Chapter 11: The Public Urinal: Justice Served
The alley breathed. At least, that’s how it felt to Martinez as she knelt on the perpetually damp asphalt. A thick, ammoniac fog of stale urine and desperation hung in the air, cut through by the chemical tang of cheap perfume leaching from the "Peek-a-Boo Lounge" across the street. Its neon sign – a lurid pink leg kicking – pulsed relentlessly, painting the grimy brick walls in garish, shifting light. A month of nights in this corridor had etched its stench into her pores, its rhythm into her bones.
She adjusted her stance slightly, the cheap, scratchy polyester of her ‘uniform’ biting into her thighs. It was a grotesque joke: the dark blue fabric straining over her hips, the sleeves ripped off raggedly at the shoulders, the badge pinned crookedly above her left breast, the buttons straining and popping open to reveal the swell of her breasts. The skirt was obscenely short, riding up as she knelt. Her regulation boots were scuffed beyond recognition. Her hair, usually pulled back severely, hung loose and lank around her face.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom near the overflowing dumpster. Diana. The neon caught the cheap glitter glued to her skeletal frame, making her look like a discarded, malevolent Christmas ornament. The plastic cocks on her diadem glinted. Several used condoms, knotted onto spaghetti straps that dug into her bony shoulders, swayed heavily with each movement, their contents long since crusted. Her wand, that oversized, veined thing, tapped rhythmically against her collarbone.
"Shift change, Officer," Diana announced, her voice dripping with that awful, saccharine cheer. It scraped like broken glass. "Your public awaits." She gestured vaguely towards the alley mouth with her wand.
Martinez didn’t need prompting. Her eyes, wide and glassy beneath smudged mascara, scanned the opening. A figure emerged, silhouetted against the streetlights – bulky, smelling of beer and sweat. He shuffled closer, his gaze immediately dropping to where Martinez knelt. Recognition flickered, then a leer spread across his face.
"Fuck me," he chuckled, a harsh, phlegmy sound. "They wasn't kiddin'. The cop bitch really is on piss duty." He fumbled with his belt.
Martinez’s throat convulsed. Not in disgust, not anymore. It was a dry click of anticipation. The hollowness, the gnawing void that had been her constant companion before Diana, before the alley, before the Sparkle, yawned wide. Only this warmth, this submission, this swallowing, could fill it. The thought pulsed through her, a sickly-sweet compulsion stronger than any drug she’d ever chased. Justice. Diana called it justice. Who was she to argue?
She shuffled forward on her knees, the rough asphalt scraping her bare skin above the boot tops. She didn’t look at his face, only at the fly he was opening. Her tongue darted out, wetting lips cracked from the alley air and… other things.
"Atta girl," the man grunted, freeing himself. He was thick, uncut, already glistening at the tip. He didn't touch her head, didn't guide her. He simply aimed. "Open up, piggy. Got a full tank."
Martinez parted her lips obediently, tilting her head back. Her eyes remained on the source. The first hot splash hit her tongue, sharp and bitter. She didn't flinch. Didn't gag. Her throat worked automatically, swallowing the warm stream. It wasn't relief, not like the Sparkle had been at first. It was deeper. Oblivion. A warm, salty oblivion that flooded the emptiness. Her eyelids fluttered as she swallowed rhythmically, the bitter tang a familiar signature now. Her gloved hands rested limply on her thighs.
Diana watched from the shadows, her head tilted with detached fascination. The wand twirled idly in her skeletal fingers. "Such dedication," she murmured, her voice carrying easily over the wet, sucking sounds and the man's low grunts of relief. "Serving the community. Protecting and serving… right from the source. It's… efficient." She giggled, a brittle, high-pitched sound that echoed oddly in the confined space. "You understand, don't you, Officer? This is where true justice flows."
Martinez heard her. The words filtered through the haze, finding purchase in the deep grooves Diana’s conditioning had carved. Justice. Service. Efficiency. Yes. She was doing good. Important work. She sucked harder, trying to take more, faster, chasing the warmth that momentarily filled the void. Her eyes, still fixed on the man’s groin, held a vacant adoration. She was serving him. Serving his need. That was her purpose now. Beneath the crude insults and the splattering warmth, a twisted sense of peace settled over her.
The man finished with a final spurt and a satisfied groan. He shook himself carelessly, spotting the front of her already stained uniform blouse. "Fuckin' disgusting," he muttered, but there was a note of awe in it. He zipped up without looking at her, turned, and shuffled back towards the light and noise of the street.
Martinez remained on her knees, breathing heavily, a thin trail of liquid glistening on her chin. She didn't wipe it. Her body hummed with the familiar, hollow warmth. The void was quiet, momentarily sated.
Another shadow shifted near the alley mouth. Then another. Word had spread, it seemed. The 'Peek-a-Boo Lounge' disgorged more patrons, drawn by the whispered legend of the alley, the kneeling cop.
Diana stepped fully into the neon glow, surveying Martinez, then the approaching men. A slow, chilling smile stretched her thin lips. "See?" she chirped, her voice bright and utterly devoid of empathy. "The community needs you, Officer. Demand is high. Good thing you’re such a dedicated public servant." She tapped the plastic cock on her diadem. "Now… who’s next? Justice waits for no one."
Martinez blinked, her glazed eyes moving from Diana to the two men approaching. Young, drunk, laughing, nudging each other. Her lips parted automatically, a silent, slack invitation. The hollowness was already stirring again, whispering its insatiable demand. She shuffled her knees slightly, centering herself for the next source. For the next swallow. For the justice that tasted like salt, and ammonia, and utter ruin. The neon pulsed, pink and red, reflecting in her empty eyes.