The Adventures of Robert Teasdale: Cop Stop

The Adventures of Robert Teasdale

Cop Stop

 

On this road, the law isn’t written in a book—it’s enforced with his body

 

R.R. Ryan

 

© Copyright 2026 by R.R. Ryan

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

Cop Stop

 

Please appreciate the reasons for my vagaries. When you’re a serial rapist, you can’t trust anyone. Not fully, at least. Nothing against you, friend, but not even you. If I’m a cop, the detective I claim to be, then I was off duty. That’s no reason not to take advantage of my badge and the authority it gives me. It’d been more than a month since my last real fun. I’m Robert Teasdale, and this is another of my little adventures.

 

Not that I need one, but in my defense, I hate those inferiors, the privileged, and the wealthy who hold their betters down. The queers, transgenders, snobbish women, rich men, and cock teasing cunts of the world. So, in my quests, I do what I can to knock the shit out of them. Rape works quite well for me.

 

A chill lived in the car. The dash light cast everything in jaundiced yellow. The clock read 9:13 pm. My third hour staring at nothing but wet blacktop reflecting tree shadows and my own fucking face in the glass. Cheap coffee souring in the cup holder.

 

The window crank dug into my thigh.

 

The woods pressed in, quiet but for the wet click of rain hitting the roof. I should’ve been somewhere else. Doing something real. The thought came up again, a disappointing version of heartburn. Fucking waste of my time.

 

It’s nighttime, I don’t hunt the highway in daylight. Way too many fucking eyes. This stretch of road always treated me well. Teen lovers on their way to a hidey spot to make out. But this midweek, and no way many will be out.

 

Thirty-eight days since my last conquest.

 

A set of headlights swept the curve half a mile up. I watched them bounce, speed increasing on the straight. Mustang convertible—vintage, some yuppie’s dad-mobile, or a spoiled brat’s prom car to impress his chippy. Yellow as piss. I already knew before the radar lit up: 64 in a 35. I let them get closer. Not many girls out here after dark, especially not driving a muscle car and pounding the music that loud.

 

Holy fucking shit, it is a flirty Cathy. Dumb lippy dame, top down despite the drizzle, bonus, she was alone. Ballsy brat or cum dump cow, I couldn’t wait to find out.

 

When I flipped the lights on, blue and red pulsed in the tree-lined area. The car blurred past and braked hard. In a quick, compliant move, she jerked into the gravel and killed the engine. Doing U turn, I pulled around again and parked facing her. Sitting rigid behind the wheel, she flashed a sexy smile. I grinned. Typical teenage prima donna, believing the law doesn’t apply to her. Time to remind this one who’s really in charge.

 

The convertible’s top rose and closed her inside.

 

Killing the engine, I stepped out. The air cut into me with teeth. Gravel shifted under my boots. I palmed the Maglite, though I could see without it. Her taillights glowed, cutting through the mist. With her arms at ten and two, she sat still, waiting for me. Good. Fear is the proper response. Let’s see if those lovely eyes can cry their way out of this one.

 

I rapped the Maglite on her trunk.

 

“No sudden movements, Miss.” Hooking my blue suit coat behind my gun, I rested my palm on the grip.

 

Taking my time to scan the car, I crept toward her door. Fresh detail, no stickers. A little scratch on the passenger door. With her tires kissing the ditch, she parked crooked. When I reached the window, I bent down. The girl didn’t so much as glimpse up.

 

She was young. High school senior, first-year college student, possibly 20. Soft face but hollowed under the eyes, like she never slept. Ponytail so tight it might’ve hurt. Cheerleader outfit under a windbreaker, but the windbreaker was unzipped and didn’t hide much. Small tits, hard nipples from the cold. Or nerves. I couldn’t decide which pleased me more. With her thighs sticking to the leather, her skirt barely covered the meat of her butt. Goosebumps everywhere. The girl who played innocent, but loved the show.

 

“License and registration,” I said, in a bored as shit fashion. All the while, the anticipation shot adrenaline and need through my insides.

 

She fumbled with the glove box, hands shaking. The plastic spat out her paperwork and a pack of tissues. She wiped her nose and handed me the cards. I got a glance at her nails—French tips, fresh. Lots of money in the house, rich daddy. She finally peered up. Huge green eyes, rimmed with black. I’ve seen those eyes on Instagram, but never this close.

 

“Linda Paterson. You in a hurry?” I said. The last name rang a faint bell. Wealthy daddy, arrogant, thinking he’s above the law. But I fucked him up, terribly, a few years back. Nothing takes the starch out of arrogance better than a hard ass fucking from a superior and stronger man. He’s kept his mouth shut, told no one about it.

 

“No, sir,” she said. She lied without thinking about it.

 

Glaring at her, daring her to keep eye contact. When she lowered her gaze, I’d already beaten her.

 

“Know your dad, he ain’t much. Tell me, Miss, you know how fast you were going?” I let the question hang, watching her lips twitch.

 

She tried to swallow. “Well, um, no, I wasn’t watching the—”

 

“Sixty-four in a thirty-five,” I said, cutting in. “Lucky it’s me out here and not the county. They impound the offenders’ cars. Make Daddy mad, wouldn’t it?”

 

She opened her mouth and closed it. Some girls argued. Others got angry. She went for the third option: a trembling lip, a soft exhale that could be a whimper if you wanted to hear it that way.

 

“Is there any way—” she started.

 

I put up a hand. “Don’t bother. I’m writing the citation.”

 

A blink, a tiny shudder. The haughty mask slipped for a second, replaced with something desperate and almost feral. “Please, I can’t—my dad will kill me. This is my third time getting stopped this year.”

 

Of course it was. Fucking dog already calculating how to use that body to get what she wants. I can practically smell the manipulation coming off her. I took my time, staring at her face. She met my eyes again. Her pupils swallowed the green.

 

“Wait here,” I said. Lightning shot across the clouds, thunder rolled, as I walked back to my car.

 

The thundershower started again, heavier now. I closed myself in and clicked on the radio. Dispatch mumbled something about a noise complaint by a gated community. Ignored it, I ran her plates on the laptop, not because I cared, but to let her stew.

 

In a few seconds, her record came up clean, except for another speeding warning. Flirted her way out that time, I leaned back and studied her in the mirror. At that point, she dropped her head onto her arms, shoulders trembling. Maybe real crying, or for show. Either way, I liked it.

 

Taking my time, I wrote the ticket slowly. The pen felt heavy in my hand. I wrote her name in bold block letters and underlined it twice. Let her sweat. Let her realize those tits won’t save her this time. I watched her car, waiting for the next move.

 

She didn’t last five minutes. The first sign came with the rearview shake—shoulders hunched, forehead pressed to the wheel. Her head jerked up every time a car passed, even though none did. The stupid vixen picked the worst three miles of highway in the county to breakdown around me. Trees soaked up the sound, and nothing out here except ticks and people who didn’t want to be seen.