Parslow & the Policewoman · Part 2

Parslow & the Policewoman · Part 2 (2/2)
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He had also evidently proceeded to punish the plump backs of her thighs, and he had not been so sparing of her big tits as Parslow had. This touch of ruthlessness Parslow regarded with understanding, almost approval: after all, if you saw it from Ionescu’s angle, the girl had been trying to deprive him of his liberty and had made derogatory remarks about his line of work.

There was something else about her bottom and tits: on each buttock and on each breast there was now a large, dark-blue rubber stamp mark proclaiming her in English “PROPERTY OF ANTON IONESCU ENTERPRISES – IF FOUND RETURN TO UNIT 17, GROZHNY INDUSTRIAL ESTATE, VYBORG”. Her left cheek was also inscribed, apparently in black biro, “KH WAS HERE”: from this message an arrow pointed in and down.

The policewoman was still unaware of Parslow’s presence.

“Oh, goodness me, my poor little thing, what on earth has happened?” he clucked as he removed the trousers and finding that her forehead too had been stamped as company property. Julie looked at him with wide, tearful eyes and before she spoke he knew the silly girl was going to treat him as a rescuer.

“Oh, Geoffrey – I can call you Geoffrey, can’t I?” she began. Parslow consented to this familiarity and she continued, “After you left – I heard you on the phone, you were called away to see some people – as soon as you’d gone BHBVBRRRUR, HUR, HUR…”

“Take your time,” said Parslow, checking his watch.

“Thankyou. As soon as you’d gone this evil man Ionescu came out! He must have been hiding in the shed all the time!”

“Goodness gracious!” Parslow responded, hamming it shamelessly. “I might have been murdered! But you, my poor dear – surely he didn’t harm you?” This provoked another bout of sobbing, but Julie was nothing if not persistent and conscientious, and she controlled herself enough to continue: “Geoffrey, he caned me even more! He did it MUCH harder than you!” Parslow made sympathetic noises while secretly feeling annoyance. Was Ionescu a stronger whacker than himself, or had he himself culpably not given this young lady the vigorous punishment she deserved? Meanwhile Julie had continued and he had lost a few words: “…he forced his big WAAAAAA, HUR, HUR, HUR, HUR up my bottom, and then he WAAAAABHBVBHRRR, HUR, HUR, HURIURGH in it for AGES!”

“Well, that’s crystal clear then,” thought Parslow. The girl still had not finished.

“Then someone else came, a woman, and she WAERRR, HUR, HUR! And then, oh Geoffrey, I thought they’d all gone, but WAH, HA, HA, HUR, HUR, WURHURHURHURHURHURHUR!” Once again big tears plopped on to her breasts.

“Thankyou for explaining all that to me,” Parslow said. “Just stay still while I remove some objects from your, er, back, and then I’ll untie you and you’ll be right as rain.”

The handle of the cane proved to have been inserted neatly into her arsehole, and from the deep recesses of her arsecrack he fished out her now thoroughly unsuitably stained blouse and one white sock. A quick check round failed to locate the other sock, or her bra for that matter: presumably Ionescu, like himself, took pleasure in little keepsakes that reminded him of some special occasion. He removed the truncheon, untied her at the back, untied her head and was about to unlock the handcuffs when he saw that the key which he had left on the nearest piece of shelving had vanished. A reasonable question to Julie about the whereabouts of the key merely provoked another burst of sobbing.

There was no sign of it on the floor. Instead of unsystematic searching, he engaged his logical brain. He and Ionescu had a lot in common. In the Romanian’s shoes, what would he have done with the key? Taken it off to Russia, perhaps, or… Telling Julie on all account to stay still and bent over, he fished deep, feeling round with his fingers. She did indeed go very still, after a little muffled squeal. He found something, but not what he was seeking; but then his fingers touched something small, hard and of a complicated shape. Taking great care not to cause unnecessary distress, he drew out the key.

A moment later Julie was free and standing up.

“Oh, Geoffrey, thank you, thank you,” she burbled, falling into his manly arms, squashing her big breasts in the process.

“There, there,” he said softly, patting her head gently but trying to avoid contact below the waist as his rising weapon would have given the game away. It had happened a few times before that he had manoeuvred some young lady into a spanking, given her a thorough thrashing till she was a sobbing, quivering lump, and then on offering some small conventional words or acts of kindness had found her reacting as if he was her guardian angel. In a sense he was now quite used to it, but he still could not really understand it. He took pleasure in helping her into her one sock, uniform trousers, blouse, hat and shoes; he scooped up the tools of her trade into a large B&Q bag, and then, holding her hand, led her towards the house to “freshen up”, pausing only to pick up his pullover and lock the shed.

“Without a doubt you need a bath,” he informed her, “We’ll soon clean you up.” He politely motioned her to go up the stairs first, and followed close behind, enjoying the sight of her swaying uniformed arse inches from his face. He preferred luxuriating in a hot bath to prancing around under a shower, fiddling with the controls and getting alternately scalded and frozen, so he had never obtained a shower unit, only a shower attachment to the bath. Soon a steaming hot bath was ready – and Parslow too was ready, holding a short, bristly scrubbing brush and a sponge.

Making no objection to his continued presence, Julie stripped off, dipped a toe into the water, scrambled in, her breasts swaying and knocking against one another, gingerly lowered her bottom towards the water, screamed, shot upright, slipped, fell in backwards, screamed again, thrashed around, managed to get up and scrambled out glowing pink as if she’d been microwaved at low power.

“The water’s a little on the hot side, is it, considering the state of your bottom?” Parslow asked. “Let’s try a little colder.” He pulled out the plug, let the hot water out, and then bent over the taps, chatting away about the weather and the undisciplined youth of today while he ran the cold tap only.

“Now the best thing, take my word for it, is to jump in and not play around testing the temperature. I guarantee it’s not too hot now,” he told her. She jumped in trustingly and screamed again. As she started to thrash around again, Parslow calmly told her the water was cold, not hot, that it would do her hot bottom good, and she had better get used to it while he cleaned her up. A moment before, Julie had believed the water was scalding hot, but now she knew it was cold, she started shivering. This caused her breasts to wobble in a rather enticing way, almost diverting Parslow from his errand of mercy. Almost. He had soaped the sponge and now he set about trying to remove the ink-marks from her bottom. The KH came off easily enough, but the sponge made no impression at all on the Anton Ionescu Enterprises stamps.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to use the brush,” he told the quivering policewoman. Although he did his best to concentrate the bristles’ action on the two stamp marks on her cheeks, he could not avoid the marks of the cane. Julie screamed loud and long, but bravely took a grip on each tap so she could hold in position for the scrubbing. After two long minutes Parslow’s wrist was quite tired, Julie’s arse was redder than ever and the proprietory marks of Anton Ionescu Enterprises were as clear as ever. Parslow considered admitting defeat, but one look at her magnificent soft tits decided the matter. Even his tired wrist seemed quite all right again.

“Now I want you to be a brave girl while I scrub your titties,” he told Julie.

“I’ll be brave, Geoffrey,” she responded gamely. Parslow began to scrub her breasts while she moaned and quivered. He found that the brush kept slipping, so he took a firm grasp on each tit with one hand while he worked the brush with the other. As he had expected, the vigorous scrubbing did nothing to remove the stamp marks.

“I’m afraid these won’t come off – they’re in some kind of indelible ink,” he admitted, letting his considerable bulk subside on to the bathroom stool.

“Oh no! How long will I have them on for?”

“Oh, until the skin is replaced by the normal, natural processes. Two weeks, maybe.”

“Oh, NO!”

“Of course, the claim of ownership by Anton Ionescu Enterprises has no legal validity, at least in the U. K.. It might be valid in Russia, I suppose. Best not to go to Russia, that’s my advice. Now to complete the clean-up, you really need to sink right into that water and stay there for at least five minutes. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Geoffrey,” she said bravely. She was as good as her word.

Finally the ordeal by cold water was over. Parslow rubbed her vigorously all over with a big bath towel, taking far more care to do a thorough job than he would have taken for himself. She thanked him for his kindness three times more and was even more grateful when he found her one of his own white towelling robes to wear while he had a go at cleaning what was left of her clothes.

She had forgotten to pull the plug out of the bath, and Parslow bent to pull it out himself; but as he did this, by a quite remarkable coincidence, he stepped on a bar of soap he had dropped on the floor, slipped and tumbled into the bath, almost with the grace of a footballer diving for a penalty until the big splash came. As he climbed out, his clothes sopping wet, Julie gave him a helping hand – despite her robe coming open and unrolling – and apologised several times for being the cause of his misfortune.

Parslow changed quickly into another towelling robe, reassured Julie that his accident was of no importance, and led her solicitously downstairs to his living room, instructing her that she should set herself up with a good warming drink.

“Thankyou, Geoffrey, that would be lovely!” she burbled, but looked taken aback when he returned not with tea or coffee but with a bottle of whisky and a large, bowl-shaped glass.

“Glenfarclas 18-year-old cask strength,” he explained as he poured, “a superb single malt. Just a spot of water in it,” he added, pouring in the colourless contents of a small second glass. That was almost the last of that Finlandia vodka, Parslow thought to himself. Mental note for the supermarket next week. “Here,” he concluded, handing her the half-full big glass, “do you no end of good.” Julie sipped cautiously, paused, and took a second, bigger sip. Then she coughed and spluttered so that much of the spirit was wasted on the furniture. Parslow was irritated at the waste, but said nothing. Under his watchful gaze, Julie slowly drained the glass. It was at this point that he noticed something out of place: Mrs Harrison had left her white scarf behind on the arm of an armchair.

Julie’s lips and tongue felt numb but a wonderful, warming sensation like a gentle fire was spreading in her belly. She really did feel grateful to Mr Parslow for taking so much care with her after she’d wrongly arrested him and broken his valuable vase. He had been so big-hearted in getting over the loss of the vase and not even mentioning it any more! For a while when she was being punished she’d begun to suspect he was some kind of pervert who was merely using her, after all he’d admitted to being a spanker, but now after all his expressions of concern and kind ministrations she knew this had been an unworthy thought. As the glow spread, she felt better than she had done at any time since her brief moment of triumph when she thought she’d caught Ionescu. Parslow watched her with satisfaction. Then, to his intense irritation, the doorbell rang.

By the time he had reached the door, it had occurred to him that the caller was quite likely a police officer looking for Julie. He was relieved merely to see a smiling Mrs Harrison.

“I’m afraid I left my scarf behind,” she said. Then she looked at him with an almost roguish expression. “Where’s that vulgar little policewoman? Have you got rid of her yet?”

Parslow was struck dumb and merely stared at the woman, who looked amused.

“Oh, yes – Karen is a wild child but sometimes a remarkably helpful one, Geoffrey. She drew me away from Penny and told me what she’d found in your shed – so I really had to go and look for myself while Penny drove Karen back home.”

“Look, and what else?” Parslow thought, before concentrating on the vital information that not only Karen but also her adoptive mother had promising interests and attitudes.

“No, actually, er, Victoria, she’s still here. Look – just as a personal kindness, could you possibly slip into my office here and let me, er, finish dealing with her as she deserves? Right now if she saw or heard you it’d put a proper spanner in the works!”

“Put what in her works?” Victoria whispered as she complied. Still amazed at how quickly her upper-class mask of superiority and indifference had been abandoned, Parslow padded back to Julie, making some irritated remarks about Jehovah’s Witnesses. Julie began to mumble further thanks to him for his kindness, mixed with apologies for being so stupid as to confuse him with Anton Ionescu and praise for his big-hearted refusal to resent the loss of his Ming vase.

“Right, now, young lady – there’s just a couple more things I can do to help you recover. First, I’d like to give you something, a nice surprise. Could you kneel on the floor, shut your eyes and open your mouth?” he said chattily. Unquestioningly but clumsily, Julie obeyed. Her pink lips, unmarked by lipstick, were invitingly open as Parslow parted his robe. He took firmly hold of each delicate ear and pushed in. Up to this point he had not known whether the tipsy Julie knew and welcomed what was coming, or was really so incredibly naïve that she had no idea. The way she stiffened and the look in her big eyes as they opened told him the answer. Fortunately the instinctive reaction when something is shoved into your mouth is not to bite it, but to gag. A moment later he had pushed right in, reel as well as rod, and his instructions about Julie’s role were being obeyed.

“Good. Now stay there, please, move your knees a bit further apart, lower your head and stare hard at that whirly red thing in the rug pattern,” he instructed her. She complied, but miscalculated the downward movement of her head and gave herself a black eye on one of her own shoes. As he rose to walk round the back, a very slight movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Mrs Harrison had left the office and was at the living room door watching. He decided for the moment to ignore her.

Arriving at the back entrance, he peeled the soft white robe up to her waist, revealing yet again the generous, plump, well-thrashed arse marked clearly as the property of Anton Ionescu enterprises. He remembered that someone had said that the law was an ass. Beneath the deep, dark mysterious cleft, where one could imagine miners finding gold or disappearing never to be seen again, an even more mysterious and enticing object peeped out, another pair of delightful pink lips but without any teeth to worry about. Parslow gripped the front of her thighs and pushed powerfully and disrespectfully into the secret temple of the law.

PC Partridge spoke just one word – “Oh!” As Parslow fell into a rhythm and felt the divine pull as she responded, he wondered if this was the ultimate act of disrespect to the majesty of the law, the putting into action of many radical banners and spray-painted graffiti, or whether he counted as a “have-a-go hero”. A few minutes later, his gaze rose to meet the expressionless, watching eyes of Victoria Harrison, who smiled almost imperceptibly and silently left the room.

“Excellent!” Parslow declared, pulling out. “Now I’m sure with that inside you, young lady, you’ll be ready to face the big, bad world outside. I suggest you dress before you leave.” With no words, but a frightened, respectful glance, PC Partridge got up, took off the robe and began to gather together what was left of her things. She wobbled round comically and slightly unsteadily (though with few obvious signs of inebriation) looking for her knickers under various pieces of furniture before abandoning the search and pulling on the one white sock, now a little stained. Another comical search followed for the second sock. Failing to find it, she started to cry.

“Oh, Geoffrey, where’s my other SOCK?” she wailed.

“Halfway to Russia, I fancy,” Parslow replied helpfully. “Want one of mine?” She thanked him gratefully and he started off to find a replacement; but before he had left the room she had made other unwelcome discoveries: “Oh, no! Where’s my TRUNCHEON? And – Geoffrey, oh no, oh no, my WARRANT CARD! Where IS it?” Parslow half-turned.

“Your truncheon should be there somewhere – I distinctly remember removing it from your bottom-crack and later taking it downstairs. I expect Ionescu’s taken your warrant card, quite understandably: in his line of business, I don’t imagine you miss a chance to acquire genuine police I. D.!” As he bustled off and up the stairs to his bedroom, he could hear Julie sobbing again.

Parslow did have a couple of pairs of white socks, purely for leisure wear, but he saw no reason why he should risk losing one of a perfectly good pair. On the other hand, there was that old thick woolly grey sock all on its own, its lifelong partner having mysteriously disappeared two or three months ago. That would do very well. As he came down the stairs he heard a door shut, and then, from his office, Julie’s raised, hysterical voice: “Who are YOU? What are you DOING here? What are you doing with my TRUNCHEON? That’s police property! I’ve got to WEAR that! STOP IT IMMEDIATELY!” There was a brief pause, and then “I’ve WARNED you! Now…” The voice broke off and was replaced by a scream.

Then a series of knocking, thumping, grating noises, mixed with human screams and groans, suggested to Parslow that Julie and the mystery person (presumably Victoria Harrison) had begun to fight. He hoped his computer, printer, copier and shelving would escape damage. Taking his time as he approached the office door, he was amused to hear the two women interspersing their blows and writhing with a verbal argument.

“You appalling little oik! Let go of my hair!” ordered Mrs Harrison.

“I’m NOT an oik! I’ve got a LAW degree, only I joined the (UMMNF!) Police to (GOT YOU!) help people! My father’s a (URRGH!) vicar!” Julie protested. Victoria’s reply was simple: “OIK, OIK, OIK! OINK, OINK, OINK! AAAAAH!” As suddenly as it had started, the noise of battle stopped. Instead Parslow could hear a familiar sound – the vigorous whacking of a plump bottom. If there had been any doubt in his mind as to who had won the fight, the continued triumphant cries of “Oink, Oink, Oink!” which punctuated the loud cracks and squeals settled it. The fat arse of the law was in trouble again. Very carefully and quietly, he opened the door.

Victoria Harrison was seated on an office chair. Over the top half of her long, slim legs a now familiar object faced Parslow – a big, round, pink arse, clearly marked not once but twice as the property of Anton Ionescu Enterprises and decorated with neat red lines. Mrs Harrison put down the truncheon and carefully chose from the desk top a red, leather-bound A5 notebook which Parslow recognised as an old account book. She began to beat the arse with it. The notebook was rigid enough to hurt, but flexible enough to curve a fraction around the target, which flattened amazingly, momentarily moulded into a totally different shape, and then rebounded.

On Julie’s official secret a pink flush spread and deepened. Each whack was followed by a scream and a little pointless writhing. Mrs Harrison looked up, saw Parslow, and smiled – a fathomless smile of superiority, triumph and carnal joy. He concluded Mrs Harrison was almost as interesting as the divine target she was punishing. Before long PC Partridge had for at least the third time that day been reduced to a soft, mumbled sobbing, the best music in the world for Parslow’s ears. With every sob the huge bottom wobbled. With every whack the red blush deepened. Mrs Harrison spanked on as though in a trance. Finally, she glanced at her watch, caught Parslow’s eyes, and nodded slightly.

He returned the nod, silently closed the door, stomped heavily outside and noisily opened the door again.

“Good heavens! What IS going on? Is that Julie? MRS HARRISON! I am surprised at you! Unhand that poor young lady immediately! Don’t you know she’s a police officer? We should show more respect! Now take your scarf and leave my house IMMEDIATELY!” he hammed, and winked at Victoria who returned the honour. The tall woman pushed the plump young officer away from her and pulled back the chair, so the officer fell in a quivering lump on the floor. The punisher strode out of the room and Parslow heard the front door slam. Julie was still quivering and sobbing: he let this continue for a couple of minutes before lifting her up with many solicitous little remarks and helping her back into the living room, setting her down on an armchair and returning to pick up items of uniform which Victoria had torn off her.

The fight had done Julie’s uniform no good. Her navy-blue trousers were now torn at the back, not just with a split but with a big, broad tear. Her white blouse, already marked by Parslow’s spunk and its pushing into her bottom crack, had at least been entire, but now all but the top button had popped. The only thing left whole was her chequered hat. Somehow it seemed inappropriate that it alone was left pristine, and, feeling himself reacting to the fascinating sights he had just seen, Parslow turned the hat upside down and unloaded into it before bringing all the items back to the shaken policewoman. She did not appear to notice the tear in the trousers, but she stared at the blouse with dismay.

“Geoffrey! What on earth can I do? My titties are poking right out! Do you think you could be awfully nice and call a taxi? I won’t say anything about you.”

“I’d be very happy to, but unfortunately in this wealthy place, we have to rely on taxis from Potters Bar and Hatfield, and at this time of day there may be none to be had,” he lied. “Still, I’ll certainly try.” He wandered off back into his office, raised the phone, and recited into it: “Mary had a little arse

Its skin was white as panties

Her uncle made it flaming red

And so did all her aunties.”

He returned to meet the beseeching gaze of Julie.

“Sorry, they were busy for at least two hours,” he told her. “However, I can do something to preserve your modesty. We don’t want any Tom, Dick or Harry seeing your breasts, especially as it’s so important to preserve the dignity of the law! Sit there and relax – I’ll be back in a moment.”

Upstairs again, he considered the options. He did have a couple of sweatshirts which might just have contained Julie’s extravagant curves. No way could her tits be jammed into one of his vests. He could lend her a shirt, but it seemed wrong to wear a shirt under a blouse. Ahah! He rummaged among his underpants, which divided about half and half between boxers and Y-fronts, selected an old pair of scarlet Y-fronts and brought them down to Julie.

For the first time since she tried to maintain her dignity under his cane, Julie showed signs of insubordination.

“You want me to wear THOSE? Isn’t there something else that would fit me?” she asked plaintively.

“No, there is not,” Parslow replied sternly. Your measurements are such that nothing else will fit you.” Then, more softly, “Come on, try them on – they’ll do till you get back home.”

She tried them on and, wonder of wonders, the scope of the elastic was just right and her magnificent breasts pushed against but did not break through the other end. Under Parslow’s indulgent eye she dressed again: white sock, grey sock, red underpants on her tits, soiled white blouse, torn trousers, sensible shoes, CS spray, radio and finally the uniform hat placed neatly on her blonde head hair. There was one more small problem, as her handcuffs had also disappeared, but she soon gave up looking for them when her tits popped out of the legs of the Y-fronts and she made several vain attempts to stuff them back in again. A little unsteadily, she walked to the door.

Parslow patted her rump encouragingly. She turned, thanked him, and waddled down the gravelled drive on to the quiet suburban road. Parslow watched her receding arse wobbling into the distance, pursued by two small boys on bikes and an elderly gent walking his dog. He turned and went inside to meet the calm, knowing eyes of Victoria Harrison.

As Geoffrey and Victoria shared a glass of a fine Chilean cabernet sauvignon, he relaxed in his favourite armchair and her long legs stretched out on the sofa, she confided: “Oh, by the way, Geoffrey – I rang the local police and told them one of their officers, or at least someone partially dressed in police uniform, was stumbling into Lower Acacia Avenue evidently the worse for drink. I think that’s neat.” If she was looking for approval, she did not get it. Parslow had enjoyed humiliating and punishing the naïve young policewoman, but he had quite firm ideas about limits and he had expected her to reach the sanctuary of her home, or some other safe place where she could change, before running into other officers. Still, that was spilt milk, water under the bridge and so on. He could not reverse what Victoria had done, but he could use it.

“That poor, simple young girl!” he said. “What have you let her in for? That is a disgraceful action, Mrs Harrison! Over my knee immediately!”

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