The TMF is sponsored by:
Yes, in London, very late 1990s.
My ex-wife and I were living in a very large open-plan loft apartment in a very nice block of flats, and our immediate next-door neighbour, 'L', residing in a somewhat smaller place happened to be a policewoman. She and my ex bonded over a fondness for alcohol, and although I don't drink myself often watched them get happily plastered together.
At the time I was going through a divorce, and my then-wife was away for the weekend with her ex-paramour. I was at a loose end sitting quietly and miserably because I did love her, when I heard music and happy conversation through the wall shared with L.'s flat. As my posh wife (father an M.P.) was executive secretary to the chairman of a very prestigious drinks firm, there were always bottles of fine wines and spirits about the place, so I selected one and took it along as my entrée to the party.
L. welcomed me warmly, as did her colleagues from the police force, who were all getting pretty drunk. Obviously police work is stressful and they generally socialise amongst themselves because the job's difficult for civilians to understand. However, one of the very few advantages to being an ordinary jobbing actor is that everyone's interested in anecdotes and show business gossip, and I could provide that easily. So while they happily shared out the vintage champagne I'd brought along, I told a few perfectly true salacious tales of drug addiction, rehab, secret homosexuality and who was sleeping with whom, etc. and as usual everyone was fascinated, especially the policewomen. (Obviously since everyone was off-duty no uniforms were worn.)
Among the guests was a young woman in her late 20s whom I'll call Nancy for the purpose of this narrative. Mancunian (i.e. from Manchester, where Coronation Street is set and filmed) prosaic and seemingly no-nonsense, she wore jeans and a tee shirt, and her low-heeled loafers had been kicked off for comfort. Her feet were bare, and I recall she wore metallic purple nail varnish on her toes, but not her fingers as that shade's not allowed when on duty.
This was all about a quarter-century ago so I don't recall it that well, but I remember mentioning that walking a beat must be tiring, and offered her a happily-accepted footrub. It was now about 3 am, pretty much everyone had passed out by this point, and we lay at opposite ends of a loveseat while I rubbed and caressed away, occasionally tickling, which she liked though didn't dissolve in hysterics or anything like that. Nevertheless, she giggled away quite happily and called me a 'cheeky bastid' in her Northern dialect. We kissed a bit and although her breath was redolent of alcohol her tolerance, like that of her colleagues was very high so she wasn't overly drunk, just relaxed and convivial. She seemed to have had a pedicure recently to counteract all the walking she had to do while working; her feet were quite soft and sensitive.
So I kept tickling away quite lightly, and she didn't try to withdraw her feet or anything, but kept laughing gently until she paused and gave me That Look, indicating that matters could proceed. We were in a group of people, comatose though most of them were, so I discreetly unfastened her jeans (she was quite happy with this) slid a hand down to pleasantly discovered wetness and slowly and gently masturbated her to orgasm twice while she moaned gently and continued to call me a 'cheeky bastid'. I suppose I could have invited her home to finish things off in a more interesting fashion as it was right next door and she probably would have come along, but I was depressed because of my disintegrating marriage and didn't. I recall seeing Nancy one more time in the corridor when she happened to be visiting L., but while she was perfectly pleasant and polite I don't think she recalled anything about that evening, and nothing further occurred with her. L. told me idly one day that while Nancy thought I was 'cute', I wasn't her type.
So there you are- one authentic policewoman tickled, with nary a uniform or handcuffs in sight.
KT and I met in 2005, married in 2006, and while I hate to tempt fate, things are working out.
Here's a selfie she took yesterday.
Libertine;4874087 said:Yes, in London, very late 1990s.
My ex-wife and I were living in a very large open-plan loft apartment in a very nice block of flats, and our immediate next-door neighbour, 'L', residing in a somewhat smaller place happened to be a policewoman. She and my ex bonded over a fondness for alcohol, and although I don't drink myself often watched them get happily plastered together.
At the time I was going through a divorce, and my then-wife was away for the weekend with her ex-paramour. I was at a loose end sitting quietly and miserably because I did love her, when I heard music and happy conversation through the wall shared with L.'s flat. As my posh wife (father an M.P.) was executive secretary to the chairman of a very prestigious drinks firm, there were always bottles of fine wines and spirits about the place, so I selected one and took it along as my entrée to the party.
L. welcomed me warmly, as did her colleagues from the police force, who were all getting pretty drunk. Obviously police work is stressful and they generally socialise amongst themselves because the job's difficult for civilians to understand. However, one of the very few advantages to being an ordinary jobbing actor is that everyone's interested in anecdotes and show business gossip, and I could provide that easily. So while they happily shared out the vintage champagne I'd brought along, I told a few perfectly true salacious tales of drug addiction, rehab, secret homosexuality and who was sleeping with whom, etc. and as usual everyone was fascinated, especially the policewomen. (Obviously since everyone was off-duty no uniforms were worn.)
Among the guests was a young woman in her late 20s whom I'll call Nancy for the purpose of this narrative. Mancunian (i.e. from Manchester, where Coronation Street is set and filmed) prosaic and seemingly no-nonsense, she wore jeans and a tee shirt, and her low-heeled loafers had been kicked off for comfort. Her feet were bare, and I recall she wore metallic purple nail varnish on her toes, but not her fingers as that shade's not allowed when on duty.
This was all about a quarter-century ago so I don't recall it that well, but I remember mentioning that walking a beat must be tiring, and offered her a happily-accepted footrub. It was now about 3 am, pretty much everyone had passed out by this point, and we lay at opposite ends of a loveseat while I rubbed and caressed away, occasionally tickling, which she liked though didn't dissolve in hysterics or anything like that. Nevertheless, she giggled away quite happily and called me a 'cheeky bastid' in her Northern dialect. We kissed a bit and although her breath was redolent of alcohol her tolerance, like that of her colleagues was very high so she wasn't overly drunk, just relaxed and convivial. She seemed to have had a pedicure recently to counteract all the walking she had to do while working; her feet were quite soft and sensitive.
So I kept tickling away quite lightly, and she didn't try to withdraw her feet or anything, but kept laughing gently until she paused and gave me That Look, indicating that matters could proceed. We were in a group of people, comatose though most of them were, so I discreetly unfastened her jeans (she was quite happy with this) slid a hand down to pleasantly discovered wetness and slowly and gently masturbated her to orgasm twice while she moaned gently and continued to call me a 'cheeky bastid'. I suppose I could have invited her home to finish things off in a more interesting fashion as it was right next door and she probably would have come along, but I was depressed because of my disintegrating marriage and didn't. I recall seeing Nancy one more time in the corridor when she happened to be visiting L., but while she was perfectly pleasant and polite I don't think she recalled anything about that evening, and nothing further occurred with her. L. told me idly one day that while Nancy thought I was 'cute', I wasn't her type.
So there you are- one authentic policewoman tickled, with nary a uniform or handcuffs in sight.
KT and I met in 2005, married in 2006, and while I hate to tempt fate, things are working out.
Here's a selfie she took yesterday.
