Hermes

Hermes
Six years ago

There at the 15th Police Station, I found a veteran investigator who had worked with my father and asked me to send his regards. And despite the chaos at the place, it was also very pleasant to stay beside the young woman who had been robbed.
When I left the station and got into the patrol car, I felt a bit melancholy. Thinking about everything that had happened, I wasn’t an inexperienced guy, and I realized she was flirting with me, perhaps even recklessly, but still, flirting.
I was tempted to ask if I could call her, maybe arrange to meet one night, but after overhearing her friends talking about how Fernanda was rich and how her father wouldn’t be happy knowing she ended up at a police station, I concluded it wasn’t a good idea.
There was a world of difference between us. I was middle class; my father was a retired public servant. Contrary to what many think, most police officers are honest, and my father was no exception.
After thirty years of hard work, he managed to buy a beach house to enjoy his retirement, leaving the city house where I was raised rented out to generate some income. Besides that, he bought a small apartment as a gift for me when I got accepted into college.
He helped me pay for my studies, and I reciprocated by being one of the best students and, of course, a good son.
When I joined the police, my father still wanted to tighten his belt to buy me the imported motorcycle I had always dreamed of, but my conscience wouldn’t let me accept that luxury because, although my salary was low, not having to pay rent or tuition helped a lot, and I didn’t have to take on side jobs as a private security guard like many colleagues did.
Still, I didn’t have much to offer a rich and probably spoiled girl.
That same night, we went back to patrolling the city streets. Marcos and Rafael teased me for escorting the “patricinhas,” as they called those young women.
At the end of the shift, as we parked in the GARRA base garage in downtown São Paulo, Marcos turned from the front seat with a crooked smile.
“Look what I found on the bar floor,” he said, showing a small gold chain with a random pendant.
“Why didn’t you turn it in at the station?” Rafael asked while turning off the engine.
“I forgot,” Marcos replied, laughing, hardly concerned.
“I know whose chain this is. It belongs to one of the girls I took to the station,” I said confidently.
I hadn’t been there the whole time, but whenever I was, I paid close attention to every word of that particular girl’s statement.
“Damn, what a mess. Here, give it back to her,” Marcos resignedly said.
“Isn’t it better to leave it at the station?” I asked uncertainly.
“Dude, if you leave it there, it might disappear,” Rafael, the oldest of us, said laughing. “Grab the patricinha’s phone number from the report and call to arrange returning it. Maybe you’ll get a reward or something more.”
Ignoring the sexual jokes my companions made, I put the chain in my pocket and, after saying goodbye to them, got on my motorcycle parked near the patrol cars to head to my apartment. The next shift would only be in two days, working from seven in the morning until seven at night.
I spent that entire Saturday thinking about Fernanda—whether at home or at college, imagining how her naked body would feel, what her skin would taste like on my lips, and many other things that had nothing to do with my oath to protect society. Those thoughts, which I considered insane, didn’t change in the following days—whether working or at college, I couldn’t get her out of my head.
I had her phone number, recorded in the police report, along with her address. I even tried calling her, but it showed as unknown; apparently, a digit was missing.
During one of my shifts, despite my protests, Rafael drove the patrol car to Fernanda’s address, and we were shocked—it was a mansion in an upscale neighborhood. Even being there, despite my companions’ encouragement, I refused to knock on the door. However, I promised that on my next day off—Sunday—I would look for her to return the chain.
When the day came, still building my courage, I took my motorcycle, went to the mansion, and pressed the intercom button. I never imagined in my wildest dreams what awaited me.
Hours later, I left the mansion thinking about the madness I had done. I wasn’t some inexperienced virgin, but I didn’t consider myself a Don Juan either. I had, yes, a string of relationships, but none serious; after all, it was my choice to dedicate myself to college and the Civil Police exam, which required hours of study.
Now, I was preparing for the Police Chief exam, one of the toughest, on top of handling my college classes.
The problem was that everything changed after I walked through that gate. I saw Fernanda’s boldness, swimming naked and teasing me with an invitation to enjoy the pool with her, and I couldn’t resist. After all, if she wanted to play with fire, she should know she might get burned.
During the week, we exchanged text messages, some highly erotic, involving handcuffs and my uniform.
We arranged to meet on Saturday night since it was my day off. I even asked if she wanted me to pick her up, but strangely, she told me to meet her at a place called V.I.P in the Brooklin neighborhood.
“Do you know where it is?” she asked with her soft voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes, but it’s popular—you need your name on the list to get in, otherwise, you wait outside,” I replied.
I knew about the place because for a while, Marcos had escorted a playboy who frequented it, whose clientele was mostly businessmen and heirs of traditional families.
“Don’t worry, your name will be on the list. Meet me there around midnight, at the bar lounge,” she said with a mischievous giggle. “Now, I have to go—my class is about to start.”
Fernanda had told me she was in her last year of architecture at FAAP, an elite college. She planned to open an office with some friends the following year after graduating.
On Saturday night, I arrived at the place around eleven thirty. We had agreed that I would go by motorcycle and she would get a ride with a friend, so I brought a spare helmet in the trunk.
I left the Harley with a valet and stood before the building, made of glass, with red lights illuminating a long line of people waiting at the double doors, where two huge security guards in black suits controlled the flow. Next to them was the hostess, a beautiful brunette wearing a black pantsuit, who checked names on a list using a tablet.
Still unsure, I approached and gave my name under the stern gaze of the guards. The young woman checked and smiled back, saying I could enter, handing me a bracelet with a barcode so I could make purchases inside.
“Good thing I just got paid,” I thought as I showed my ID to one of the guards and discreetly pointed to the bulge under my polo shirt where I had placed my holstered gun.
The guard escorted me to the entrance hall, where a huge mahogany counter separated several employees in suits.
“You’ll have to leave your gun in the safe,” the guard informed me, addressing both me and one of the employees.
Resigned—since I wasn’t on duty and knew many places didn’t like police officers entering armed—I took the pistol from the holster to unload it and disconnect the magazine. Only then did I hand it to the employee, who stored it in a safe and gave me a magnetic card.
I passed through two sets of double doors into the interior and was amazed. With a ceiling about twelve meters high and a panoramic elevator, the venue had several spaces. The main one was a huge dance floor where couples swayed to current hits played by a DJ at the sound table.
The lights exploded in my eyes, and the noise was deafening. I had never been fond of this kind of club, preferring a bar with live music.
I took the elevator to the upper floor, from where I could see the entire dance floor. There, against a glass balustrade, was a large bar with a black marble countertop. Lamps illuminated bartenders who served drinks with refined skill in handling cocktail shakers.
In front of the bar, people chatted and drank—some standing, leaning on the counter, others sitting on tall, upholstered stools. In the center, numerous armchairs easily fit two people, and many couples kissed openly, perhaps thanks to the soft lighting, unlike the dance floor below.
I approached the bar and ordered a bottle of water. A bartender promptly served me after scanning the barcode on my bracelet. I sipped the cold drink served in a crystal glass with ice cubes and lemon slices.
I watched the scene, looking away from couples kissing intensely, trying to forget the feeling of being naked without my gun at my waist.
The feeling of not belonging there gave me an uncomfortable sensation that lasted until the elevator opened, and I saw her.
Fernanda was radiant, wearing a cream strapless dress that perfectly shaped the curves of her slim, sculpted body. The color matched her olive skin, and bare shoulders made her extremely sexy.
Her hair was loose, held back only by a nearly invisible silver headband. Unlike most there, she wore subtle makeup that enhanced her eyes and lips. I noticed with satisfaction that she was wearing the chain I had recovered after the robbery.
She approached with a feline gait, and it was impossible not to get an erection, watching her and remembering what we had done in her pool days before.
“Hi, handsome!” she greeted, kissing me softly on the lips.
“Hi, you look beautiful,” I replied, letting my cheesy side show. If not for the dim light, I’d swear I saw her blush.
She ordered a Manhattan cocktail made with whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters—herbal essences.
Despite the loud music from the dance floor, we managed to talk briefly about trivial things until she pulled me by the hand toward the elevator, from which we stepped onto the dance floor, already crowded by then.
She danced very well, swaying her body in the tight dress, expertly balancing on a pair of high-heeled sandals. Her hair fluttered and sometimes stuck to the sweat on her face. The lights cast various shades on her skin, and I noticed how she surrendered herself to the dance.
I, on the other hand, tried to dance awkwardly, looking more like a penguin slipping on ice, but she didn’t seem to mind. She kept holding me close, rubbing her body against mine—sometimes face to face, sometimes turning her back and grinding her buttocks against my already erect member.
Fernanda, or Nanda as she preferred, smiled with such a mischievous and exciting look when she noticed my state and became bolder. She pressed her body against mine and, wrapping her slender arms around my neck, kissed me long and deeply.
Her breath smelled sweetly of the drink; her lips were delicious, and she pressed them constantly against mine in a kiss full of hidden intentions. My hands squeezed her waist against mine and sometimes slipped to squeeze her buttocks when the lights grew darker.
It was just the two of us, the music, and the lights—like no one else existed on the dance floor.
After what felt like hours in that ritual, she pulled me toward the bar closest to the dance floor, where she ordered another exotic drink with a complicated name I couldn’t catch because of the music blasting from the speakers while I ordered a beer.
Four young people approached her—three men and a woman—all dressed in designer clothes, exuding sensuality and vitality like only those who don’t have to worry about the next day can.
I noticed they all knew each other and soon they were chatting animatedly. Although Nanda introduced me, I felt out of place, and the conversation was alien to my world. They spoke of trips to Paris, New York, and Milan; Caribbean vacations; weekends at resorts all over; and other topics, totally outside my reality, that sounded boring.
What would she and her friends say if I told them about the filthy alleys and open sewers I’d gone through chasing criminals? About the shacks made of wood and cardboard where a large part of the population struggled to survive while the rich grew richer and they became poorer?
One of the guys took advantage of my trip to the bathroom and pulled her onto the dance floor. When I returned, they danced to predominantly electronic beats, and to my frustration, I noticed my rival danced well.
I ordered another beer and watched her carefully. It was true—her presence caused a stir; she attracted guys like a light attracts dragonflies. Everyone danced trying to catch her attention, but suddenly, she looked around and saw me leaning against the bar.
With a gesture, she ignored one of their requests to keep dancing and walked toward me.
Her olive skin was covered in sweat; the cream-colored dress had damp patches. Once again, I found myself imagining how it would be to dry her off with just my mouth.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” she said, lightly brushing her nails against my crotch.
Nanda was bold, and that fed my fantasies.
I finished my beer and took her hand, heading to the exit, where I went through the cashier and insisted on paying both tabs, even though she had tried to convince me we should split the bill.
After getting my gun, we went outside, and it was a relief to feel the night breeze while waiting for the valet. Nanda leaned on my shoulder, stroking the nape of my neck with her impeccably red-painted nails, sending shivers down my spine.
“Where are you going to take me?” she whispered in my ear after nibbling on it.
“To a place I think you’ve never been,” I replied, having a last-minute idea.
I took out my phone and made a call while she looked at me with a smile on her lips.