Picture Postcards from L.A.: Erin by Candy_Kane54
Discover the sultry tale of 'Picture Postcards from L.A.: Erin,' where passion and adventure collide in an erotic journey through Los Angeles. Dive into an enthralling sex story that explores desire, intimacy, and unforgettable encounters. Join Erin as she unveils her deepest fantasies in the City of Angels!<br/>
Indulge in the tantalizing passion of “Picture Postcards from L.A.: Erin” by Candy_Kane54. This seductive adult erotic story unfolds a steamy tale of desire, exploration, and intimate connections in the vibrant backdrop of Los Angeles. Join Erin on her sultry adventures as she discovers love, lust, and the thrilling allure of the unexpected. Dare to dive into a world where fantasies come alive!
This story was written for the Crime & Punishment 2024 Story Event. The names and places have not been changed to protect the innocent or the guilty.
While this is a stand-alone story, reading last year’s entry to this event, “I Fought the Law …,” will provide additional context.
© 2024 Candy_Kane54
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I flipped the sixth and final photograph over and slid it across the table to join the other five in front of the soldier sitting there. He just sat there, silent, looking straight ahead, focused on the wall behind me. Getting no response, I stood up, walked around the table, and stood behind him, looking down at the photographs spread out on the table. Each one of them was a picture of a female soldier who had been assaulted, their faces swollen, bruised, and bloody from the attacks on them.
I knew he was aware I was behind him, but he refused to turn his head, maintaining his stare at the wall in front of him. I waited for the moment I would make my move, looking over to the two-way mirror, knowing that the Lieutenant was in the observation room behind the mirror, watching everything and taking notes. With a slight smile and a shrug of my shoulders, I made my move. Lightning quick, I grabbed his neck and slammed his head into the table as I growled, “I said, look at the pictures, Sergeant!”
His head made a satisfying ‘thwok’ as it bounced off the table, the sound of his nose giving away to the hard surface making me smile. He reared back, momentarily forgetting his restraints as he reacted to the sudden pain. “You fucking bitch!” he hissed as he struggled against the restraints keeping him in his seat.
I grabbed his neck and forced his head back down as I leaned in and pleasantly said, “That’s Warrant Bitch to you, Sergeant.” I knew I shouldn’t enjoy this as much as I did, but one thing I detested was men beating up on women just because they could. To make it worse, the victims were all Privates and Corporals and beholden to his rank of Sergeant.
They had all been reluctant to admit that they couldn’t handle the situation due to their training emphasizing being strong and not showing weakness. This sorry excuse for a man was one who obviously enjoyed using his power over them and preying on that reluctance. I wanted him to know that he wouldn’t always be the one with the power. As the saying goes, payback can be a bitch, and I was willing to play the part.
I looked back up to the mirror and smiled, letting the Lieutenant know it was almost time for him to come in. I was sure that when I first entered the room, the Sergeant thought I would be the ‘good cop.’ He was wrong. “What’s the matter, Sergeant?” I asked as I went around the table and sat down. “I figured that since you thought women enjoyed getting their faces smashed in, I’d let you enjoy it for yourself.”
He gave me a look that he must have thought would make me drop dead, but the blood running down from his nose and dripping off his chin ruined the effect, so I just smiled and shook my head, refusing to do so. Before I could continue, the Lieutenant chose that moment to enter the room. “I’ll take it from here, Warrant,” he said as I got up and moved aside so he could sit down.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” I said. He would play the ‘good cop’ now, so I quickly left the room and headed for the observation room to take notes …
July 1987
As I powered up the 405 past the Long Beach Airport in my Rally Red ’66 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray coupe, the 427CI big-block V8 engine growled its desire to be unleashed. I loved how it immediately responded to my commands as I changed lanes in a futile effort to get through the traffic faster. I loved driving it, playing the clutch like a piano, taking advantage of every opportunity to let its full-throated growl out as I barreled up the road. Traffic was actually light enough that I could wind it out for a stretch, enjoying the feel of acceleration. I was looking forward to getting home and spending some time unwinding from my latest case.
I relished the feeling of a job well done. Not that the case had gone smoothly, like some, but I felt good about helping another woman get out of an abusive relationship. Marsha Whitman had responded to my ad in the Personals, asking for help with her fiancé, who was acting very paranoid and controlling, many times to the point of physical harm. Luckily, Marsha wasn’t one of those women who blamed herself for the abuse, suffered low self-esteem, or thought that if she just loved him hard enough, she could overcome the abuse. It turned out that her fiancé had gone undiagnosed as being schizophrenic with homicidal tendencies, a dangerous combination that no amount of love could fix. I had called in Doctor Khoury, who owed me a favor. He had her fiancé diagnosed and committed to a psychiatric facility for treatment. Marsha could get on with her life with the fiancé now taken out of the picture.
Eventually, I saw the signs for the Rosecrans Avenue exit. I worked my way over to the right lane and off onto the exit ramp. I went west to Sepulveda Boulevard and turned south. I stopped at the Chevron station on the corner of Sepulveda and Manhattan Beach Boulevards to gas up my Sting Ray. It was one of the few stations that still sold leaded premium gas for classic cars like mine.
There was a Tuxedo Black ’61 ‘Vette convertible at the pump as I pulled up. The driver was an older gentleman, who I assumed had bought the ‘Vette when it was new by how he treated it. As was protocol, I got out of my car and came up to admire his car while he serviced it. He told me how his wife had really enjoyed their rides along the coast, and I twigged to the fact that she had passed by the way he referred to her in the past tense. We both commiserated over how few places were left to get gas for classic cars like ours. He commented on my car as he finished topping off his tank before I headed back to my car.
When he pulled away, I took his place and started pumping gas. I thought about how fortunate I had been to get my hands on my Sting Ray and how much I loved it. Thinking about what the man had said moments ago, I briefly thought about how Steph would have loved to drive this car before I sternly put that thought aside. “No regrets,” I muttered as I paid for my gas. As I got ready to pull away from the pump, a Sherwood Green ’63 Jaguar E-type roadster with right-hand drive pulled up behind me. Like I said, gas stations that sold leaded premium gas were few and far between, so seeing classic cars like that was commonplace here.