Rocking the Second Act- Chapter Eleven

The Absolute Worst Time to get Pulled Over

Rocking the Second Act is still very much a work-in-progress — I’m going back, polishing, and shifting things around as I go — so thank you for reading along in real time. If you’re new, you can find all the chapters here: Chapter index.

⚠️Content note: sexual references and adult humour. No actual sex, but an alarming amount of Scottish audio seduction, public shame, and one traumatised police officer. Proceed with tea (or whisky).

If you prefer to an audio version, here it is, read by me. Extra shame included.

Veronica

The thing about erotic audio fiction is that you never really expect it to ruin your life.

But there I was, en route to collect Lily from her audition, minding my own business, fully immersed in my latest Whispr selection, featuring what was quite possibly the filthiest Scottish accent ever recorded in human history.

I had not planned to sink into a sinfully narrated masterpiece of filth while sitting in traffic, but here we were.

And it was getting good.

Like, really good.

As in, grip-the-steering-wheel, white-knuckle, holy-shit good.

“Ahh, fuuuck, lass, those sounds you’re makin’…”

Jesus CHRIST.

I should have turned it off.

I should have turned it off.

But I didn’t. Because I was a reckless, arrogant fool who thought I could just casually listen to this sinful filth at a moderate volume and make it home without incident.

This was, of course, a grave mistake.

Because as I was deep in this experience, fully lost in the filthy depths of Scottish seduction, my rearview mirror suddenly lit up with the unmistakable flashing of red and blue lights.

“FUCK.”

I panicked.

I reached for my phone instantly, desperately pawing at the screen to turn the story off, but in my haste, my fumbling idiot hands betrayed me.

“Mmm, ye’re so fuckin’ wet for me, aren’t ye?”

OH MY GOD.

The police car blipped its siren once, like a warning shot.

“Say it. Say ye need me, love…”

I was going to jail.

I yanked my car to the side of the road, heart pounding, palms sweaty as hell. My entire body radiating shame.

I kept stabbing at my phone with violent, frantic energy, desperate to stop this audio abomination before an officer of the law approached my vehicle.

I slammed my finger against the volume button. I missed.

Instead, it connected with the touchscreen – and somehow, through a cruel twist of fate, I hit REWIND.

NOT NOW, WHISPR. NOT NOW.

“Gooood girl, takin’ me so deep…”

I WAS GOING TO BECOME A CASE STUDY.

A MEME.

A cop was now at my window.

I, in a final act of desperation, I hurled the phone onto the passenger seat, slamming my hand over it as if that would somehow fix the situation. I could still hear it.

Boy-Cop could hear it.

“Ahh, fuuuuck, lass, ye love it when I push deeper, don’t ye…”

The cop was young. Too young.

Fresh-faced. He probably volunteered at the SPCA. Sang hymns. Sat down to sunday dinner with his nice family. Never once imagined his career would involve dealing with this.

“Oh, you feel so fuckin’ good…”

Boy-Cop’s face was already tinged pink, his eyes darting wildly as if unsure whether to make direct eye contact or immediately seek therapy.

“Ma’am,” he began, voice thin, strained, like he was doing everything in his power to hold it together. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHO I WAS ANYMORE.

But somehow, I managed to muster a weak, hollow, “No?”

“Fuuuuck…those noises you’re makin’, lass, they drive me absolutely feral,”

Boy-Cop cleared his throat. His ears were now red.

“You’ve got a broken tail light,” he said, and I could hear in his voice that he just wanted this to be over.

“You’re gonna take every inch of me, aren’t ye, lass?”

A strangled noise escaped from the officer’s throat. “Can you, ah, turn that down a bit, uh, please?” He asked, his face a mix of mirth and mortification.

SWEET. JESUS. CHRIST.

I started aggressively pounding every button on my phone, trying anything to shut it down.

The volume went UP.

“Mmm, ye’re so tight, fuck…”

“Ma’am, can you just…can you…turn it off…please?.” A note of strangled desperation crept into his voice.

“Ye like it when I take my time, don’t ye?”

“For the love of god,” I lunged for the phone like it was a live grenade, mashing every button in sight.

Then SIRI ACTIVATED. Because of course that bitch would, right fucking now.

“I’M SORRY, I DIDN’T QUITE CATCH THAT.”

“Ohhh, but ye like it rough too, don’t ye – “

“You know what?” the cop said, stepping back from the window like he had just survived an active war zone. “Just… just get that tail light fixed as soon as you can. Drive safe, ma’am.”

Then he spun on his heel and practically legged it back to his car.

I sat there, sweating, shaking, re-evaluating my entire life. I was a middleaged mother, for crying out loud. I had no business listening to such filth!

My phone, now silent, lay facedown on the seat like a traitor.

I had escaped a ticket – but at what cost?

I sat there for a solid thirty seconds, clutching the steering wheel, willing my heart rate to come down.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Pretend you’re a functioning adult.

Then my phone buzzed.
Text from Lily: you here yet?
Oh god.
I shoved the phone under my thigh like it was contraband, cranked the air-con to full blast, and drove the rest of the way in silence — windows up, dignity down.

By the time I pulled into Bronwyn’s driveway, I was still half-vibrating with mortification.

Lily appeared at the front steps, chatting animatedly to Bronwyn, then jogged over, tossing her bag into the back seat before collapsing into the passenger side.

“Hey. You look… flushed.”

“Hot day,” I said, a beat too fast. “Audition go okay?”

She brightened instantly, the way only someone unscathed by life and Scottish erotica can.

“Yeah! It was actually really good. They said I’ve got great projection. Which is weird, because I was shaking the whole time. But Bronwyn said that’s normal.”

“Completely normal,” I croaked. “Projection’s great. Love projection.”

She gave me a look. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve just run a marathon or something.”

“Traffic,” I said. “Terrifying. Truly riveting.”

She shrugged, popped in her earbuds, and started scrolling.
I focused on the road. On breathing. On not dying of shame.

We were two streets from home when the traffic slowed again.
Blue lights up ahead.

A breath-test checkpoint.

Because apparently the universe wasn’t done with me yet.

“Dear lord, no,” I whispered.

Lily looked up from her phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just routine. They’re checking everyone. All good.”

My palms were slick on the steering wheel. My heart thudded somewhere between my ribs and my throat. And then I saw him.

The same officer.

Of course it was.

He looked up, recognised me instantly, and went the exact shade of trauma pink I remembered from earlier. The breath tester thingy wobbled slightly in his hand.

Lily frowned. “Mum. Why is that policeman looking at you like that?”

“Like what?” I said, my voice pitching half an octave higher. “No, no, he’s probably just… professional.”

He stepped up to my window.
“Er, evening, ma’am,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “Random breath test. Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

My laugh came out strangled. “Just… tea. Chamomile. Very relaxing.”

I felt Lily roll her eyes.

He held the device out to me like it was radioactive. “Just count to ten for me, thanks.”

Fantastic. Public numeracy — my favourite post-humiliation activity.

“One… two…” My voice cracked somewhere around “five.” His ears went redder.

The machine bleeped. “All clear,” he said, looking like he wished for immediate amnesia.

He hesitated — actually hesitated — then added, barely audible, “Drive safe, ma’am.”

Lily’s head snapped toward me. “Wait. Why did he say that like it’s… personal?”

“It’s not,” I said too fast, too bright. “Just being thorough.”

She folded her arms. “Mother. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a very suspicious ‘nothing’.”

I hit the accelerator before he could hear her.

As we pulled away, I risked a glance in the rear-view mirror. He was watching us go, shoulders rigid, probably reconsidering his entire career.

“Honestly,” I muttered, gripping the wheel, “men have no sense of timing.”

Lily gave me what could only be called a bombastic side-eye.

I accelerated, drenched in shame-sweat, while the officer wilted in my side mirror.

---

Later that night, after dinner, after dishes, after pretending I hadn’t single-handedly traumatised a member of law enforcement, I finally texted Rachael.

And she, of course, screamed laughing. I could hear it through the phone before the message even came through.
RACHAEL: Oh my god. You’ve ruined that poor man’s life. He’s never going to recover.
MARA: V, you’re a goddamn menace.
LUCY: I want this story printed on a T-shirt.
RACHAEL: Or a bumper sticker: Drive Safe, Ma’am.

Me: I hate all of you.

I tossed the phone down, but my grin wouldn’t quit. There was something oddly liberating about it — about being the butt of the joke and surviving it. About being ridiculous and still completely fine.

Because honestly, if I could survive erotic-Scottish-audiobook-meets-law-enforcement, I could survive anything.

I poured a cup of tea that I didn’t hate, kicked off my boots, and wandered to the kitchen where my notebook still sat open from earlier.

The laughter was still buzzing in my chest when I flipped the page.

If my day had been proof of anything, it was that mess and desire and mortification all lived in the same neighbourhood. And maybe that was exactly what I needed to write about.

If you’re in the mood for more misbehaving characters, here are two to keep you company:

→ How Wendy was Declared a Witch in Rome
→ Parliament of Small Talk