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Mary Marvel needs help dealing with Mr. Mxyzptlk.

"I got a ride right out here from a meeting as soon as I heard you were here. I know you were having fun, but any more of that and I'd have to charge you another hundred. I'm without wheels, so you're going to have to drive me back first."

What could I say? He had sprung me from the jail and, more important, seemed to have full power to put me back there if he so decided. So, we went out the door and to the Jag. As we were leaving, I could see cop number one off in a side room, slumped in a chair, his pants off, beating himself with one hand and flicking his whip across his legs with the other.

We weren't more than a couple of miles down the road, when Stretch started gently tracing the welt marks on my chest and belly with his right hand.

"Please, don't do that," I said.

"Do they still hurt?" He asked.

"They do sting a bit," I answered.

His hand went down and covered my basket.

"Hey, don't do that," I said. "Just stop, all right?"

But it wasn't all right. He was unbuckling my belt, unzipping my jeans, and running his hand into the opening. He bypassed my cock and my balls, and his big index finger slid on across my perineum and stopped at the rim of my ass.

"Stop; just stop that," I said. He got his left hand under my butt and pushed me forward on the seat, which gave him better entry to my ass with the fingers of his other hand, and enter he did with that index finger. He was moving it around, driving me crazy.

"We're going to have an accident if you don't stop that," I said, trying to put irritation in my voice. But he was really turning me on.

"Then pull over," he said huskily. "There, up ahead. There's a closed shopping strip mall. Pull in behind that."

"No. Certainly not!"

His finger pushed farther in and my body jerked and the car veered out of the lane.

"God, you're going to kill us!"

"Not if you do what I say. Not if you pull over where I told you to."

"Okay, okay. Pull that finger out and I'll pull over." He did, and I drove around and behind the closed line of stores. As soon as I'd gotten stopped, he had his hand back in my lap, this time stroking my cock, pumping me up. His mouth was on mine in a long, drawn-out kiss.

He broke away and opened his door. He was holding my right wrist in his left hand with a strong wrestler's grip.

"Here, out of the car. This side. I don't want to have to chase you down, but I could if I had to."

I first tried to fasten my pants, but he just said, "No, you're not going to need to do that."

"But . . ."

"Just take the damn seatbelt off and slide in this direction."

I did as he demanded. When he had me out of the car, he slammed the front passenger door, opened the back door, and pushed me down on the back seat. He produced a set of the cop's handcuffs from somewhere, snapped one end around my right wrist, and then pushed me down along the back seat, passing the linking chain through the seat belt two-thirds down the seat, and then snapped the other cuff on my left wrist. I was stretched out on the seat, my torso and arms inside the car, my butt on the edge of the door side of the seat, and my legs hanging out of the car.

He stripped my pants off and stepped back and pulled his own clothes off. He produced his ointment and a condom from somewhere and sheathed and lathered up his cock, pumping it up to its gigantic proportions.

I should have been horrified. But my body was aching to be taken by another man in uniform.

He took a gob of ointment and started working it into my asshole. I was lying on my left side, and he lifted my right leg up to give him an good view of my channel. When he had me moistened up to his satisfaction and his own pole standing at magnificent attention, he slapped my butt and said, "Get out here. Get your butt out here, feet on the ground, chest on the seat." I wasn't moving fast enough for him, so he dragged me out of the car and brought my rear end up into the air.

"Stand wide," he said.

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