Chapter 1: Contraband and Confessions.

The Texas heat was a relentless fuckin’ bastard, searin’ the sun-bleached asphalt splitting like old bones outside our ranch-style shack on the ragged edge of Lubbock. Inside, the air hung stale, thick with the stink of old leather and the weight of my latest case—Laura’s assault, weeks old, haunted my dead-end leads. I slumped onto the worn-out sofa, my sheriff’s badge a goddamn anchor in my pocket, short denim skirt ridin’ up my thighs, rough fabric scrapin’ my bare pussy as I tried to shake off the day. Laura’s battered face wouldn’t leave me—those tear-streaked eyes burned like acid, her broken voice spillin’ how Rico Vargas, tied to bigger shadows, tore through her life, leavin’ her raw. I’d burned hours on dead-end leads, boots still gritty with alley dust, and I needed a damn break, somethin’ to numb the grind, even if it meant crossin’ a line I couldn’t uncross—a filthy escape from the screams clawin’ my brain.

I’d just fished a glossy porn mag out of Martin’s school bag—a forbidden stash of raw, drippin’ filth, pages sticky with cum-stains and creased from heavy use, tucked under his math binder like a dirty little secret. My son, all of fourteen, stood there in the livin’ room, wiry, coltish frame quakin’, freckles blazin’ red, expectin’ a beatin’ or worse. His green eyes flared with panic, shiftin’ from foot to foot, waitin’ for the hammer to drop. But beneath the fear, I caught a desperate hunger, a need to spill his shame. “Mom, I—I didn’t mean for you to find this,” he stammered, voice crackin’ like brittle glass, rubbin’ the back of his neck, fingers shakin’. “I just ... don’t know how to talk to you sometimes. You’re always so ... gone.” His words sliced like a jagged blade, a reminder of every night I’d been out huntin’ monsters like Rico Vargas, leavin’ him to rot in this shithole shack.

“Well, damn, boy,” I drawled, my Southern accent thick as molasses, a smirk curlin’ my lips as I traced a finger over a photo of some slut gettin’ railed hard, her cunt spread wide, slick and glistenin’ with cum. My cunt pulsed like a goddamn furnace, heat floodin’ between my thighs, clit achin’ under the denim as I let my legs part, skirt ridin’ higher to flash my bare, shaved snatch. “You’ve got taste for some nasty fuckin’ shit. Where’s the rest of this dirty stash, huh? Don’t make me rip your room apart, sugar.” My voice hid the weight of the day, the frustration of Rico Vargas’ trail gone cold, but my eyes burned into him, darin’ him to squirm, lovin’ how his gaze flicked to my exposed thighs, then snapped up, caught in my trap. Martin froze, breath hitchin’, starin’ at the sliver of dripping pussy, confusion and raw teenage sin warrin’ in his eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead, skinny hands fidgetin’, a bulge throbbin’ in his jeans, betrayin’ his panic. “Uh ... yeah, there’s more,” he choked, rubbin’ his neck. “Then fetch it, sugar,” I barked, sharp as a raid command, but sultry, my nipples hard as bullets through my tank top. He scurried to his room, sneakers slappin’ the hardwood like a scolded pup.

I followed slow, boots thuddin’ like crime scene echoes, hips swayin’ with intent, skirt swishin’ to flash more thigh, my cunt slick as fuck, juices floodin’ my inner thighs. In his cluttered-ass bedroom, he crouched under an old oak table, pullin’ out a hidden stash—more mags, clippings of local whores, sketches of bitches gettin’ fucked hard, cunts drippin’, asses stuffed. Shit that’d make a preacher weep. At fourteen, the kid had a collection to rival any perv in this godforsaken town, and fuck if it didn’t make my pussy burn, imaginin’ him jerkin’ off to this filth. I sank beside him, thighs brushin’, his heat joltin’ my clit, a distraction from the case files searin’ my brain. I spread out the haul, skirt hitchin’ up, barin’ more of my naked cunt, cool air teasin’ my wet lips as I lingered over a thick cock slammin’ a soakin’ pussy. My fingers itched to touch more than paper, but I played it slow, drawin’ out the sin. Martin’s breath hitched, body tense, his hot, shaky breath on my neck, reekin’ of cheap soda and desperation. The air crackled, taboo and wrong as hell, and I fuckin’ loved the thrill, even as guilt gnawed my gut—Martin didn’t deserve my darkness, not after what monsters like Rico Vargas did to innocents like Laura.