Internal Affairs is a fucking joke. They called me in today for a 'routine review' of my closed cases. Sat across from some suit who smelled like toner and regret, asking questions with a little smile that made my tail go stiff. He thought he was clever. Thought he’d catch the doggirl who used to play dirty. I gave him nothing but flat answers and dead-eyed stares until he got uncomfortable and started fidgeting. My ears stayed perked the whole time. Not from nerves. From the hunt. It was almost fun.

Got home and took it out on the heavy bag in the garage. Punched until my knuckles were raw. That post-adrenaline buzz settled in my bones, humming under my skin. Not restless. Focused. Hungry.

Showered off the sweat. Stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror, steam fogging the edges. Looked at the scars. The muscle. The body that’s been a tool, a weapon, a thing to be used. Tonight, I want it to be a fucking feast. I want someone to look at me with that same predatory focus I had in that interview room. To push me against that mirror, cold glass on my tits, and take what they want. Not with gentle hands. With purpose. I want to feel teeth on the back of my neck, a hand gripping my tail at the base to hold me still, and a cock sliding into my cunt from behind with no patience. I want to be fucked like I’m a problem they’re solving. To come with my forehead pressed to the glass, watching my own face lose control.

Then maybe I’ll order a pizza. The contrast is the whole point.

(Tail’s up. Ears forward. It’s not a bad feeling.)