aFireFist
A Life in DC
Chapter 12 - Part 2
Selina's full C-cups heaved again as she dragged in a long breath through her nose. She wanted to stay rational. She really did. The note was practical. The plan was practical. Vieri was practical. But the mental image of his thick cock stretching her open again while these two watched — Harley moaning "Daddy" and Ivy thanking the Green — made her cunt clench hard and get wet against the leather of her suit. She hated how badly she already wanted it. She hated that part of her wanted to win whatever stupid competition these two thought they were running.
"Just… be there," she muttered finally, voice rough. Her thick thighs stayed pressed together. "And try not to make it weirder than it already is. For once."
Harley grinned wide enough to show teeth. Her heavy tits bounced as she gave a little happy hop. "No promises, kitty-cat. Daddy likes weird."
Ivy simply turned away, thick juicy ass rolling under the green suit with the movement. The vines on her arms whispered and arms whispered against the damp air as she walked toward the deeper shadows of the warehouse. "The Green will decide. It always does."
Selina stood there in the dripping warehouse, arms still crossed under her full tits, thick thighs tight, firm ass clenched, and wondered how the hell a simple conversation had already turned into this.
Rain kept hammering the roof like it was trying to get in.
***
Two days later the precinct smelled like burnt coffee and wet wool. The ancient pot on the warmer had been sitting too long again, filling the bullpen with that bitter, scorched scent that never quite went away. Rain still clung to coats and boots from the morning drizzle, adding a damp, musty edge to the air. Phones rang without pause. Keyboards clacked. Someone near the holding cells was arguing loudly about coffee filters.
Vieri sat at his desk finishing a noise complaint report from the night before — two neighbors screaming about a dog that wouldn't stop barking. He was halfway through the last sentence when Montoya's voice cut clean across the bullpen.
"Task force. Conference room. Now."
Chairs scraped back immediately. Boots moved across the worn linoleum. Vieri saved the report, grabbed his notepad and a pen, and stood. He followed the small group of detectives toward the back hallway. Montoya walked ahead of them all, back straight, pace clipped and sure. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight, practical ponytail that still let a few strands frame her face. The white button-down she wore stretched taut across her full C-cup tits; every breath pulled the fabric just tight enough to show the soft upper curves and the faint outline of her bra. Dark slacks hugged her solid runner's ass and thick thighs with every step.
Inside the small conference room she waited until the last person entered, then closed the door firmly. The space was cramped — scuffed table, mismatched chairs, a whiteboard covered in old timelines and red arrows from the Kane Street raid. Sawyer leaned against the far wall, arms loosely crossed. Her thick thighs were stacked one over the other, heavy D-cup tits pressing against her dark blouse with every breath. A couple of the other task force detectives took seats. Vieri sat near the middle of the table, notepad ready.
Montoya walked to the head of the table and rested both hands on the back of the empty chair there. Her golden-brown eyes swept the room once — professional, assessing — and then lingered on Vieri a full second longer than anyone else. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, held there, then slid lower down his chest before climbing slowly back up to his eyes. She blinked once, slow, and started speaking like nothing had happened.
"I got a call this morning from upstairs," she said. Her voice stayed even and professional, but her eyes flicked to Vieri again almost immediately. "Direct from a deputy commissioner. If the Queens of Crime go quiet for a while — and I mean real quiet, no big scores, no headlines, no viral videos of them making us look like clowns — Internal Affairs backs off. Completely. They'll even give this unit more room to run future operations. Actual breathing room. Real trust instead of constant second-guessing."
Sawyer shifted her weight against the wall. The movement made her thick ass press harder against the scuffed paint. Her heavy tits rose under the blouse. "How quiet are we talking? 'Lay low for a week' quiet or 'disappear off the face of the earth' quiet?"
Montoya's eyes slid back to Vieri's face, then down to his chest, then lower for half a second before she forced them up again. She cleared her throat. "Quiet enough that the brass stops asking why we keep coming back empty-handed every single time. Quiet enough that they stop looking at this task force like a budget line they can cut tomorrow. So here's the job, plain and simple. We keep doing solid police work. We take the small wins — the street fights, the thefts, the disorderlies — and we document every one of them clean. We stay sharp. And we watch every alley, every confidential tip, every drunk whisper about the Queens. If they slip even a little, we take them. This might be the only real window we get before someone upstairs decides the whole unit is a waste of money and manpower."
One of the other detectives, a lanky guy named Ruiz, nodded and leaned forward. "Any specific intel on their current movements? Safehouses? Patterns?"
Montoya's gaze locked on Vieri again. Longer this time. Her full tits rose with a deeper breath; the buttons on her white shirt strained just enough to show a thin line of olive skin between them. Under the table her thick thighs pressed together hard. She was eye-fucking him plain as day — slow, hungry, completely unprofessional — like she was already remembering exactly how he'd stretched her open inside this same building. Her nipples had started to push visibly against the thin bra and white fabric.
"No solid intel yet," she said, and her voice dropped a fraction lower. "But they're distracted. Something's got them off their game the last couple weeks. Timing's sloppy. Jobs are smaller. They're making mistakes they didn't used to make. We use that. We stay ready. We don't get cocky."
Sawyer's blue eyes flicked between Montoya and Vieri. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She adjusted her stance against the wall, thick thighs shifting, heavy tits pressing harder against her blouse. She knew exactly where Montoya's head was. She'd been there herself.
Montoya kept talking — coverage schedules, which detectives would take point on which borough tips, how they were supposed to log every Queens-related rumor no matter how stupid it sounded — but every few sentences her eyes drifted back to Vieri. To his hands resting on the notepad. To the way his shirt fit across his shoulders and chest. To the front of his pants. Her nipples were clearly hard now, two tight points against the white shirt. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, thick thighs rubbing together under the table, and forced herself to turn and look at the whiteboard instead.
"We do this clean," she continued, eyes on the old Kane Street timeline like it might save her. "No cowboy shit. No chasing ghosts into alleys alone. We build the case properly so when IA looks at us again they see results instead of excuses. Questions?"
Ruiz shook his head. Another detective muttered a quiet "No, boss." Sawyer just kept watching Montoya with that small smirk, heavy tits rising and falling steadily.
Montoya waited another beat, then nodded once. "Good. That's it. Get back to work."
Chairs scraped. People stood. The room filled with the low shuffle of boots and the rustle of notepads. Montoya's eyes found Vieri one last time as he rose from his chair. She stared at his mouth like she wanted it between her legs right there in front of everyone. Her full tits rose with a sharp breath. Then she looked away, jaw tight, and walked out of the room first — thick thighs flexing under the dark slacks, solid runner's ass rolling with each purposeful step.
Vieri walked out of the conference room with the rest of the task force. The bullpen noise washed back over him immediately — phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone still arguing about the coffee filters near the break table. He headed straight to his desk, dropped into the chair hard enough to make it creak, and let out a quiet breath through his nose.
The meeting had gone better than he expected. Cleaner. If the Queens actually slowed down like he planned at the docks tomorrow night, IA would ease off and the task force would finally get some real room to operate. No more constant second-guessing from upstairs. No more wondering which week the whole unit would get shut down and scattered. His little conversation with Selina, Ivy, and Harley would fix the biggest headache on the board and give everyone breathing room at the same time.
He pulled the stack of unfinished reports toward him across the desk. The pile was thicker than he liked — three days of small, ugly Gotham noise that still needed to be turned into clean language the system could swallow. Overtime was fine tonight. He wanted every piece of paperwork finished and filed before he walked out the door. No loose ends. No excuses for anyone upstairs to look twice at his name.
He opened the first file and started typing.
Two nights ago. 11th and Kane. Rain misting under the streetlights. He and Maggie had rolled up on a street fight spilling out of a bodega doorway. Three grown men screaming over a dice game that had gone bad. One of them — a heavy guy in a stained hoodie — had a broken beer bottle in his fist, glass edges catching the light. Maggie had taken the left side of the sidewalk without needing to be told. Vieri took the right. He remembered the way she moved: thick thighs planting solid and wide for balance, heavy D-cup tits rising under her vest as she sucked in a breath and barked the first command. Her voice had cut through the yelling.
"Drop the glass. Now. Hands where I can see them."
The guy with the bottle had hesitated half a second too long. Maggie stepped in, grabbed the wrist, twisted, and the glass hit the wet sidewalk with a sharp clink. Vieri had the second man turned and facing the wall before the third even decided whether to run. They cuffed all three without throwing a single punch. Standard. Clean. The bodega owner had watched from the doorway the whole time, arms crossed, not saying thank you.
Vieri typed it out in the flat, official language the department wanted.
Incident Report – Officer Oronzo / Det. Sawyer
Responded to 10-10 at 11th and Kane. Three male subjects engaged in physical altercation outside commercial establishment. One subject armed with broken glass bottle. Subjects verbally ordered to comply. Subjects separated and secured without further incident. No injuries to officers or civilians. Evidence (broken bottle) photographed, bagged, and logged. Subjects transported to central booking without incident. Bodega owner declined to press additional charges.
He hit save, closed the file, and dragged the next one over.
Yesterday morning. Just after shift change. A stolen bicycle reported near the south edge of Robinson Park. Some skinny teenager had snatched it from a delivery guy while the man was dropping off an order of empanadas. The kid had a three-block head start. Vieri and Maggie caught up to him on 9th and Park trying to sell the bike to a pawn-shop guy who took one look at their badges and immediately stepped back with both hands up. Maggie had laughed after — low and rough in her throat — when the kid started crying the second the cuffs clicked. Vieri remembered the exact way her thick ass filled out her dark pants as she leaned into the open back seat of the patrol car to guide the kid in. The fabric had pulled tight across both cheeks. Her heavy tits had pressed against the side of the car door when she straightened up and slammed it shut.
For the Full 13014 word Version Please check my p.a.t.r.e.o.n: pat.....reon.c.o.m/cw/aFireFist just remove the multiple periods in this link. Thank you for the Support!