Breaking & Entering · Part 1 (1/2)
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– A Sally West Misadventure
Police officers are often bored, waiting for something to happen. Intelligent and conscientious ones get bored quite frequently. This was precisely the condition of PCs Sally West and Yasmin Khan on a fateful, rainy, quiet late September night in the more prosperous end of Queen’s Bush. The two young women had driven their patrol car around aimlessly, had followed and stopped a car being driven inconsistently only to find the driver was an ancient vicar with no hint of alcohol on his breath at all, had hung around the most troublesome pub till closing time hoping for trouble but getting only a well-dressed businessman with spectacles who had approached the car, asked “Are you two working girls? How much, then?” and been lectured on female emancipation and sexual exploitation till he cried for mercy.
They had resumed their patrolling until Yasmin pointed out that they were using up petrol and contributing to global warming to no good purpose. They had then stopped their car near a now gloomy small park and waited till something happened – which was a shabby man lurching up, colliding with the car, swearing, getting out his c*ck and pissing on the bonnet. This time they could at least arrest him, which they did, only slightly disconcerted by his cries of “Ooooooh, girls! I do like dominant women! I bet you wear thigh-length black booties, I mean boats, shushpenshers and tiny black shnickers!”
Delivering him to the cells and dissatisfied to find he had managed to piss in the patrol car, they resumed their night of service. They were looking for even the slightest thing they could possibly pretend might conceivably indicate that something was awry.
They were cruising very slowly down a quiet residential street, the hour being 1:27, when a light went on upstairs in one of the houses. It was enough for them to stop the car. They saw a shadowy figure at the window. It appeared to peek briefly through the curtains and then was gone. The light stayed on.
“Let’s have a look at that place,” Yasmin suggested. They got out. Sally shone her torch on the door and the nearest windows.
“Nothing,” she said, disappointed.
“No, Sal! Look!” cried her excited colleague. A window next to the door had been broken, not entirely, but so as to leave a neat hole in the middle. Upstairs, the light went out. Sally tried the door, but it would not budge.
“The window’s already broken,” Yasmin pointed out. So Sally reached carefully inside; but she could not quite reach the door catch. Instead, she took off her hat and used it as protection for her fist as she broke the rest of the window. It should be just wide enough for them to clamber in.
Sally bravely went first. The only problem was that the window was not, in fact, quite wide enough for her ample hips and she got stuck, her arse and legs projecting from the aperture. Giggling despite herself, Yasmin pushed her hard until finally she popped through. Sally waited for her smaller-bottomed friend to follow – and then they crept forward, using their torches as little as possible and stopping at the foot of some stairs to listen.
Upstairs, a few heavy footfalls sounded – and then the sound of a woman screaming. Delaying no more, Yasmin felt for and turned on the light and the two heroic officers charged up the stairs. As they neared the top the scream sounded again, telling them what room to enter. Sally tried the door, found it opened inwards, pushed it violently open and raced into the darkened room. Almost immediately she tripped on something and fell heavily. Another human body landed on top of her. A man was sitting on the small of her back. No matter – Yasmin was behind her.
She heard a scuffle; a suppressed cry of male pain; a THUCK noise of something hard landing in something softer; a kind of sigh, and a moment’s silence. Then she heard a loud THUMP and a calm voice saying, “Got the second one! Easy!” This was followed by the sound of a brief renewed struggle and the words, “No, I use the cuffs, stupid girl – like this!” and a click. Sally tried to struggle, but in vain. At first her captor did not react at all, but then he patted her squirming bottom as a parent might pat a bothered child.
The light came on. Sally could not see Yasmin, but it was now clear that the room was a bedroom. A woman, dressed only in a nightdress that had been pulled up over her head, was spreadeagled face down on the bed, her four limbs tied. Sally’s own wrists were yanked behind her and she felt the humiliation of being cuffed by her own handcuffs. Two men in full masks were staring at their three captives. The masks left only slits for eyes and mouth and both men wore gloves, but the observant officer could see that both men were black. One was quite tall and heavily-built, but the other was small and slim. These were important details to note.
The big man lifted Sally like a sack of potatoes and dumped her on the bed. Twisting her head till it hurt, she saw Yasmin also thrown on the bed, bouncing off the tied woman before coming to rest.
“Whaddawe gonna do with these two pigs?” the tall man asked the small one, “Fuck ‘em?”
“Yeah, but no hurry. The white trash has a good ass and maybe the brown one’s hiding something good too. We’ll thrash ‘em first.” This did not sound good, but Sally continued to observe and analyse: the small man seemed to be the leader.
“Maybe we should line ‘em up,” the tall man suggested – and it was done. Sally and Yasmin found themselves bent over the end of the bed, bottoms high, faces plunged into the rumpled bedclothes, necks secured by nooses connected to the opposite end of the bed, legs apart and tied to the rear legs of the bed, with the unknown woman similarly positioned in between them.
“Looks great, d…Dave,” said the big man.
“The other one’s called Dave!” thought Sally. “They’re giving things away!”
“Yeah,” the small man replied, “this is the right way to meet a pig girl. Pleased to meet you, ma’am!” So saying, he slapped Yasmin’s pert uniformed bottom hard.
“Do we rip their trousers off now?” the big man asked.
“No, s…Simon. First things first. There is a tide in the affairs of men. Handwhack ‘em on their nice tight trousers first. Then strip ‘em.”
Sally, though not looking forward to the whacking, was triumphant. The other man was called Simon – and Dave was an educated man who could quote Jane Austen!
SPLACK! Iaaaaaaaaaaaaoooow! Sally’s analysis was cut short. Her dear friend Yasmin had just received a most cruel and powerful swat on her bottom. The sounds were repeated no less than fifteen times (Sally had not intended to count, but found herself doing so). Then a brief interlude, the sound of Yasmin sobbing unwhacked and a shuffle of approaching trainers could only mean one thing. It was her turn.
But first she had to endure the shock and humiliation of the small man groping her buttocks, pinching, stroking, behaving like a farmer or butcher testing livestock before buying. When this treatment ended, though, she shivered with the knowledge of what was coming next.
The ruthless invasion, the sudden impact, came first; then the horrendously loud sound; and then the pain growing and spreading as her bottom caught fire. Someone was screaming, wailing, a primal death-scream, an ultimate expression of prolonged agony. She realised it was her. That realisation came seconds before the second whack. They were incredibly powerful and cunning. They seemed to be attaining superhuman strength, fuelled by their hatred of policewomen as represented by their bottoms. Sally’s bottom had received attention many times, but never had a spanking not on the bare hurt so terribly.
The torture stopped. Sally’s moans and wails gradually dropped in volume, her convulsive breathing slowed and her nightmare state began to return to normal fear and pain. Then one of her torturers delivered three vicious whacks in quick succession. It was a long time before her burbling sobs stopped.
That was the signal for the men to move to the next stage.
“No hurry – let’s rip the pants off this one and then move on to the skinny Paki,” the smaller man suggested.
“Suits me,” replied the big man. Something in his voice seemed familiar to Sally. She could not pin it down, though – perhaps a criminal she had briefly exchanged words with? She would have to stay calm and observant, do her duty and listen for more clues.
Her belt dropped on the floor with handcuffs and CS gas. She waited for them to undo her trousers, but instead, the small man produced a pair of sharp scissors he had no doubt found in the bedside drawers. He began cutting down the line of Sally’s arsecrack.
“Whoah! Nice!” said the big man. Her trousers had been peeled apart like the skin of a fruit and she knew what they were leering at – her bottom in those nice ever-so-pale blue knickers with little dark blue flowers, a new pair she had bought for her boyfriend’s enjoyment, not the lust of these awful men. But they did not care about her feelings. The scissors pushed into the top of her bottom crack and neatly snipped down the crack till they were actually pressing into her c*nt. Her knickers, like her trousers, had been cut apart, but they were not peeled back. Rough hands grabbed them and tugged them out from under her.
“Key question,” said the big man called Simon, “whose trainer do we use – yours or mine? Mine’s whippier.”
“Yeah,” replied the small man called Dave, “but yours are old and pretty flat underneath. Mine’ll leave nice lines on her arse from the ridges.”
“Hmm…hard choice. We could use both.”
“Done!” Dave concluded.
A brief intermission and slight sounds indicated to Sally that one man – if not both – was slipping off one of his trainers.
She heard the WHOOSH in the air just before the trainer made vicious contact with her unprotected bottom cheek. A cry of anguish escaped her.
“Be brave, Sally!” cried Yasmin. “Don’t let them IAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOW!” Then she was silent and offered her friend no more advice. As more cruel whacks landed on Sally’s arse, she deduced that the well-ridged trainer was being used first. Her bottom was burning, and in her tortured mind it seemed huge, even bigger than it really was, dwarfing the rest of her body. Then they switched to the smoother, more worn, whippier trainer. Whoever was wielding it had considerable skill, for he was cruelly caressing her soft undercheeks.
“No, please, don’t! Please SPLACK! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Ur, hur, hur, hur, hur, SPLACK! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Ur, hur, hur, no, please, ur, hur, SPLACK! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” were the varied and fascinating sounds which entranced the burglars as they made a symphony on her arse. Simon, evidently entranced by the view, remarked, “Wow! Look at that now! The west is red! East is red, I mean.”
Finally they left her to sob and quiver, and moved on to the smaller, tighter bottom on the leggier, duskier officer. It took them little time to remove Yasmin’s pointless defences; and then Sally had to listen to the relentless thrashing of her dear friend and to her descent from stoic defiance to helpless, abandoned, childish moaning and weeping.
“Always had a fondness for classical music,” said Simon.
“Why don’t you do something?” Sally hissed to the unknown woman.
“Do what?” the woman replied with a hint of contempt. “As long as these louts are concentrating on you and your Keystone cop pal, they’re leaving me alone!”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! No, please, please, WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” said Yasmin.
“What exactly is going on here?” asked a new male voice. There was a pregnant silence. Then Simon said, “I wouldn’t use that thing, mate. It’s illegal. Even if we push past you. It’s only legal in self-defence, and you’d have to be reasonable in fear of your life. And as we’re peaceful people who wouldn’t hurt a fly (well, we hurt policewomen, but not flies) your fear wouldn’t be reasonable.”
This must be the man of the house, this woman’s partner – and he must have a gun,” Sally thought.
“Anyway, that thing’s a water pistol,” said Dave.
“Oh, well, worth a try,” said the man. “Anyway, what ARE you doing with my wife – and what are these two naked girls doing in my house?”
“Well, we captured and stripped your wife and we were about to spank her and screw her when these two strippograms came to the wrong address – unless your wife had called them?” Dave replied calmly.
“I see!” said the man. “Well, if she did, she has better taste than I realised. I must say I’m grateful to you two gentlemen. I’ve been thinking for months that Vanessa deserved to be thrashed, but I never could persuade her, and I know it sounds silly, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to seize her and thrash her against her will.”
“I know the feeling,” Simon replied. “It hasn’t stopped me, but I do know the feeling.”
“So did you come to my house in order to thrash and service my wife, or did you have some other purpose?” the man asked.
“Your wife was an extra. We’re burglars,” Dave explained.
“Ah. I thought as much for some reason. Would a deal interest you – you don’t take any of our property, but you can make free with my wife? And with these delightful prostitutes, of course.”
Dave and Simon briefly conferred.
“We could just belt you one,” Simon pointed out.
“And I am a fourth Dan. The deal is on the table.”
“Done,” said Dave.
“Excellent! Do continue.”
“Who were the first three Dans?” Simon whispered to Dave.
So the burglars gave Yasmin five more, perhaps to please the householder; and then they moved to his lady.
The lady was tall, leggy, queenly, with small breasts and a pert, round bottom which instead of emerging from her hips seemed to pop out as if stuck on. Her long, smooth hair curved round her shoulder-blades and breasts. She suddenly found her voice: “Jonathan! What does this mean? You useless man! Why aren’t you rescuing me, or at least calling the police who are less useless than you?” It was an icy upper-class voice. “Mmmmmmmm, nnggg, ng!” it added. Dave had gagged her with her own nightdress.
Breaking & Entering · Part 1 (1/2)
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