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Old 05-14-2013, 04:33 AM   #1
Ambush-predator
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Default The Policewoman and the Tramp

This will be maybe a three or four parter. Here's the opening which sets the situation up and just starts the action. This is my first story post, so apologies if I've got anything wrong.

The Policewoman and the Tramp
By Ambush-predator
Part 1

Police Constable Kapila Nayar paced steadily down the leafy suburban road. It was a beautiful May morning: the sky was blue, the birds were singing and the flower-beds were unvandalised. It would soon be a hot day.

The day was beautiful for Kapila not only because of the sun, birds and flowers, though she was delighting in all those. It was her first day as a fully-fledged policewoman, having sailed through her probationary period with flying colours. This was the first day she’d been sent out on her own and this area would now be her beat. She might have welcomed somewhere a bit more exciting and challenging, but there was still plenty to do in these suburbs. What was more, here a brown face was distinctly unusual and a brown face beneath the chequered hat of a policewoman unknown. In fact she was only the second Asian female officer in the town and the first of Indian ethnic origin – so she was an ambassador not only for the Police, but also for her community.

A cyclist in full gear approached, saw her, wobbled and nearly crashed while getting a good look. Kapila had to bite her lip to stop herself giggling. She was fully aware that men found her pretty – well, beautiful and sexy – but she found some of their reactions comical.

Her radio bleeped. She recognised the voice of dear old Anne Higgs.

“Kapila – are you anywhere near Nightingale Avenue?” Anne was the only one at the station to still call her Kapila: all the others who didn’t call her PC Nayar called her Kappy, which nicely rhymed with happy, though also admittedly with crappy, which amused her. Kappy had memorised the layout of the streets on her patch and could instantly reply:

“Yes, Anne. Five minutes’ walk away at most. Why?”

“Good. Member of the public reporting anti-social behaviour opposite number 53.”

“Any details?” There was a slight pause.

“Actually, it’s a Mrs Hartington at number 53 complaining about a tramp lying or sitting opposite her house.”

“O.K..” Hmm, no great drama there. In all likelihood the tramp was doing nothing illegal and Kappy couldn’t see why she should satisfy Mrs Hartington by making the poor old tramp move from his position in “a nice part of town” to somewhere less nice. Still, she shouldn’t jump to conclusions. The tramp might be swearing or drinking or something, not that this was a no alcohol in public area.

She could see the tramp from a good distance. He wasn’t even on the pavement, but on the slightly raised green area half-sitting, half-lying on the grass, his back propped up by some kind of bag. He looked heavily-built and his clothes certainly were shabby. As she came nearer she could see they were also dirty, as was the tramp, who looked quite old – maybe about fifty. He had a bottle by his side but he was not drinking at the moment. He saw her and stared dully at her. She saw his face was ravaged by heavy drinking. Poor old man! What had brought him to this sad wreck?

She walked steadily up to him, smiling. He did not smile back. The glass bottle had contained premium cider, but was now empty. He stank, an acrid mixture of old sweat, sickly sweet and pungent farts, piss, alcohol and something else she didn’t recognise but didn’t like.

“Hi!” she said. He stared and said nothing. “Lovely day!” He still said nothing. Well, fair enough, she hadn’t really said anything either. The trouble was that it was pretty clear he was breaking no law and her mission made her feel uncomfortable. “Do you need any help?” He stared at her as if she was a dead rat come out of his shopping bag.

“No,” he said.

“Are you sure?” He looked at her with a kind of disgust.

“Don’t need nothing.” On an impulse, she squatted down so her face was at his level.

“My name’s Kapila. Really, if there’s any way I can help you, I will. There’s not much to do in a place like this.” This brought some reaction:

“You offering something? Asking for a fuck?” he asked. Repelled, she straightened up, realised she might have misunderstood him and anyway, her comment could have seemed to a maladjusted man like a come-on, and squatted down again.

“No, but within reason I’m offering to help,” she replied, “like, well, I could arrange a lift to the nearest homeless shelter.”

“I’m fine here,” he said, and coughed chestily.

“Oh, good. You’re moving this wretched nuisance on, then.” Kapila straightened up and turned round. The voice had been female, posh and not young. It had not lied. The woman staring coldly at her was maybe in her mid-forties, tall, flat-chested and dressed fashionably.

Are you Mrs Hartington?” Kapila asked.

“I am. Why?” Kapila felt like she was back in primary school with her least favourite teacher.

“I had a report that there’d been a complaint from a Mrs Hartington, madam, and I wanted to know if you were that person,” she explained carefully.

“Quite,” said Mrs Hartington coldly. “Now if you don’t mind, just get a move on and dispose of this thing. He’s quite inappropriate in a neighbourhood like this and when my husband comes with his lunch guests from work I do NOT want them seeing this.” It would have been easy for Kapila to show anger, but she used maximum diplomacy.

“Madam, on the face of it he’s doing nothing illegal. There’s no law against sitting on the grass or against looking a bit shabby. If he’d annoyed people, sworn at them or something, it would be a different matter. If a reasonable person would feel threatened by him, that’s something we can act on. But...”

“He certainly annoys ME!” Mrs Hartington interrupted. “But I quite understand. You’re determined to do nothing, you wretched little jobsworth, and waddle your fat bottom away leaving me with the problem.” Kapila took firm control of herself.

“Madam, please be reasonable. Did you feel threatened when you walked past him?”

“Walk past him? I did NOT walk past him. I drove past.”

“In that case, I’m afraid you couldn’t possibly have felt threatened by him. I’m sorry about your husband’s friends, but there’s really nothing I can do unless this gentleman here freely agrees to move on.”

“Fucking won’t!” said a phlegmy voice behind her.

“You haven’t heard the last of this, young woman!” Mrs Hartington declared. “I’ll be making a complaint in the strongest terms to your superiors and you will be carpeted. There’s some respect for social standing in this country, you may not yet have noticed.” With that she strode off, leaving Kapila fuming at the racist implication that she somehow wasn’t a full part of the country she was born in.

She turned back to the tramp and screamed.

Derek Brodie had not been pleased to see a porker marching towards him. They always meant trouble. Worse, it turned out to be some kind of fucking shit-brown job lecturing him and playing lady bountiful. He was half minded to bottle her. That’d teach her. When she squatted down like she was going to have a shit, then he took in the fact that she had class tits, pushing out her neat white blouse like they were trying to burst out, and when she straightened up for a moment he noticed her trousers were tight and there were creases helpfully pointing the way to her cunt. But the prissy curry cunt wasn’t going to open her legs for him. Fuck her. And fuck the horse-faced old boot who’d just come up.

The porker bitch turned round. Derek changed his mind. Fuck, that was an arse on her! Big, round, sticking well out, and in those tight uniform trousers you could see her piggy arsecrack nicely. She was getting hot under the panties arguing with the old cow and that was making her arsecheeks quiver.

His trousers had once had a zip fly, but the zip had broken. The stupid porker hadn’t noticed his flies were open or she’d have had an excuse to give him more aggro. He hadn’t owned underpants for years. Now as he stared at her great arse, his cock rose stiff, thick and smelly from his flies. He’d just had the idea he might put his hand around it and jerk off, trying to hit her arsecrack, when she turned round and saw it. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. He shot his load. It splatted over her face and some went right in her prissy little mouth. She screamed. Screamed and spluttered.
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Old 05-14-2013, 11:15 AM   #2
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Nice start! Hope things get worse soon!
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Old 05-14-2013, 11:28 AM   #3
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Thanks, andersbac. Oh, they will indeed. This is a rape forum after all, and it won't just be rape for our sweet little cunt in uniform.
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Old 05-15-2013, 05:29 AM   #4
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Good start.......I like this.
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Old 05-15-2013, 12:02 PM   #5
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Excellent. So will the tramp - but Miss Prissy Sweet Piggy won't! The whole story is very nearly completed but I'm revising each bit before I post it. The first continuation will come in a couple of days.
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Old 05-16-2013, 04:03 PM   #6
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Default The Policewoman and the Tramp - Part 2

The Policewoman and the Tramp – Part 2

Derek could see there’d be trouble and tried to get up, but found it hard. The porker was coming at him, straddling him, reaching for his wrists to cuff him. He kneed her hard in the cunt and she pitched forward on to him, her big bouncy left tit hitting his face. He bit it and felt his teeth go through the fabric. She screamed again and tore free, leaving a swatch of white cloth in his teeth. He grabbed her by the torn blouse and pulled her down enough for his fist to thud on to her chin. She went limp and he threw her off to the right, rolling over to get on top of her. He hadn’t knocked her out, but she was still dazed. Without that he wouldn’t have managed to get on top of her, for he wasn’t a quick mover. But there he was. She’d rolled on her back and he was kneeling on either side of her hips looking down on her. As he lowered himself down the end of his stiff cock came in contact with her trousers just above her cunt and he shot off again into the material. Her big brown scared eyes were staring in his face, at his cock, in his face. This was fucking great. He wondered if the old posh cow had seen or heard anything, but he’d heard nothing more from her, so maybe she’d gone inside her house.

The porker made a grab for her belt – for the CS canister – but he pinned her nice neat hand to the ground. She had an expensive watch and an engagement ring with what looked like a diamond. She made a move with the other hand and he pinned that down too. Just one problem, though, he thought. That takes both MY hands out of action. I’ll need to soften her up a bit more or I won’t get anywhere and someone’ll see us. Maybe I could stamp on her wrists. He made to stand up. She kneed him in the balls.

Even as he groaned and collapsed he was angry. He should have seen that one coming. He’d fucking do her for that, lezzie bitch. He stumbled back and fell off the grass, banging his head on the pavement. He lay still.

Kapila was fit and athletic, but she was surprised by the completeness of the reversal. The sense of triumph and relief lasted only a few seconds. The tramp had banged his head and was lying still. He could be fatally injured or suffering brain damage. Ignoring the CS gas she’d been about to use, she rushed to check him out. The best place to check a pulse was the side of the head, not the wrist. She bent to do that. He grabbed her round the neck and squeezed.

For Derek the sensation of squeezing the stuck-up cunt’s slim brown neck was sensational. She was in his hands to do what he wanted with. He could feel her breath failing as she struggled. Should he just keep squeezing? She was already goggle-eyed and gasping. No, she’d be far less fun to fuck dead than alive. But if he kept on squeezing for a bit she should be much less trouble. She was trying to scratch him but reaching only ragged clothes. He kept squeezing. She tried to kick his legs but couldn’t manage any force and soon it was not aggressive kicking but uncontrolled jerking. The second she went limp he relaxed his hold. He kept her in the air for a while in case she was shamming. She wasn’t. He threw her to the ground in a heap, got up, loaded her over his shoulder, warm hip in rough uniform trousers pushing against the side of his head, bent arse leading, head hanging down loose behind, picked up her fallen chequered hat as well as the cider bottle and took her behind some rose bushes. He dumped her, stood staring at her, spat in her face and as she began to make weak movements, plucked her handcuffs from her belt, forced her arms behind her head, crossed her wrists at the back of her neck and cuffed them.

On lonely nights he’s thought about what you could best do with a policewoman and that was an idea he’d come up with. It looked good. He stuck the hat back on her head.

“Please leave me alone, please, please...” she moaned weakly. He planted his foot firmly in her belly and stood in the pose of a hunter with his kill. Just pushing his foot down a little shut her up.

Well, Christmas had come early. What should he do to her first? Maybe he should gag her in case she started screaming and someone cared. He looked around. The best thing he could think of was her white uniform blouse. He gripped it hard at the top and ripped it ruthlessly. Well, there was a distraction – her lovely warm brown jugs in a nice white bra. He stuck his hand between the warm, wobbly tits and hooked the bridge of the bra. He pulled the bra right off her lovely Paki tits – she had big nipples and aureoles, a nice touch – and forced it up over her glossy hair till he could twist it round her trapped hands, stopping her from pulling them over her head. He was ripping the blouse some more to get a good-sized bit for a gag when she spoke again:

“What are you doing this for?” Well, there was a fucking stupid question. No fucking brain, these people.

“Because you’ve got a cunt,” he replied.

Now here was a problem. How did gangsters and serial rapists get the gags into their victims’ mouths? Shove them in quickly while they were screaming, maybe, but in reality that would mean a risk of her clamping her mouth shut at the wrong moment and the poor rapist could even lose a finger or two. If he hit her very hard her mouth would open, he assumed, but would he be quick enough to shove the material in her mouth? Probably not. Fucking idiot – the solution was very simple. He detached her baton and held it in her face with the end pointing at her eye.

“Open your fucking mouth!” he said. She opened her mouth. “Keep it open. Shut your eyes!” he ordered. She did what she was told. He scooped up a load of stinking dogshit and stuffed it into her mouth, following quickly with the torn length of her blouse tied round her mouth and head to keep it in. She had no alternative but to swallow some of it and the rest filled her mouth. He wiped shit off his hand on to the remains of her blouse. Now he could give her tits some real attention. Nice ones they were, too, big but not floppy. Bazookas. Torpedoes. He took a handful, pressing his palm down on her pert nipple, squeezing the titmeat, leaving grubby marks when he let go. He stroked the other one like it was a pet and tickled her nipple. It pushed out and hardened. Hot little cunt! He nipped it in his broken, grimy fingernails and felt her jerk in pain. He bent down and bit it, a strong, lingering bite he cut short just before he’d have drawn blood, but that left an irregular line of dark marks on warm brown tit.

He had an idea. He picked up her baton, showed it to her grinning, and whacked her right tit with it. The tit didn’t move as much as he’d expected. He tried again. It needed careful aim to land one on the nipple, but come in from the side and the tit jerked up or down or inwards against its sister. This was great! She couldn’t scream, but she gurgled and her eyes showed the pain. He kept on whacking till his arm hurt. Well, that was good, but she had an arse and a cunt too and he shouldn’t neglect them. He sat down on the grass and pulled Miss Piggy over his lap, head down, arse up. She was being quite a good girl now, not resisting. Yes, her arse was just as hot as he’d thought when the stupid cunt had first turned her back on him. What’s more, he could see the arsecrack better now and just the hint of a VPL arcing across the cheeks. He took a good chunk of piggy arsemeat in his hand and squeezed. She kicked out so he gave her arse a good whack to teach her respect.

That felt good. He’d never spanked a woman in his life, but in the days when he had some money and somewhere to live he’d collected spanking and BDSM mags. The idea of spanking a policewoman appealed a lot to him. It’d really be teaching the stuck-up cunt who was boss. Knocking her off her fucking pedestal. He gave her helpless arse another good swat and then another. He hadn’t realised how much her arse would flatten when he hit it, but it bounced back each time like it was asking for more. Well, it’d get more. He remembered that the undercheeks were supposed to be the most sensitive bit and gave them special attention. From the way she was kicking it looked like they’d got that right. The kicking was very hot. Each time she kicked one of her buttocks shifted a long way against the other, but she couldn’t do fuck all about what she was getting.

He realised he’d love to hear her scream and wail, but with the gag he couldn’t. Ungagging her would be a risk, but the idea of those screams and, who knew, pleas for mercy turned him on too much. He ripped the gag off. There was dogshit around her pretty mouth. Still, she probably ate a lot of curry and it looked much the same. Smelt the same in his opinion. He whacked her arse again and had the pleasure of hearing her scream. After a few more he thought it was time to get her trousers off. Couldn’t fuck her otherwise. Well, he could if he had a knife or scissors and cut a hole in them, but he didn’t.

Getting her trousers off proved unexpectedly difficult. He couldn’t work out how to get her thick, mannish belt off first, and then tugging the tight trousers off her big arse while keeping her on his lap was a bit of a challenge. Still, he did it in the end and it was worth it. There it was, his prize, all his to do what he liked with, its plump brown expanses decorated with a pair of panties which made him laugh out loud. They were white, which set off the brown arse nicely, but had little brown bunny rabbits on them. They looked like something a little girl might wear, except that no little girl, even nowadays, had an arse that size. They covered about two-thirds of her arse and the rest bulged invitingly outside the row of little holes and the elastic. A neat little curved crack divided one bunny from another. Derek shoved his hand in it, loving the smooth, silky feel of the panties and the way her tight young arsecheeks closed around his fingers like they wanted to eat them. She wriggled deliciously round his fingers, the warm panty-material sliding to and fro. He pushed harder and she wriggled more. An extra big slice of arsecheek had appeared on each side. He pulled his hand out and whacked the newly-appeared bits. It felt fantastic – the warm, satiny young skin, the bounciness of her arse, somehow soft and firm at the same time.

There was a note of complaint in her squeals which angered him so he struck harder. He hadn’t known he still had that much strength. Obviously sorting out a piggy was good for you. Maybe he should give her some with her baton. After all, she would have used it on him, the prissy little bitch. He shoved the baton into her arsecrack, pushing the panties in still further. He heard something rip. He delivered a mighty thwack to the height of one sweet cheek – then the other, and SHIT, this was good!

Something had changed with her. In between the squeals she was sobbing. It went something like: “BHUR, HUR, HUR, HUR, HUR IAAAOOOOW! WAAAAAAAA, HUR, HUR, HUR, PLEASE IAAAAAOOOOIW! “ He loved it so he gave her plenty more. Her shitbrown arse wasn’t reddening like you saw on pictures of white arses, but he could see the colour was changing, getting darker with a reddish tint. He’d make it a bit darker and redder.

It was time to get those girly panties off. That meant rummaging in her arsecrack to pull out what he’d pushed in. It came out smeared with dirt from his hands and shit from her arsehole. He tugged hard with both hands and it tore. He pulled the pathetic scrap of material out from under her, smelt it – a magic mix of aromas most of which he hadn’t savoured for a while - and put it in his pocket. Easy as that.

There wasn’t a lot more he could see now at first, just a bit more arsecrack, but he could see her arse quivering and wobbling a bit better. He slammed a few more hand spanks into it, enjoying sending the buttocks this way and that. Now he thought it would be good to use a belt on her. The one she’d been wearing seemed too thick to be satisfactory, so he clumsily pulled out his own. It was too long to use while she was on his lap, so he doubled it up.

There was a slight noise behind him. He looked round. The posh woman was standing there watching. He could not find any words. He just stared at her.

“Please don’t let me interrupt,” she said. “You were doing very well.” He struggled to take this in. The woman had wanted him out of the way, but now she seemed to be saying she approved of what he was doing to the piggy. He was intending to rape the bitch. Did this woman want to watch? “I take it you mean to rape her,” the woman continued, “and I thoroughly approve. But my condition for not ringing for some real police is that I become your audience.” He kept staring at her. Then he got back to thrashing the Paki piggy’s arse. Knowing the woman was watching, it turned out, made him even hotter. The piggy, on the other hand, was comically confused.

“Please help me! Phone 999! Don’t IYAWAAAAAAAAAAAA! let him do something to me! You’re a IAAAAAAAOOOAAA! woman like me so...”

“Hit the stupid little piece harder to shut her up!” the posh woman requested. “The nerve, to say I was like her!” Derek hit the policewoman harder. She didn’t exactly shut up, but she stopped producing recognisable words. She also kicked somewhat more wildly, which allowed him to see her delicious, tight little pinkie cunt peeping pertly out under her arsecrack.

His cock was impatient. It was time to shove it up her. He gripped her glossy black hair with one grimy fist and groped down between her legs and over her cunt till he could get a grip there too. He got up and carried her a short way, dumping her at the posh woman’s feet face down. The pig looked up at the posh woman as if to appeal to her, but did not speak, and the posh woman stared back with a look of contempt.

“Cunt or arsehole first?” he wondered. Big decision. He’d only just seen her cunt, so it had a certain novelty. He’d start with that. He could use his fingers first: there was no hurry. He tugged at the lips, pushed – and met resistance. He pushed again, wondering if he’d made some mistake, and realised just in time what was happening.

“She’s a fucking virgin!” he told the posh woman.

“REALLY?” the woman replied. “How very out-of-date. I take it you’re going to put that right, Mr...?”

“Brodie.” Why the fuck had he given her his real name?

“Hartington, Veronica Hartington. Do carry on.” He didn’t really need encouragement to do that. The fucking stupid pig was a VIRGIN! One in a fucking million! And the way she was going to lose her precious, carefully-preserved virginity was by being raped by Derek Brodie, tramp. She had an engagement ring, she’d been keeping herself for her Mr Ideal, and now D.Brodie was getting to do the honours instead! Fingers, cock or her own baton? Using the baton would be very amusing, but his cock couldn’t wait. He straddled her, pulled her warm brown thighs apart and rammed her. That moment of futile resistance – it was magic. How long since he’d felt that? He’d still been at school. Thirty-four fucking years since he’d had a virgin. And now IN and IN and IN and IN! Take THIS, you cunt! Take THIS, Miss Piggy! Take THIS, slut bitch! Take THIS for thinking you ruled over me! Take THIS for troubling me! Take THIS for playing Lady Bountiful! Take THIS for having a cunt! Take THIS for being a virgin! She was a squirming, clutching sex toy tight and enslaved around his cock. He hadn’t had a fuck like this for ages.

When he pulled out she was a limp, sobbing, bloody mess. Now for her arsehole. To start with he couldn’t get his cock in, which made him angry, but he knew they generally needed lubrication so he shoved his fingers in her cunt and lubricated her arsehole with its female juice, cum and blood. Then for good measure he shoved her baton in and eased it around one way and another. That should do. She was almost certainly an arsehole virgin too, he thought, so in a way he’d have had two virgins in one day, a first. He forced his cock in, crushing all resistance. Fill her up this end too – give her something she’ll never forget. Even if she recovers, she’ll always know a tramp fucked her up the arse. Her arsehole was even tighter than her cunt. It was the best fuck ever. The cop girl was moaning and sobbing, which was only right and proper. He’d finally had enough. He placed both hands firmly on her arsecheeks and levered himself out. She lay there defeated, helpless, sticky, sobbing.

He’d forgotten about the posh lady for a while, but now he looked up. She stood smiling, seeming neither offended nor uncontrollably excited by his cock.

“Well done, Mr Brodie. She was a virgin, then?” The blood spatters would have told her that.

“Yeah,” he said.

“How ridiculous. In this day and age, positively perverted. Never mind – you’ve put that right.”

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“Now, Derek, I’d like to suggest something,” she said coquettishly.

“Yeah? What’s that, Veronica?” he asked. This could be good.

“You could do with a wash. I’m sure you’d appreciate a drink and some nibbles after all your efforts.”

“Uh?”

“I’m inviting you in my house,” she said slowly and clearly as if she thought him slow on the uptake.

“What about...”

“Oh, that is a point. Let’s take her with us. I’m sure we can make good use of her. Now there is a risk some nosy person could see us carrying her, so if you just stay there a minute, I’ll get Martin’s old cricket bag.” She made to go, but Derek was curious.

“Here, Ver...Veronica. When you turned away from this bit of pigshit and went back over to your house, almost straight away Miss Piggy saw my cock sticking up and screamed and then she came for me and I grabbed her. You must have heard her scream, but you didn’t turn round.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, “I did hear her scream and I thought, ‘That wretched little jumped up immigrant nobody is getting what she richly deserves!’ But I didn’t want to get directly involved, so I rushed into the house, picked up Martin’s binoculars and went upstairs to my bedroom window to see what was going on. I watched until it became just TOO exciting and I came out here.”

The policewoman had recovered from her fucking enough to start sobbing more. The sound made Derek hard again so he jerked up her head, shoved his cock in her big brown tearful eye and gave her one load more which stuck up her eye and dribbled over her face.

He watched Veronica dancing across the road and into her house. Would she come back? She might phone the police and then no-one would believe she’d stood there and encouraged him. But she seemed keen. He needed something to keep him busy while he waited. He noticed Miss Piggy’s pretty, shapely ear. He gave it a good tug with one hand and then, with two hands, twisted it round as far as he could. She screamed. He grunted and laughed.

Between the bushes he could just see the door opposite. It opened and Veronica Hartington came out carrying a large, very long bag. Yes, it was a cricket bag. It should have had bat, ball, stumps and pads in it. This would probably be the first time it’d had a raped policewoman in it, but it was the right size. Veronica came tripping across the road. Derek noticed she had nice legs.

“Here we are, Derek. Let’s just pop her inside,” she said on arrival. “We’ll take all her things too.”

“Maybe we should gag her again,” Derek suggested.

“Good point. Can’t have screaming cricket bags. What would the umpires think?” The grass-covered earth was quite soft. Veronica clawed up a sod and pushed it into Kapila’s mouth before tying her own pale pink handkerchief round it to keep it in place. Kapila fitted the bag nicely and they were soon carrying her across the road after waiting for a couple of cars.
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Old 05-17-2013, 01:25 PM   #7
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Enjoying this big time doing well man cheers MG
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Old 05-17-2013, 02:50 PM   #8
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Many thanks, MG. From a master of raping policewomen, that's praise indeed.
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Old 05-18-2013, 07:08 AM   #9
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You might like my latest post in uniformed women cheers MG
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Old 05-20-2013, 09:36 AM   #10
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Our lovely WPC has had it quite easy up to now, but that's about to change inside 53, Nightingale Avenue!

For Derek there was something quite unreal about being let into Number 53 Nightingale Avenue. Raping a policewoman, yeah OK, carrying her into a house in a cricket bag, happens, but being invited into a posh house by a posh lady, now that was stretching credulity a bit. Inside the house continued to stretch his credulity. It reeked of money and – for Derek hadn’t always been down and out – of taste.

They dragged the bag upstairs, not worrying about the thuds and bumps. Veronica opened a door into a plush bedroom and they dumped the bag into the deep pile of a cream-coloured rug. There was a slight movement inside. Veronica unzipped the bag and stared at their catch. Her big brown eyes stared back in fear and lack of understanding.

“What a disgusting mess this sluttish young woman has got herself into! No pride or decency, these people. And the smell! Disgusting. My husband does occasionally take his work home, but not like this. We’d better clean her up. Oh, and Derek – would you mind terribly taking a nice hot shower yourself?” Veronica said. Derek was all in favour of a nice hot shower, not for the cleaning but for the sensation of the pressurised hot water on his skin, but if the pig was getting a clean, he wanted to watch at least. Veronica readily agreed. She grabbed hold of a hank of the policewoman’s long black hair and motioned Derek to do the same. Between them they dragged their catch over the rug tits down, on to fashionably bare floorboards, her tits squashing and bumping, and into a plush bathroom where Veronica ran the golden, gleaming cold tap into the large tub while Derek removed the gag and helpfully pulled the baton out of her arsehole.

Veronica was satisfied the bath was full enough. She yanked her victim’s head up by her once-beautiful hair and asked Derek to take her by the ankles. Together they lifted her over the rim of the bath, dropped her in with a splash arse first and rolled her over. She screamed at the impact of the ice-cold water. She screamed again as they flipped her over, her tits frozen , her mouth descending towards the water. Mouth and nose went under. Almost helpless because of her cuffed wrists, she jerked her head up to get her airways above water. Veronica laughed and pushed her head down again, holding it down remorselessly as her victim thrashed around and kicked pathetically. Derek stared. Was the posh woman going to drown the fucking cop? If so, he wanted to see it all. The way her arsecheeks were quivering and wobbling and pushing up and down as she kicked was magic. Veronica yanked up the cop’s head again. She gasped in air and then gulped water as her head was forced down again. Her whole body was shivering now, which made her arse more delicious than ever. Twice more Veronica let her breathe and forced her down. Then up – and down, and she stayed down. Veronica, her eyes alight, held her below water while her kicks became first more desperate and then weaker.

Kapila was simply trying to stay alive. Despite all the terrible things that had been done to her, she still wanted to live. The horrible woman was pushing her down to make her think she was going to drown and then pulling her up so she didn’t – but at any time the witch might decided just to hold her down and enjoy watching the death-throes. Then she did just that. This was it. Kapila had a feeling that there ought to be something right you did when you were dying, but she couldn’t think of it and her body was still vainly trying to stay alive. The world went red. She was slipping...and then gasping. The woman hadn’t drowned her after all.

“Nice one!” said the tramp’s voice. “The cunt really thought she was going to get it then.”

Derek couldn’t quite decide whether it would have been more fun watching the cop cunt die or letting her live and doing more stuff to her. Either would suit him. Looked like she was going to live for a bit. Veronica dragged the pig out of the bath by her hair, the cop spluttering and squealing.

“The shower unit is over there, Derek. Oh, and I’ll put out a pair of Martin’s old gardening trousers. You’re much the same height and they’re rather baggy so they should do. I won’t do anything much to this wretched slut until you’re back with us,” Veronica said as she dragged her victim along the floor by her hair.

“I do know what a shower unit looks like,” Derek replied. “Thanks.” Actually it took a while to work out the settings, but the hot water running down his naked body was bliss. He actually felt regret about putting his dirty clothes, except for the change of trousers, back on to his now clean body.

Veronica had been as good as her word. She was waiting for him in the middle of the rug, one foot planted on the cop’s wet arse and her hands behind her back, girlishly concealing something. Aware of Derek’s eyes, she shifted her foot so it no longer stood on the heights of the brown cop’s arse across the arsecrack, but pushed between the buttocks until it was more in her arse than on it.

“I think this thing’s peasant haunches need more attention,” she said. Slowly, milking the drama, she drew out what she had been hiding. It was a cane, a long, knobbly, slightly drooping one. Derek’s eyes widened. He’d seen a lot of mags with caning and a few videos, but he’d never seen it in the flesh. “Do you mind if I do this, Derek?” Veronica asked. “Frankly, I’m itching to give it to the wretched slut.” Derek didn’t mind at all. “Martin has a few little kinks,” she continued, “but this beautiful old implement hardly gets used unless he’s brought in someone suitable for his boss. This thing is suitable. Look at her fat hindquarters!”

Derek’s brain was sozzled by heavy drinking but he was not lacking in intelligence. For the second time he’d picked up suggestions that Veronica’s husband brought in girls by way of work. He’d walked into a very odd set-up and he could be a bit worried, but right now the main thing was the porker’s arse. When Veronica asked him to help drag the copper to a big, old-fashioned armchair, he was happy to oblige. There was a bit of a gap between the seat and the back and you could see it was deep.

“Push her head in there, Derek, would you?” Veronica requested. He was surprised how easy it was – a good shove, a few extra pushes which bloodied her nose and the porker’s whole head had vanished down the gap leaving her arse stuck up and her long legs twitching. Veronica brought three cushions and slid them under her belly, pushing her arse up even more. She opened a drawer and produced some rope which they used to tie Kapila’s ankles to furniture on either side, keeping her legs wide apart. “That will do,” said Veronica. Like hell it would, thought Derek, staring at the long, helpless legs, the plush warm brown arse with the marks of his belt and the newly-fucked cunt peeping out. It was definitely better that the cunt was still alive because as she breathed her arse moved just a bit.

“Now, Derek, I consider myself something of an expert at this,” Veronica said. “So I’ll give you a demonstration. Watch and learn. CAN YOU HEAR ME, YOU WRETCHED LITTLE BUSYBODY? ANSWER!” Suddenly she jabbed the end of the cane up the policewoman’s cunt. A shriek followed. “So she can make herself heard with her head down there!” Veronica commented. “ANSWER!”

“Oh, God! Yes, I can,” came a wavering voice.

“Good. Now, you jumped-up immigrant jobsworth...”

“I’m NOT an immigrant!” Kapila interrupted. Veronica looked furious.

“Yes you are, you snivelling little slut – and by the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll admit it!” she declared.

“Yeah, teach the cunt!” Derek growled. Veronica did not reply, but smiled. She tapped the cane lightly on the heights of her victim’s right buttock.

“Hello, PC Ex-virgin! This is a cane. I’m going to have tremendous fun using it on you. Here goes!” Derek saw the policewoman’s buttocks clench in anticipation. She waited – and waited. He could see, but Miss Piggy couldn’t, that Veronica was standing at ease with a sadistic smile, piling on the anticipation. Finally with a wink at Derek, she raised her arm high, paused like a Stuka about to bomb its target, and suddenly struck. He heard the swish and the SPLACK of contact on the heights of her damp right cheek, followed by an anguished scream. Despite the clenching, there was enough buttery plumpness to the official arsecheek to allow the cane to bite into it before it rebounded, displaying a fierce red line. Veronica’s arm rose again. The second strike was just above the first and neatly in parallel. The third, just below, bracketed the first. After seven hits the policewoman’s right buttock was marked in deep red as if she had sat on a hot grill. The policewoman was sobbing, which made her arse bobble and quiver deliciously.

Veronica moved across a single step and Derek knew just what that meant. It was the left buttock’s turn. She was indeed an expert and he was a keen learner. Of course it took seven cuts to complete the decoration. Now would she stop – let him have a go even? She smiled at him.

“Can you hear me, you wretched little object?” she demanded. “Well?” It took the policewoman a while to answer because she couldn’t stop her sobs, but the answer was “Yes”.

“Do you admit you’re an immigrant busybody and a worthless slut?” Veronica asked. The sobs actually stopped.

“NO! I won’t!” the cop girl replied and started sobbing again.

“Oh, dear – what a pity,” said Veronica, smiling.

The pig’s legs being pulled wide apart meant that her arsecheeks were pulled apart too, more towards her cunt than her back. Derek could see where Veronica was looking. He could see she’d need precision. She raised her arm. SPLACK! The cane struck right into the piggy arsecrack. The desperate wail was a fantastic turn-on, rising and falling and fighting with sobs. Veronica waited for all the noise to stop except for a low moaning and struck in again. Magic! But Veronica hadn’t finished. She eyeballed him and smiled. She turned back to her prey. He tried to work out what she was staring at hungrily. It could be...couldn’t be...yes, it was surely Miss Prissy Paki’s cunt!

“Would you mind tipping up the chair a little to give me a better angle?” Veronica asked him. No, he didn’t mind at all. SPLUCK! Bullseye! And that screeching wail from the pig! It sounded like a real pig being butchered! Of course Veronica waited till the thing had quietened down a bit before she gave her another in the same place. She’d drawn blood – but her expression was one of fierce joy and she didn’t stop till she’d delivered six right up the official cunt.

“Derek, would you like to try?” she asked. He would, all right. She handed him the cane almost like it was some religious ritual. He stared at the pig’s arse and wondered where to hit it. He tried one diagonally across the stripes on her right buttock and it worked pretty well: she screamed and her buttock now looked a bit like a five-barred gate, except it had seven bars. Now the cunt was probably expecting him to do the same to the left, so instead he changed the angle a bit and gave her another on the right – before doing the left anyway. He was getting the hang of this. Maybe a few on her smooth brown thighs would look good. They got four each and she was wailing beautifully. Just one more. SPLUCK! Right into her piggy cunt. She was left moaning and sobbing. Every now and then she remembered something and she produced a kind of scream, but no-one was caning her now.

“Do you admit now you’re an immigrant and a meddling busybody and a slut and a whore?” Veronica demanded. “If you don’t, we’ll carry on!” There was only a moment’s delay.

“Please stop this or I’ll die! Yes, I’m an immigrant! I’m a busybody and an, um, slut and a whore! Please stop!” their capture burbled.

“Good,” said Veronica, slapping the girl’s roasting arse.

“No self-respect, no restraint, no resilience, these people!” she commented.

“Derek,” she said, with a coquettish sidelong glance, “have you ever seen a woman rape a woman?” Well, he’d seen that sort of stuff in pictures but not for real until now.

“No,” he said, “but I’m always open to new experiences.” This won an appraising look from Veronica.

“Some vulgar persons might use what is called a ‘dildo’, Derek,” she explained. “Fingers are much better.” She pushed her long-nailed fingers into Kapila’s cunt. The policewoman’s mouth opened and shut; her eyes widened and narrowed; but she made no noise beyond a slight whimper. “The slut’s enjoying it!” Veronica told her new friend. “Now if I can find...AHA!” The policewoman moaned. “What a whore! All cunt and no brains, these people,” Veronica remarked, pulling out. “I think her tits need some treatment. Don’t you, my little brownie? Something for your titties?” Kapila stared at her tormentor but said nothing. Veronica rolled her over. “Tabula rasa, these are,” she said. “You wouldn’t know what that means. A blank sheet. I can write what I like – like this!”

She drew one long nail down the side of Kapila’s breast, breaking the skin and leaving a long, red line. She smiled a secret smile at Derek.

“Derek, dear – what would you like me to write on her?” He gave this careful thought.

“PIG SLUT,” he said.

“On both her titties?”

“On one. Write what you like on the other.” She thought.

“What was on her shoulder – some numbers? Here: 638. It’s so if she gets lost and someone finds her, she can be returned, like tagging a dog. So we’ll put that on.” Carefully, she scratched the words PIG SLUT on one brown tit, stared at the result, smiled with satisfaction and wrote a 6, a 3 and an 8 on the other. The policewoman wailed and screamed. Derek Brodie was getting to like Veronica Hartington better and better.

Then the policewoman said something that amused them both. She’d started to cry like a little girl, and when the sobs eased off a for a moment, she said,

“I want my mummy and daddy”. Derek guffawed and Veronica joined him.

“I want my mummy and daddy!” she mimicked. “Derek, are we sure this wretched thing is over eighteen? It’s illegal to rape them if they’re not, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

“Well, darling,” said Veronica, pinching brown tit, “if you just tell us where your mummy and daddy live, I’m sure we can bring them in. Is your mummy a good fuck?”

“She really is a randy little slut,” she confided. “She’s quite wet.” Derek nodded wisely because he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Dennis,” Veronica said, “how about a fuck? We can use this wretched slut as an extra rug.” Dennis thought this was a good idea. They opened the policewoman’s legs wide and trapped her feet beneath a couple of chairs so Veronica could rest the small of her back against the plush brown arse. Slowly, teasingly, Veronica stripped, throwing her clothes on their victim’s head. Derek tended to prefer young ones, not that he’d had the chance for some time before that day, but Veronica was posh and that turned him on. She was also clever and passionate. He lay back on the policewoman and Veronica humped up and down on his lamp-post hard cock. He could just hear the gasps and groans of the Paki pig squashed under them fighting for breath. He ought to have been exhausted by what he’d put into her, but Veronica was bringing out reserves he’d thought he’d long lost. She was gasping with pleasure and she was wet all right.

He did not hear the sound of a car crunching to a halt on the gravelled driveway. But Veronica did.

“That must be Martin,” she said, springing up. “Don’t worry. I’ll explain. Stay here and make sure Miss Piggy doesn’t escape.” There wasn’t much chance of that and Derek wasn’t at all sure he didn’t have to worry about Veronica’s husband arriving, but he did what he was told. Veronica disappeared.

The Volvo was at rest. Four doors opened, almost in unison. Four men got out, not in unison. The driver was the first, a trim, balding white man in striped tie and dark grey business suit. A couple of seconds later a neat young Japanese man in a dark suit followed from a back seat, carrying a briefcase and a laptop case slung round his shoulder. He looked at the large house and smiled, waiting respectfully for the third figure to emerge from the front passenger seat, a middle-aged Japanese man well-dressed but just a little portly, his face impassive and carrying a briefcase only.

At last the fourth door opened. For a while nothing happened. Then a fat, heavy-faced white man in his fifties very slowly escaped from the car. He wore a white suit and a colourful tie. His features were possibly Jewish, but certainly those of a man used to being obeyed. The younger white man helped him out.

By now Veronica was watching from an upstairs window. She opened the window and called out to this younger man,

“Hello, darling! I’ve been a bit busy but I’ll be down in a jiffy!” Martin Hartington raised his hand in acknowledgement. The Japanese both smiled and looked polite. The fat man was lumbering towards the door.
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Old 05-27-2013, 11:27 AM   #11
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Just to let people know I'm working on the last bit. I had finished it but had an afterthought.
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Old 05-28-2013, 01:18 AM   #12
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really nice. i've enjoyed this so far.
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Old 05-28-2013, 04:08 AM   #13
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Thanks, darkstalker. It's nearly ready to post. Glad you're enjoying it! As you no doubt realise, little Miss Piggy is about to be introduced to new enthusiastic users.
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Old 05-28-2013, 10:36 AM   #14
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haha. yeah. i could see this going on for a few more chapters with the abuse getting worse. nice job on this so far.
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Old 05-28-2013, 11:18 AM   #15
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Default The Policewoman and the Tramp

Martin opened the door just before his wife arrived at it. She whispered that she needed a quick word. Martin, slightly puzzled, said they should settle their guests down and then have the word. This happened in the living-room, in armchairs, though the lurch of the fat man into the deepest armchair looked dangerous. Veronica accepted the proffered hands of the two Japanese, but gave particular attention to the fat man. He was after all Martin’s boss and the CEO.

“We’ve just got to have a quick word,” said Martin as his wife hustled him outside. The three men left looked at one another knowingly though they had no idea what was going on. Outside, Veronica said quickly:

“Martin – listen, but don’t shout. There’s a policewoman in the spare bedroom, some kind of immigrant. She’s handcuffed and she’s been very vigorously rogered by a fantastically nice little man, a tramp. I’ve been getting on with him like a house on fire. I did get him to clean himself up, darling, so don’t worry. Now I know lots about Mr Dunham and his business because you’ve told me most of it and I’ve found out things. Are these Japanese gentlemen in the same kind of business?”

“Roughly speaking, yes. But how...”

“Don’t ask!”

“And have you...” Martin queried.

“Yes, darling.”

“Right. Well, look – does anyone else know about this policewoman – or just you and the tramp?”

“Just us two – and you now, of course,” Veronica replied.

“This copper – is she a looker?”

“Legs right up to her sweet round arse, darling, and a delicious pair of titties.” Martin smiled, slowly, wolfishly.

“Then let’s see her, sweetie. Then I’m sure the boss and the Japs will love to meet her,” he said.

Half a minute later, he was looking down at her. Yes, she was sexy as hell. Fantastic athlete’s legs, a glorious plump, round arse which had been systematically thrashed, tits made for squeezing (with a couple of little messages on them) and even a pretty face with full lips made for cock and big brown eyes that looked at him, appealing to him but suspecting he was just another rapist. No, he was not just another rapist. He was an expert. He spat in her eye. What a shot!

He’d fuck her all holes, of course, and enjoy it. But in a way the sexiest thing for him was to see how proud and fit and glossy and beautiful she must have been and how she’d been turned into this pathetic, welted, cum-drenched, sobbing, snivelling scrap of detritus, still with a cunt and arsehole free for all.

And this man, beaten about a bit by life and with signs of heavy drinking, but not so bad-looking now, must be the tramp. They looked eye to eye. Martin advanced and shook the man’s hand. He was a hero for what he’d done. He’d probably screwed his wife too, but they had an open marriage. If Veronica wanted a tramp she could have one, especially if it brought in a good fuckable policewoman.

The others must see her. He grabbed the copette by her long, black, glossy hair and dragged her down the stairs with Veronica helping from time to time with her legs. Hearing the noise, the two Japanese came to the foot of the stairs. Their eyes widened as far as they could.

“This...is...a...policewoman?” the older one asked. “It is allowed?”

“Well, technically, no,” Veronica admitted. “Nanny state and all that. But she’s here with all parts working. Do what you like to her.”

“Just thought we’d lay on a little extra entertainment for you,” Martin added. Kapila said nothing but stared at the two Japanese in such sad despair that their trousers bulged. The younger one whispered to the older.

“Ah, yes,” said the older man, “we must bring this piece to Mr Dunham. Mr and Mrs Hartington are our hosts in this house, but Mr Dunham is our host in Great Britain.”

“Quite right!” said Martin. He dragged the policewoman by her long hair into the living-room where the fat Mr Dunham had sunk into the armchair as far as was possible. He was delighted to see the way his boss’s eyes widened and lit up – and amused the see the movement in his boss’s trousers. While Veronica introduced Derek Brodie to her guests, they feasted their eyes on the curvy but bedraggled mess that had once been PC Kapila Nayar, now lying face up and staring dully at them. They saw the cum smeared across her face, the eye stuck shut, the torn remains of her uniform, her unprotected and blood-smeared cunt.

“Turn her over – let’s see the other side,” said Mr Dunham. Martin, with Derek’s help, turned her over. The two Japanese whispered to one another.

“What an arse!” said Mr Dunham throatily. “And even though it’s brown, you can still see someone’s just about flayed it. What’s your name? Derek? Was that you?” Derek told him the belt-work was his and the cane was mainly the Missus of the house. “Well done, Derek!” Dunham said. “I like your kind of man. Now, gentlemen – there are three of us here who haven’t yet enjoyed this juicy bit’s holes – oh, Martin, you haven’t either? Four then. We need some organisation in this. I think I would rather like a throat job. Now...” but the older Japanese coughed meaningfully.

“Mr Dunham, one point. Our police in Japan can be traced by their radios and phones, so that if one goes missing, the rest can find the location. It is probably the same with this one here.” There was an uncomfortable silence – but then the younger Japanese spoke:

“Show them to me. Thank you, Mrs Hartington. A very ordinary smart-phone and a police radio. Good. I am not just the maestro of computer games! I can fix these so they send no signals. Ten minutes max.” He took them away, saying, “Please do not wait for me. I can fuck the policewoman on my return.” But his helpful friends decided to wait for him so he shouldn’t miss any fun. He returned in just eight minutes to find the others nursing glasses of white wine and one set aside for him.

There had just been a low moaning from Kapila for some time. She was bruised, her cunt and arse burning, exhausted, limp, trying to persuade herself she was in some terrible dream and would wake up between crisp white sheets with her teddy. But she had recovered a little. She was strong. It was a while since she had been raped and even since she’d been dragged roughly down the stairs.

She could not understand who these people were. The tramp had raped her. The posh woman, incredibly, had stood and watched, had taken her inside this house and had tortured her. But then four respectably-dressed men had appeared, two white and two Far Eastern. Did they understand who she was and what had happened to her? Perhaps they thought she was a prostitute paid well to engage in very rough sex. She was no longer gagged, so she could speak.

“Please...I’m a policewoman. I’ve been beaten up and raped,” she said. The two Japanese giggled.

“Please – I’m a policewoman. I’ve been beaten up and raped!” the older one mimicked in a high voice.

“Right up my cunt and my arsehole, which should be strictly only for official use!” the younger one added in a similar voice.

“Except of course I am allowed to shit from my arsehole, but not from my cunt!” the older one added.

“But from my mouth I can make shit!” the younger one squeaked. They laughed uproariously.

“You’ve been raped, have you, darling?” Mr Dunham growled. “Up your arse, your cunt or your mouth?” She stared at him disbelievingly, helplessly. She did not reply. Dunham leant forward and slapped her face hard. “Answer, you stupid slut!” he shouted. The big brown eyes stated at him.

“Up my...up my...my bottom and my vulva,” she replied. This time it was Martin who slapped her.

“Up your arse and your cunt, you slag! Go on, say it, or I’ll pull your fucking ears off!”

“Oh God!” she wailed. “Oh God...up my arse and my cunt.”

“That leaves your mouth, then,” Dunham grunted. “Open it!” Part of Martin’s job was to advise and protect his boss. He saw a danger.

“Boss, she might bite,” he warned.

“I’ll deal with that!” Veronica declared. She straddled Kapila and brought her long nails round till they were pushing slightly at the bottom of her victim’s eyeballs. “If you misbehave, you wretched little foreign slut, I’ll claw your eyes out!” she hissed.

“So OPEN!” Dunham barked. He was delighted to see the full red lips open at his command. His greasy, swelling cock plugged the hole and as soon as he felt her lips on it, he shot off. She choked and gurgled. Veronica increased the pressure slightly and she got the message, keeping her mouth open. “LICK IT, SLUT!” Dunham commanded. She tried, but clumsily. “LICK, DON’T TWITCH AND POKE!” he yelled, grabbing both her ears and forcing her head forward. Desperately, she licked. He shot off again.

Kapila had never done anything like this before. She knew some girls did it, but it had always seemed dirty and disgusting to her. A girl who liked sucking men’s cocks was a whore. So now she was a whore. The fat man’s cock smelt acrid and tasted foul. His gluey cum slipped down her throat till she thought she would choke – and that idea was welcome, a promise of an end, a release.

But actually choking was another matter. She gagged. Her mouth opened wider...

“THINK, slut!” hissed Veronica. The long nails paused, ready. Kapila closed her lips but not her teeth around the stinking, pulsing cock.

Finally Dunham pulled out, wiping the glistening end of his cock across her face.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, Miss Piggy,” he told her.

She threw up over the rug. The two Japanese giggled nervously.

“YOU FILTHY SLUT!” Veronica hissed. She pushed Kapila’s face into the stinking yellowish mess and ground it there. When she jerked the policewoman’s head up again, there was vomit up her nostrils, on her cheeks, around her eyes and mouth and in her hair. “CLEAN UP THE MESS YOU’VE MADE!” she ordered. But Martin placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

“Darling, our Japanese guests have been waiting very patiently to use the policewoman,” he pointed out, “but they are men after all and I don’t think they can wait much longer.”

“Oh, and you haven’t had the wretched girl either, darling. I should have realised. Do go ahead and I’ll make her clean up later,” his wife replied. That matter cleared up, he took on the role of organiser.

“Who wants a go first?” he asked. He’d expected eager shouts. What he got was a whispered conference between the two Japanese while his boss waited, looking irritated.

“We have noticed that she has been caned,” the older one said after a while. “Those are cane marks, yes? On her posterior and also her legs? But she has not been caned on her tits. We would not want to sound as if we were criticising, but we think that is an omission.”

“Fortunately, Mr Endo is an expert with the cane,” the younger man explained. Endo smiled modestly and gave a hint of a bow. “If we may borrow the cane, he can demonstrate the tit caning.”

“Of course, gentlemen!” said Dunham. “I take it everyone is happy with that?” Everyone was happy. Martin was very obviously happy.

“Mr Takashita, I am very grateful,” said the older Japanese. “You are too kind. I am not an expert – merely an enthusiast with some little experience. Ah, this is the cane? A little on the heavy side compared to those I favour, but no doubt that is cultural difference. Now – I need an assistant. I am sorry, sir, that I have forgotten your name.”

“Brodie,” said Derek.

“Mr Brodie, I would be grateful for your assistance.”

“No problem,” Derek responded.

“You will hold her upright from the back, please. But the way her arms are handcuffed, that will get in the way, so please release them. You have the key?”

Kapila lay gradually recovering from near-death, her strong young body and not completely broken spirit restoring. She listened to these polite and detailed exchanges with incomprehension. What was going on? It was like some weird ritual. She had missed a few words and didn’t understand what they planned. Now the tramp was unlocking her cuffs. Her arms had been stiff and aching for ages, but she’d had so much fear and degradation and so much other pain to deal with that she’d almost forgotten them. Now they were released they were numb at first. The youngish white man and the tramp were pulling her to her feet. She was too weak to resist. The feeling began to return to her arms and they hurt horribly, worst even than her private parts. She moaned. They wanted her to stand and it seemed best to comply. The tramp was behind her trapping both her arms and pulling her on to him. The pain in the arms reached a climax and steadily declined. The tramp had a hard on again and it was pressing into her bottom crack but at least now he was wearing trousers with proper flies.

The tubby Japanese was approaching her smiling. He was holding that cane. He was shorter than her, so his eyes were level with her titties. Was it...no...yes, it was at her titties he was staring! Weakly, she tried to struggle but the tramp held her fast, grunting with pleasure. The horrible Mrs Hartington was whispering to her husband. He nodded. She marched forward, reached behind her and there was a zip sound. A fat, hardening cock rose into her bottom crack. The dreadful woman had unzipped the tramp’s flies! But now the middle-aged Japanese had advanced. He was smiling broadly, cruelly. He raised his arm with the cane, but well out to his side. SSSWIPP! The cane cut into the side of her right breast, but did not cut far because the firm breast unwisely resisted. The whole of it seemed to be on fire and the pain was unbearable. She screamed. The tramp was grunting and pumping into her bottom crack but she hardly cared any more.

Her breast was throbbing. The cruel bastard smiled wolfishly, his eyes gleaming. Here he came again. Oh God, the pain!

Mr Endo had struck about an inch further towards the nipple. Now he was ready for the third stroke. The others watched. He would surprise them. This required skill. He brought down the cane precisely on the weal from his first shot. The noise the wretched policewoman made was exceptional. It would greatly please his audience and that pleased him. Now for her other tit. This time he would let her think he was going to repeat the same clever trick, but he would not. She would get three neatly-spaced cuts. He did not think a Japanese girl would make so much noise, and was proud that his people had more self-control – but of course, they also had much smaller tits, and this was one reason why punishing the Indian piece was so interesting, as good as that German student tourist all those years back or the American civil rights worker his business contacts had picked up in Burma. Bending down a bit, he managed to deliver one stroke each to the undersides of her tits. If they had been floppy, that would have been impossible, but they were foolishly proud and firm. Excellent. To hit the tops he had to stand on tiptoe, but he had been a gymnast in his youth and the skill had not deserted him. He couldn’t get his full strength into the cuts, but they were still enough to make the whore scream.

He had been saving up the best. This again needed careful aim and good nerve. Kapila saw his cruel smile widen and his eyes gleam. She guessed what was coming. The cane struck with full force right on the nipple. Derek found her writhing and jerking so hard she could have damaged his cock, so he gripped her closer, enough to hurt her arms. She got the message. The other nipple got the same treatment. Just to show he could do it, Mr Endo repeated each shot. She was wailing like a dying animal. He bowed in response to the applause. He returned the cane to Mrs Hartington.

“That was superb, old chap, absolutely magic. Now – you’re still going to fuck her, aren’t you?” Mr Dunham probed.

“Please – we would like to do her all at once in different holes,” said Endo. “But not in her mouth. We think she is weak and unfit and maybe she dies while we are fucking her. Then perhaps her mouth clamps shut – I have heard a story.” Martin agreed their request and they had another short conference about how to arrange it. Finally Endo coughed meaningfully.

“I am arsehole lover,” he announced. “So I go on top and fuck her up the arse. My colleague has volunteered to go under her and make proper use of her cunt. We try to keep rhythm: UP DOWN UP DOWN UP DOWN UP DOWN! It is a big challenge. Now if Mr Dunham or Mr Hartington would like to fuck her tits, or Mr Hartington to fuck her mouth, we have a threesome.”

“Thanks, gentlemen – I’ll wait for the other holes,” Martin replied. They lifted Kapila up enough for the lithe little Japanese to clamber under her, having first removed his trousers and folded them neatly across a chair. His older colleague also removed his trousers. Then stared at the magnificent brown but red-striped buttocks like a tiger about to bite into succulent prey. He pulled them roughly apart and stared inside. He bent and sniffed, long and luxuriously. He extended a long, knobbly finger and poked. The buttocks quivered fearfully. He shoved his finger far in. She went rigid. He moved his finger about as if stirring something, smiling broadly. He pulled his finger out, sniffed it, grinned, pulled out his stiff cock and forced it in between her plump buttocks.

He was a second behind his colleague, who had just forced his hungry cock into her cunt. They hammered from either side. She shook and jerked between them like a rat worried by a dog. A broken moan escaped from her mouth: oaoaOAoaoaOA. Martin and his boss began to clap in unison. They clapped louder and louder. The moan became weaker and quieter until it was hardly more than a whisper. Responding to this, the two Japanese began to count in English. They kept going till 37.

“That was a no-good cunt, very weak and loose from too much fucking,” Takashita complained.

“Her arsehole was beautifully tight! You should try it instead!” his colleague replied. “But no, our host Mr Hartington has been patiently waiting.”

“I can wait. I’m enjoying learning from you guys,” Martin assured him. There was a brief debate about how the policewoman and her masters should be arranged now. The older man was reluctant to go underneath her and the younger deferred to him.

“No problem – I stay underneath, you stay on top and we turn the brown whore round the other way!” he proposed. With the help of Martin and Derek, it was done. The policewoman stared at the ceiling with glazed eyes, but when Martin moved his hand to and fro over her face, the big brown eyes followed it.

“I think I’ll lend a hand,” said Mr Dunham. But it was not a hand he lent. He levered himself clumsily from the chair, lowered his trousers and underpants and sat his giant, fat and loose arse on Kapila’s face. A strangled, weak, protesting sound like “Ung!” just escaped her lips before they were smothered in smelly flab. Her legs made a few pointless jerky kicks. The two Japanese began to fuck her again. Her body spasmed to and fro at their command, so it was hard to see if she was making any movements of her own, if there were any signs of life. Martin glimpsed the tramp watching with an expression of fierce excitement. He knew his expression would be similar – but maybe more so. For Martin watching someone die being raped was the ultimate dream.

Mr Dunham let out a long, juicy, liquid, self-satisfied fart on Kapila’s face.

“Enough?” the older Japanese asked the younger. The younger did not look ready to finish, but he politely deferred to his senior.

The policewoman lay limp and still, her once-smooth body coated with cum. Mr Dunham farted again. She did not move. Mr Dunham, though, did move, but slowly, raising himself off her.

“Think I’ve done for the stupid bit,” he said. Martin darted in and checked her pulse. It was slow and uneven, but it was there. Her tits were just about rising and falling with faint, shallow breathing.

“She’s still alive,” he announced.

“That is good,” Endo commented. “They are so much better fuck alive than dead.” He slapped her face hard. Her eyelids, stuck with cum, tried to open. “But, Mr Hartington, you have not fucked her yet. Please!” he prodded.

“Darling, do you want her washed first?” Veronica asked her husband. “I most carefully washed her with Derek’s help, but the dreadful little slut’s all dirty again all ready.”

“She’s fine like she is,” Martin replied. “Cunt first, I think.” The Japanese had been right: her cunt might have been tight when the tramp first got in it, but not now. She was hardly reacting at all. But for Martin that wasn’t all bad: he savoured her weakness, he knew she was hanging on to life by a thread, and that amused him – amused him so much he was....aaah, that had been heavenly. Devilish. Don’t spoil it – have her up the arse now.

“Butter, darling?” Veronica offered. Good idea, he thought. He dipped his finger in the soft butter and shoved it up the policewoman’s arsehole. It felt delicious – almost like raping her, almost like eating her. Butter, he thought – maybe a little basil, balsamic vinegar, parsley: slow roast policewoman’s arse with white wine. Well, better arsefuck her first. The butter worked wonders: her arsehole was tight and slick. Of course, he’d forgotten the stuffing. Well, that was done now. He cried out in triumph and all the others clapped, smiling.

Kapila lay faintly panting on the edges of consciousness, hanging stubbornly on to life, eyes glazed, pride wrecked, happiness raped. What she had been through would have killed most women, but she had been young, healthy, superbly fit and full of the enjoyment of life. She still was determined to live. This torture would have an end.

The men stood around her staring down.

“Well, Mr Brodie, we owe you a considerable debt,” Mr Dunham said.

“A pleasure,” said Derek, and meant it. Now the two Japanese were whisperering between themselves. Martin was curious about what they were going to come up with. The older one approached Veronica.

“Mrs Hartington – is it permitted to piss on her?” he asked. Veronica considered.

“Only in the bath,” she ruled. “Derek – would you be a dear and drag her to the bath again? Martin will help you.” So they dragged the limp, beaten body up the stairs and dumped it in the bath. The two Japanese followed at a respectful distance. Kapila lay face up in the now dry bath, eyes staring. Martin thought to put the bathplug in. The older Japanese pulled out his cock and directed a stinking stream neatly into her face, eyes, nose, open mouth. She spluttered and choked. He finished on her tits and handed over to his younger colleague. Smiling, the young man pissed in her face again, on her flat blown belly, on her cunt.

“Dirty fucking slag, isn’t she?” Derek commented. “Think I’ll piss on her too.” By now she was awash in piss, soaking her hair. A bit more and she’d drown in it. But the older Japanese rolled her over and pulled the plug out.

Derek stared at her. Not long ago she’d been that prissy, self-righteous interfering Paki cunt playing lady bountiful and talking down to him. Now look at her. A filthy, stinking slag, a limp, dirty, sodden rag ready to chuck in a waste bin. And it was down to him.

Dunham was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. Veronica, assuming he was wondering about lunch, assured him it could wait and be ready whenever the guests wanted. He thanked her.

“Gentlemen, we need to talk business,” he said. “We can make it brief, because our lady host will want to serve the meal.”

Less than an hour later, a grey van marked “Thompson’s Gourmet Meats” drew up quietly on the driveway. The guests and their hosts all said goodbye to Kapila – Veronica by slapping her face and all the men by patting or pinching her roasted hindquarters.

The uniformed driver helped Martin Hartington and the younger Japanese load a large package into the back.

The older Japanese smiled and shook Dunham’s hand.

“Excellent!” he said. “A mutually profitable transaction, a win-win, unless of course you consider our brown comfort girl. For her it is a lose!”

“She won’t be able to take it easy in your state employment any more,” the younger Japanese added. “Two or three years very hard work with arse and cunt in that Thai brothel – maybe four max, but in Thailand they’ll very much like having an English policewoman, so she’ll be in much demand and will wear out quickly - and then...(he paused, smiling)...into Thai green curry with her!” He rubbed his stomach. His older colleague put a hand on Derek’s shoulder and took him slightly aside.

“Mr Brodie, we are very much indebted to you,” he said. “You are a strong, clever and ruthless man. We have need of people like you, good English speakers, in our company. You will get to take other girls, maybe other policewomen! Only we must get you proper clothes, especially trousers, and – you are heavy drinker, yes? You must drink less. We can find help. For that, good pay.” Derek stared at him, failing to take in what was being said. “You are interested?” the man asked.

“Yeah, interested,” Derek replied.

Martin Hartington came over.

“Derek – I’ve had a chat with Mr Dunham about our policewoman’s effects. Her panties and bra are yours, of course, as trophies. Mr Dunham wants us to have her I.D. because it might come in useful and it would hardly work for you. Now that leaves her watch, her phone, her engagement ring with a genuine diamond and £43:66 she had on her in notes and coins. That shouldn’t be far short of a thou. We can arrange to convert the good into money. I hope you can accept all that in appreciation for what you’ve done.”

“Yeah,” said Derek.

Some three years later a very different Derek Brodie was eating well in a restaurant. His face and the skin of his hands showed the effects of a rough and dissolute life and there was still a heavy, brutal and mean look about him, but these are often the marks of a successful businessman. Derek was dressed as a successful businessman. He had even lost a little weight and was properly shaved.

Two beautiful Far Eastern girls attended him. It was after all a Thai restaurant, not too surprising as it was in Thailand, in Bangkok. With a toothpick he dislodged the last tiny sliver of meat and swallowed it. He poured another glass of white wine. He looked up. He belched. One of the waitresses seemed to want a word.

“Yes>” he asked.

“Sir, I hope I am not too forward, but it is being said that you are a very distinguished gentleman and especially the chef is happy with you for your contribution,” she said. Her English was quite good.

He’d changed his mind about curries, at least Thai ones. His meal had been delicious and it was on expenses. He wasn’t big on vegetables or salad, but the meat had been a bit different and especially succulent. Like the waitress.

“Yes, that’s right, darling,” he said, and reached out to squeeze her arse. Intriguingly, she made a little squeak but showed no signs of wanting to get away.

“The chef would like...oooh, you are much kind...to see you and thank you. But after, I would like to see you. There is a room. You are my hero. Please be as rough as you like. Oh, I am stupid Indian policewoman in England! You are under arrest! No, help, stop! What are you doing? You like that?”

"Yeah, I like that,” said Derek.

Well, he thought later on, it was time for a good shit and then that would be the end of the story.
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