Parslow & the Policewoman · Part 1

Parslow & the Policewoman · Part 1 (1/2)
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Part 1

The accountant, business consultant and spanker Geoffrey Parslow was not a great gardener. Although his house in the Hertfordshire stockbroker belt came with quite a bit of land, he had rented out a field commercially for the feeding and exercising of horses and the rest was dominated by lawn and big bushes, which needed little attention. Moreover, he employed old Mr Banks to come in and do what was needed.

The big garden shed, though, was another matter. The previous owner had used it for carpentry, and Parslow had not bothered to change the benches, shelving and other features. For him the shed served to store various do-it-yourself items and other bric-a-brac, plus that repulsive huge fake Chinese vase Aunt Mary had left him because she knew he loved antiques. The thing was worth £30 at most, but Parslow did not have the heart to throw it away and it was not worth the effort of selling. The shed also contained the few tools Banks needed and some rather different tools of Parslow’s own – canes, whips, a table tennis bat and a tawse. Although most of his spankings were carried out indoors, he did enjoy some al fresco exercises in the warm weather and it was convenient to have the necessary items to hand.

That day Parslow was clearing a few unwanted items from the shed. He stacked a few things just outside the shed door and paused for a rest before stepping back inside, removing his ragged old pullover as he was getting hot. As he did so, though, someone grabbed him by the crook of each elbow; then he felt the unmistakeable sensation of big, warm female breasts pushed into his back. His regular spanking partner, Tracey, was well-endowed, so his first thought was that she had arrived and was playing a trick on him.

Then he noticed that the arms which were struggling to secure his own elderly limbs were dressed in crisp white material just like a uniform, just like… but his assailant had given up trying to pinion his arms and instead kicked him just above the heel while grabbing hold of his collar. Parslow fell backwards. Fortunately his fall was slowed by his head hitting a large, soft object on the way, but he still cracked his head painfully on the lintel. Then he was dragged right inside the shed, and saw for the first time that the attacker was an extravagantly curved young blonde policewoman.

Parslow began to thrash around, and as she tried to subdue him, her ample rump struck a section of shelving. The ugly vase slid off its perch and smashed on the floor. He heard something else follow with a dull thud, and then the policewoman was sitting on his head while she tried to pull his wrists together and handcuff them.

Parslow was shocked, but not entirely horrified. He managed to shift his face so that his nose and chin exactly bisected her generous, trousered orbs and pushed into the crack. Part of him was thinking this was not bad at all; part was saying “Sniff, sniff! Something fishy here, ha ha!”, but most of him was wondering what the devil was going on. He sniffed a deep draught of her feminine essence, but unfortunately something in the fabric of her uniform trousers disagreed with him and he sneezed on them. At that moment the policewoman managed to handcuff him.

Secure at last, she got off his face, giving him an impressive view of a huge but firm arse in tight uniform trousers, disfigured dead centre by a dark blotch where he’d sneezed. She turned to face him, revealing that her breasts were on a similar or even larger scale, and also that the second object to fall must have been that torn bag of cement, for she was covered in white dust. He could now see clearly why she had struggled to secure his arms: the standard police method, he had gathered from various TV programmes, was to grasp both arms and twist them behind the criminal’s back, but if this young lady tried that, her tits would get in the way.

She started to proclaim at him in a cultured, quite posh voice: “Anton Ionescu, I arrescu, sorry, arrest you, for…”

“WHAT? Who the devil is Anton Ionescu?” Parslow’s interruption stopped her in her tracks. She looked at him wide-eyed with doubt.

“Aren’t you Anton Ionescu?”

“Never heard of him,” snapped Parslow, sitting up. “My name is Geoffrey Parslow, we are on my land, in the grounds of my house. If you doubt that, we can go into the house where I can show you passport, driving licence, accountancy qualifications, business correspondence…”

“Oh, gosh. Oh.” A doubt crossed her mind and showed in her open face. “Do you own a car?”

“Certainly. A silver Volvo…”

“Registration?”

“I was about to quote that, young lady, when you interrupted.” It took only a moment for the policewoman to check the number he gave her on her radio and confirm that the vehicle was as described and belonged to a Geoffrey Parslow of 91 Forest Ride, Brookman’s Park.

“Oh gosh, I am really sorry! You see…” She broke off. Parslow had felt the back of his head, which was sore after the impact with the lintel, and his hand had come back with blood on it. She bustled round the back of him with expressions of concern and checked the wound. “Oh, that’s awful. I’m sorry, but it’s only a slight scalp wound, I think, better clean it up, though, then…”

“All in due course, young lady! First I want these handcuffs off!” She apologised, sounding flustered, and freed him. He stood up and stared at her coldly.

“Right, now let’s just run through the undisputed facts. Do stop me if you disagree with anything. I was entering my garden shed, minding my own business, when you seized me and assaulted me without saying you were from the police or giving me a chance to submit voluntarily. You kicked me and pulled me over, giving me a head wound and shattering that Ming vase I’d put in here pending minor repairs.”

“Ming vase?”

“Do you always repeat what people say to you? Yes, Ming vase.”

“Oh, that’s awful. I am awfully sorry, I’ll make it up to you personally…”

“Do you have £30,000 to dispose of?” Parslow asked with mild curiosity. “Of course, if you don’t, I can seek reimbursement from the Police, but that will mean complaining against you.”

“Thirty…Oh.” She was silent now, looking at him as if she was a rabbit caught in headlights. He said nothing, but stared at her levelly, letting her stew. Finally she found her voice.

“Oh, no, this is awful, please. The sexist men in the station already say horrible things about me. This will mean the end of my career – and I did so want to do well and to help people, that’s why I joined…”

“You haven’t done very well so far,” Parslow pointed out. “One more thing – who is Anton Ionescu?”

“We’re hunting for him. He looks awfully like you! He’s a half-German Romanian businessman involved in all sorts of horrible things. We think he had those illegal secret cameras hidden at Wimbledon. He runs strip clubs and suchlike, legal but only just, and puts out all sorts of disgusting stuff on the Internet, ‘Horsegirls and the Whip’, ‘Policewoman Bound and Gagged’, ‘Punishment Day at St Martha’s’, ‘Eastern Girls Orgy’ and so on. He operates from Russia now, from some place just inside the Finnish border, and he’s on very good terms with Russian top politicians and business people, so we can’t touch him there.

But if we can catch him here, we can hold him while we investigate the Wimbledon business and lots of other things. We saw him clamber into the gardens and all the rest thought he went right, so they ran off that way, but I thought maybe he went left after all, and if I could catch him on my own I’d be famous.” She stopped and seemed on the point of crying.

While Parslow had never heard of Ionescu, he was familiar with two of the items the policewoman had listed, and did not share her opinion of their creator. He kept this to himself. Instead he continued to stare at her while speaking slowly, as if to a child: “To be compensated for the damage I must complain. You will deserve whatever you get. But here is another option…”

“Oh, er, yes, please, what?”

“You speak disparagingly of certain interests. I am myself a spanker, a longstanding and very keen one. Instead of reporting you, I could, with your free agreement, spank and cane you. But of course, you have a low opinion of such things and will not be willing to comply.”

The policewoman stood silent, obviously weighing up her choices. Parslow’s face was impassive – he had long practice in hiding his feelings – but inside he was in turmoil. “Go on, go on! Say yes!” he was repeating to himself. This was a glorious opportunity, but it might slip through his fingers. After all, he had no intention of taking cheap revenge by complaining about the policewoman to her superiors, especially as the vase was worthless and she was surely right, he knew as an old soldier, that the cut in the head was nothing. So if she said no, he’d be helpless.

“Oh. Er – all right then. I’ve got no choice. Yes.” the young woman said.

At those glorious words, Parslow’s weapon rose stiffly to attention in his loose old trousers. The policewoman’s gaze was fixed on it, but he had no reason to conceal it.

”Well now, on the whole I think for an officer of the law to be punished, we must have restraints,” he mused, taking his time. “Let me see…(he pottered around looking at various things in the shed and then at various parts of her, even producing a tape measure and comparing measurements of her body with the proportions of the bench and other fixtures)…no, I don’t see how we can make that work, not without making it unduly uncomfortable for you. I think we’ll just have you over the bench. Now get over it, my girl, sharpish!” She obeyed. He slid a large square of foam rubber under her belly just in time to give her a little comfort and push her bottom up. No, that did not look quite right.

The girl’s breasts were so big that they pushed up the top half of her just as much as the bottom. He ordered her to shift while he added two more foam squares. That was better. Her magnificent arse stuck up, tightly constrained in the dark blue material, while her legs hung down helplessly. He inspected the arse closely, kneaded it to check its consistency, picked up an old trainer and brought it down with a dramatic whack full on the meat of her right cheek, which flattened and rebounded.

“WAAAAAAH!” she wailed. Parslow let the sound gradually die away before landing a blow of equal force on the left cheek. This time he provoked more of a squeal; but the third blow did not force any noise from her at all. She had resolved to resist him! After the sixth whack Parslow discarded the trainer.

“Enough of that. I had meant to be mild with you, but you are resisting me. That is unforgivable. Stand up! Now strip!”

He watched with fascination as she obeyed. First she discarded her belt, truncheon, handcuffs, gas spray and radio; then her crisp white blouse came off to reveal a frilly pink bra perched on the end of her fine breasts. Off came her sensible shoes so she could wriggle out of her trousers. She proved to be wearing no tights or stockings, so the frilly-edged pink knickers whose elastic bisected her huge orbs were immediately visible. As she struggled to get her feet out of the fallen trousers, her arse wobbled about comically. Finally removing the trousers revealed a pair of elasticated thin white socks reaching halfway up her calves.

“That’s enough for now!” Parslow instructed. “Now step between these two benches, open your legs and bend right over!”

He had spotted an opportunity: set in the wall between the two benches was an iron ring about eight inches off the floor. Once there had been a similar ring set much higher, and the pair had held garden canes, an umbrella, brooms or somesuch, but the higher ring was long gone. He handcuffed her surprisingly slim wrists to the ring. Then he picked up some cord and pulled her legs a bit wider apart so he could tie each ankle to the nearest leg of one of the benches. Finally he tied a rope in with the folds of her hair, already tied up in a bun, and secured the other end of the rope to a strut of some high shelving, so that while her breasts hung down, her head was forced up.

He checked this arrangement carefully to make sure it was not hurting her and politely asked her if she was comfortable – he was taken aback when she not only confirmed it was comfortable but even thanked him – before stepping back and considering his handiwork.

Next he tore off her girly pink frilly bra by the simple method of pulling at it until the elastic strap snapped, and then removed the matching knickers in his usual way, gripping them at the top and tearing them right down the back so they fell to the floor. The big plump arse, already somewhat reddened, was one of the most delightful canvasses he had ever been able to decorate, and he was resolved to make a good job of it. The policewoman did not say anything, but as she waited the smooth, pink underbuttocks trembled slightly.

“You know my name, my dear, I am Geoffrey Parslow, and I do prefer the personal touch when I cane a young lady. What is your name?” Parslow asked, taking his time.

“PC – I mean Julie Partridge,” she replied, willingly enough. “Partridge! What an appropriate name – plump, vulnerable, delicious!” Parslow thought. Now he approached and touched the cane ever so lightly against the presented rump. Julie screamed dramatically, but the scream tailed off as she realised she had been tricked. He stood back and raised his arm. When the thin cane bit into the butterplump arseflesh, she made a small noise, a kind of “Oh!”, but no more. Thinking he had not struck hard enough, Parslow struck with more venom. An impressive red line appeared, but Julie stayed almost silent. She was deliberately showing her courage by staying silent!

Respecting this, Parslow set himself to marking the delicious target with a series of neat lines in a herringbone pattern on either side of the Great Divide. Still she did not scream or sob. When the work of art was complete, Parslow paused, letting her think he had finished – and then, crouching, he landed a sizzling crack on her right underbuttock. That broke the dam.

“WAAAAAA!” she wailed. He let the noise begin to die away before punishing the left underbuttock just as hard. Now the wail was followed by a soft, confused, mumbled sobbing, the most glorious sound he could imagine. One more, he thought. It took expert aim, and reduced force, but her meaty cheeks were well parted and her pink treasure was peeping out shyly.

THWACK! The cane landed right in the crack, right above her secret garden, and the conscientious young officer was bucking most provocatively, wailing and moaning. He walked round to look her in the eyes, watching the tears plop on to her huge breasts, staring into her humiliated big blue eyes.

“Do you want me to stop punishing your arse?” he asked her.

“Yes! Please!”

“Say, ‘please stop punishing my arse’!”

“Er – oh – please stop punishing my, um, arse, please, Geoffrey!”

“Very well – I will do what you ask. But as I have not finished, I shall punish your tits instead!”

“Oh!” Julie could find nothing else to say.

Parslow took a good look at the target before starting to tap her magnificent breasts with her own truncheon. He was careful not to overdo it, but was fascinated by the way the things bobbled about. Then he discarded the truncheon for the cane. Not wanting to stretch her beyond endurance, he restricted himself to two moderate blows on each breast before deciding she’d had enough. Nonetheless, the girl was sobbing constantly like a child. Parslow broke off as he realised his enjoyment was getting out of control: a marvellous familiar excitement spread through his body as his weapon tingled. He was going to have to dump his load somewhere.

Right in front of him was the obvious place, the only one Professor Dawkins would have approved of – but Parslow had standards, and screwing a bound and defenceless young woman without her express consent was in his book ungentlemanly. He needed something, though, in a hurry. He seized her crisp, white uniform blouse and pumped powerfully into it. When he had finished he used it to wipe himself and then threw it on the floor, no longer crisp and neat, and no longer quite so white either.

It was then that his mobile phone rang. A posh, self-assured voice spoke.

“Mr Parslow? Victoria Harrison. Where are you? We’re at your front door and your bell seems to be working. You did remember we were coming, didn’t you?” Parslow did remember. He’d agreed to see the woman about renting out his small field for feed and exercise for their horses as the previous tenants had moved.

“Very sorry about that, Mrs Harrison. It’s my memory, it goes with age, you know. There I was pottering about in the garden shed! I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

As he put the phone away, he saw with amazement that another man had appeared in the shed from behind some boxes, and the man was holding some kind of camera. A small rucksack lay at his feet. He might have been standing in the open for ages, as Parslow had been totally preoccupied with punishing the policewoman. The man was of similar age to him and of remarkably similar appearance though a fraction darker-skinned and a little slimmer. He was wearing dark blue jogging kit with white trainers, much like Parslow’s own clothes though undoubtedly more fashionable. Ionescu! He had been hiding in the shed after all! Perhaps realising that Parslow might be afraid, the man smiled amiably.

Parslow smiled back. No words were spoken, but a kind of understanding, a bond of brotherhood, was established. On impulse, Parslow handed him the cane; the Romanian bowed politely and smiled again. Parslow hurriedly pocketed the policewoman’s torn pink knickers and bustled from the shed to meet Mrs Harrison, pausing briefly at the water-butt for a strategic wash.

Part 2

Parslow hurried round to the front door to receive Mrs Harrison, hoping any shortness of breath would be attributed to an ageing man moving too fast. The woman standing at the door was about forty, but fit as an athletic girl half that age. She wore a white scarf, presumably as a fashion statement as the day was warm. Her classy pale yellow blouse revealed a rather flat chest, but her smooth pale grey trousers clung closely to those long, well-proportioned legs and the swell of the hips implied a fine arse. The face, though, was forbidding – high-cheeked, haughty and almost expressionless beneath the expensively-treated brown hair. Two teenage girls, one in jodhpurs, the other in jeans, stood behind her.

“Mrs Harrison! So sorry to keep you waiting! Do come in! And these are your beautiful daughters?” Parslow gushed. The woman nodded and allowed herself a faint half-smile.

“This one is Penny,” she said, indicating a tall but rather plump and mild-looking blonde in jodhpurs, “and this is Karen.” The short, slim but curvy dark-haired one, who had been slouching behind her mother, grinned and gave Parslow a rather disconcerting look.

“The delay is no problem at all,” Mrs Harrison gracefully informed Parslow. “Where is the field?”

Regretting that he had to lead rather than follow, Parslow led them round to the horse field, which lay behind the house on the opposite side from the shed. Mrs Harrison asked him a series of brisk, well-chosen questions about the arrangement he was offering and then bent to check the quality of the grass, allowing Parslow to check the quality of her arse, which was indeed beautifully-proportioned, pear-shaped and very firm for a mature woman. She did not immediately rise again, which was unfortunate. Parslow’s best friend was rising at the sight, and it was then he realised with horror that he had failed to zip up his flies and the parting in his underpants was too strategically situated.

The process is not easy to reverse, and any attempt to stuff the thing away and pull the zip up hurriedly was fraught with the most dreadful danger. Mrs Harrison was still bent over invitingly, studying the quality of the grass, and her taller daughter was staring dreamily at the sky where an invisible skylark was singing, but as Parslow tried to establish where the shorter one was, he caught her eye. She was watching, wide-eyed and grinning: as she held his gaze she made little jerking movements with her hips and smiled. Fortunately this doubled Parslow’s embarrassment and speeded up the decline and fall.

Just after he felt safe to zip up, Mrs Harrison straightened her long form and turned round.

“The grass is all right, I’d say,” she reported. “Now can we discuss the various arrangements?” Parslow threw himself into the discussion, though he could not quite forget that on the other side of his land a bound, helpless, well-thrashed policewoman had been left to the tender mercies of a rich foreign pornographer. He decided not to dwell on that in his mind, in case of further embarrassing problems.

Parslow being a stickler for written records of business, there was some paperwork to be concluded in the house, and Mrs Harrison had also accepted his offer of a dry martini. It was as they began to walk back towards the house that Mrs Harrison discovered Karen had disappeared.

“Where has the wretched girl gone to? Oh, well, she’ll turn up,” she remarked.

On the journey back Parslow was able to note that the blonde daughter Penny had inherited her mother’s rear beauty and the jodhpurs showed it off to perfection. Inside the house, Victoria Harrison, evidently impressed by the décor and antiques, became quite chatty and even smiled at Parslow. He learnt that Karen was adopted (“We couldn’t have another one, and we got Karen as company for Penny. Actually Karen has turned out much the cleverer: I need to keep her in order and teach her to mind her tongue from time to time, but I don’t need to push her to do well.

Penny does need pushing sometimes, don’t you?”) and that both girls had just finished gap years: Penny would be off to Liverpool University to read Mathematics, but would be home and riding in the vacations, while Karen was due to start a course in design technology at the local university, Hertfordshire. He deduced from various comments that Mr Harrison was no longer around. Parslow was in no hurry to end the conversation and it seemed Victoria Harrison was of the same mind. Then the doorbell rang. “I expect that’s the little wretch Karen”, Mrs Harrison commented as her host hurried towards the door.

She was right. Karen Harrison stood at the door. She eyeballed Parslow with something of the look of a wine buff searching for a rare vintage and almost certain he was about to find it.

“That fat-arsed weepy girl in your shed,” she began, “she isn’t real fuzz, is she?” For a moment Parslow, who somehow was not amazed the girl had found the shed and its contents, foolishly thought the girl was suggesting Julie wore some kind of pubic wig. Coming to his senses, he replied, “On the contrary, she’s an absolute genuine prize porker.” He hoped he’d got the argot right: anyway, Karen seemed to understand it. She looked at him with awe.

“And that man there – is he your brother?”

“Yes”, he confirmed, deciding any other answer would involve him in too much storytelling. Karen said nothing more, but as she brushed past him, she managed to push her tight little rump against his hand.

The amazing girl joined the rest of her party with a matter-of-fact manner, merely saying she’d gone to make friends with a pussy. As they all chatted, he heard the loud throbbing of a helicopter coming closer and closer.

“That must be the police,” Mrs Harrison commented. “They were all over the place as we arrived. Some robbery, no doubt.” She might be right, he thought, in which case if they found Julie his best hope was to pretend he had never been in the shed when she was there, and hope against hope the girl herself said it was all down to Ionescu. On the other hand, it was perhaps even more likely the helicopter was Ionescu’s escape route and was manned by Russian heavies. In that case, it would definitely be wise to stay out of the way. He tried to keep the conversation going while the sound effects indicated all too clearly the helicopter was landing.

Finally Victoria, Karen and Penny Harrison made their polite and quite friendly goodbyes and left. Parslow waited till the throbbing of the helicopter had faded into the distance, waited a further ten minutes to be on the safe side, and then set out to revisit the shed.

He did not know what he might find. It seemed quite possible Ionescu might have spirited Julie away in the helicopter for business purposes: it could be a good business decision, something Parslow respected. The shed door was shut but not locked. He opened the door quietly and was relieved to see Julie’s huge plump arse still bent over as before. He could hear her soft, continual, muffled sobbing, and the arse-cheeks trembled slightly with the sobs. He entered quietly and took in the scene. Ionescu had vanished, as he had expected; there was no sign of any police, so the helicopter must have been Ionescu’s.

A number of other things had changed. Julie’s head was trapped in her own trousers: the bottom and cunt receptacle part of them had been lowered over her head; the legs had been twisted round it and then tied together at the top. That was why her sobbing was muffled. There were changes at the other end too. The cane projected like an exotic plant stalk from her bottom crack and Parslow could see white material, presumably her blouse, shoved in there too, just below her truncheon which also protruded from the crack. Ionescu had, with considerable skill and artistic flair, decorated her arse with weals that cut neatly across Parslow’s lines.

Parslow & the Policewoman · Part 1 (1/2)
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