's office, heedless, as always, of her heavy workload.

"Inspector Thatcher, sir," he'd said. "I'm afraid I need to keep these gentlemen here for a short while. They were involved in a plot to bring down the government of Detroit, and normally I'd have deposited them immediately in the safekeeping of the City of Chicago. Unfortunately, their llama, in escaping, caused such damage to Detective Vecchio's car that he's been forced to --"

She'd cut him off. "Constable! Does any of this improbable story herald impending danger to Canada?"

"No, sir, not as such, but --"

"Good. Then lock them up and go away."

Fraser, to his credit, had finally turned to go. "Thank you, sir. Gentlemen," he'd said, turning to his prisoners. "You should express gratitude to the Inspector -- Inspector Margaret Thatcher of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police -- for allowing you to stay in the relative comfort of the Canadian Consulate."

The prisoners had snickered rudely.

"Yo, thanks, Meggy," the fair young man had said, as Fraser escorted them out.

"No, Peggy," corrected his friend.

"Yeah," said the third. "Peggy. She can peg me anytime." And with that, the door closed on their lewd laughter.

While Meg usually ignored crude come-ons (most particularly those from criminals, incompetent or otherwise), she was haunted by this exchange. She'd never liked the nickname "Peggy", but it was still the name her grandparents and cousins used for her. The idea that there was some unpleasant sexual connotation to the name was unpleasant, to say the least. So that evening she succumbed to temptation and used an internet search engine to find the meaning of the term.

She was prepared to be disgusted. She was not prepared to be intrigued.

After an hour of furtive web searching, Meg slammed her laptop shut with a bang. Good lord, when had she been reduced to searching the internet for titillating stories and images? She was a stong, professional woman and had no need of such time-wasters. Of course, the women involved in this pegging also seemed strong. Capable. In charge. Really it was no wonder she found the information compelling...

On Sunday, she found herself wandering into the adult boutiques on the North Side, fingering leather straps and o-rings and contemplating devices she ought to find disgusting. She left without any purchases, but returned the following Sunday, and a third, and finally on the fourth Sunday (after far too many sleepless nights) she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and bought the Lady Grace -- marketed as "a beginner's harness" but thoroughly intimidating with its multitude of nylon straps and strings and closures -- and a pale green cylinder that didn't look remotely like human anatomy. For completeness' sake she added a petal pink vibrator to her shopping basket. When the young woman at the register smiled at her, Meg nearly lost her courage. But she'd already handed over her credit card, so instead she snapped at the cashier, grabbed her brown paper parcel, and hurried away.

When she returned to her apartment Meg put the parcel at the back of her closet. Deliberately, she made herself a pot of tea, turned on Chicago Public Radio (not as calming as CBC Radio, but similar enough to relax her), and sat down with some paperwork she'd brought home. Her thoughts, however, kept returning to the package wrapped in plain brown paper. Why green? she wondered, and Why so many varieties of harness? Not to mention the questions she never let come to the forefront of her mind, such as What would it feel like? and What does a woman get out of it? and Oh god, how would he feel under me?

And when she went to bed that night, she didn't brush her teeth, wash her face, slip into her favorite nightgown, and fall chastely asleep to dreams of the RCMP administration manual. No, she unwrapped her brown paper parcel and carefully assembled its contents. As she tightened the snaps and rings and buckles of the harness around her own hips, she could not help but think of the straps and buckles of an RCMP uniform, of the lanyard, of the Sam Browne, of the braces and High Browns. She could not help but think of unbuckling, unsnapping, untying, of belts and straps lying across a chest wider than her own.

She lay back in bed. The talk radio show she'd been using to settle her mind had given way to a musical performance by a latin troupe, and the seductive rhythms of the salsa sounded loud in her bedroom, firing her bloodstream. Emboldened by the music, she rested one hand against the dildo that thrust out from her pelvis. The green silicone was off-putting and unerotic when she looked at it directly, but lying back in the dark of her bedroom, one hand wrapped around the slim column, it was far less unnatural.

If someone were to be watching her now, she would wrap both hands around the dildo -- no, around her cock -- and jack it for her fascinated observer's gaze. While he would blush, crick his neck, rub his eyebrow in embarassment, she would tilt her hips toward him. Perhaps she would put one hand on his head and push it downward, down to her hips. He would cast his eyes up at her, questioning, and then would nod and open his mouth to take her in. His lips would stretch obscenely around her length. She would try to be considerate, but after a few minutes of watching him suck she would thrust into his waiting mouth.

If someone were to be watching her now, she would put both hands in his hair and pull him back. He'd slide off easily, looking up at her with glazed eyes and swollen lips, waiting for her next move. If she'd paused to contemplate, he'd move forward again, eager to suck on her hard cock, but she'd stop him, strip him of his uniform, of his buckles and straps, of his braces and boots. She'd arrange him on hands and knees in the bed. He'd fight her a little, at first -- not because he didn't want to be stripped but because he didn't want to separated from his worship of her, as he'd struggle to trace lips, tongue, fingers along her cock, along the straps of the harness. But she'd be firm, and soon he'd kneeling on all fours, head hanging, panting shallow breaths, whimpering slightly when she'd run one hand down his back, across one buttock, cupping his balls. The bow of his back would shudder with each shallow breath, and he'd twitch as she'd flick her fingers across one buttock, then the other. She'd run her tongue swiftly up his balls, along the vein that runs up his perineum and across his asshole, and the sound he'd choke back would make her wet and ready. She'd pause to admire the picture he'd make: dark head hanging down; dark cock leaking against his belly.

While she may be charge, she is still thoughtful, so she'd quickly coat her fingers with lube and circle them around his asshole before thrusting in, one, two. His whimpers would have gotten louder, more persistent, and with her other hand she'd reach between his legs and jack him hard. She'd stop, though, when she'd feel his balls draw up, when even his whimpers would dissolve to one high pitched keening. She'd pull out her fingers, ignoring his complaining moan, and, grasping her cock with her lube-slicked fingers, she'd thrust into him, quickly, not waiting for him to accomodate her. She'd be thanked by his gasps of pleasure, and after just a few thrusts, he'd spasm around her, moaning, clenching, and then coming against the sheets. And then she'd ride him through her own orgasm, cock thrusting into him, buckles slapping against his ass. As she'd shudder over him, slamming against his prostate, he'd whimper, coming dry, forced into another orgasm by the strength of her own.

The buzzing of the petal pink vibrator was drowning out the salsa music on the radio. Meg lifted it with one drenched hand and fumbled for the off switch. Her other hand was gripped tight around the dildo. She meant to let go of it, but instead pressed the dildo in its harness against her pelvic bone, setting off a series of aftershocks. She lowered her hand again to rub lightly through the dampness around her clit. Really, she thought, she should remove the whole contraption, clean it, go to bed. She had a long day scheduled for tomorrow, and she found dealing with Constable Fraser to be exhausting at the best of times. But instead, she pressed her index finger deep into herself, and rubbed the base of the dildo hard against her in its black leather cocoon. No harm in staying up just a little later, she thought, and as the radio switched to a tango, she turned the vibrator back on.