Heather Brown - Raped policewoman

"Don't mention it," I said, and pushed my thighs together and enjoyed the delicious bubbling of cum inside my cunt that would get me through this night with my sanity intact.

The squad leader was Lieutenant Hardisty, naturally called Hardass by the cops at the station and not really behind his back, because he was the kind of so-called man's man who liked to be thought of as tough, and actually went around encouraging the use of the nickname.

Actually, from my experience, what passes as a so-called man's man is some guy who's so fucked up, he thinks that his brains are supposed to be where his balls are and spends all of his time going around trying to prove how macho he is, which is probably a cover-up for how much he digs other guys.

I'm not saying Hardisty was a fag, but I do know that his whole life seemed to be wrapped up in the 69th precinct and the men who worked there, and if there was anything else that interested him, it certainly never showed.

Needless to say, when I came to work at the precinct, Hardisty greeted me with about as much enthusiasm as he had for a steaming pile of fresh dog shit. It was obvious that he thought the sanctity of the police, which he regarded as only the most extreme religious fanatics regard the Catholic Church, had been violated by the presence of a woman – or "slit", as he invariably referred to them – among the ranks, and that the only way it could be restored was by purging me from the ranks.

It was apparent I was never going to get a break from Lt. Hardisty – it killed him that I wouldn't call him Hardass like the others – and that was the cause of a great deal of my frustration because he made the assignments at the start of each shift. As long as he and I were working at the same precinct, I would continue to get the lousiest and grubbiest assignments, like that crummy business with Reinhart shaking down whores.

I stood in the ranks at the start of another shift waiting for Lt. Hardisty to throw me the moldiest of shit after he had given all the choice details to everyone else, meaning that I would have to spend eight hours in the company of whomever was the precinct leper that night – a dishonor automatically conferred on whomever had to be my partner – in the grubbiest kind of circumstances.

It wasn't just the grubbiness that bothered me. After all, I was aware that there'd be a lot of unpleasantness when I joined the force. But my assignments, in addition to being grubby, were meaningless. I could never see the point in harassing whores, or shaking down kids with a joint in their jeans, or trapping queers, or some other fucked up thing like that.

And while I was hauling my ass around from one pointless assignment to the next, the biggest case in months was going on right in the 69th precinct. The rapes continued unabated, and had increased in frequency. By now, latching onto a good thing, the news media were screaming for the police to catch the rapist. The word was out: the 69th precinct had to collar the rapist or heads would roll, including Lt. Hardisty's.

Now, if you had a sexy-looking policewoman among your ranks you'd think, if you had an iota of sense, that she might be of use in trapping a rapist who so far had escaped every other tactic for capture. That is, if, like I say, you had an iota of sense, something which was not in evidence at the 69th precinct. So while every other kind of scheme was hatched to try and catch the rapist, I was left cooling my heels on one dumb-ass thing after another.

Tonight, as usual, when the rapist had struck again, Hardisty read the report of the latest assault. The description of the victim was accompanied by the usual guffaws and snorts of laughter by the men in the ranks who were always amused by the straits of any victim in a sex crime. Then Hardisty came to a conclusion, which was something new.

"The victim," he read, "states that if she should see the perpetrator again, she would definitely be able to identify him."

"What a break," somebody in the back row said. "What's the motherfucker look like? This'll give us an excuse to pull some bastard off the street and shake him down to see if he's the right dude. Jesus, I hope it's a nigger."

"Keep your shirt on," Hardisty said with a sigh, which with his customary affectation seemed more like a growl. "First of all, the guy's white, and second of all, I think it's going to be kind of embarrassing for you to go hauling guys off the street for identification based on what she recognizes."

"What're you talking about?"

"The victim stated," he read, "that although she did not see the perpetrator's face, as he was wearing a ski mask, she definitely would be able to identify another portion of his anatomy. She stated that the perpetrator's organ was the largest she had ever seen and that she would never forget it."

"I believe," Hardisty added, looking straight at me to see if he could embarrass me, "that the victim was referring to the assailant's penis."

How could I resist?

"Oh, you mean his prick," I said.

If anyone else had said it, the ranks would have collapsed with laughter. My saying it, however, was a blasphemy on the order of calling God a turd.

"Miss Cooper," Hardisty said primly, "I'll thank you to watch your language. Stand warned that such gutter slang is certainly not worthy of a police officer regardless of his sex. We are, after all, public servants and are supposed to set an example."

I wanted to give the cocksucker the finger but managed to remain still, except for nodding my head.

The assignments he gave were usual. Everybody else was sent out to find the rapist while I was given a partner named Mullins, nicknamed Blimpo who was so fat that he couldn't catch a one-legged purse snatcher.

"Oh, yes," Hardisty said at the conclusion of his assignments, "Cooper and Mullins will stake out the bathroom at the Whammo Burger joint on Cleveland Avenue. We've had some complaints about some perverted activity in there."

Well, what else? The Whammo Burger joint was a set-up for the police. They had long ago drilled a hole in the wall so they could watch whatever went on inside the john. They'd picked that place because it gave them an excuse to hang around since the carhops all had big tits and wore skimpy uniforms, and the management gave cops free burgers. If you wanted the cops to pay attention to queers in your john, you had to meet those two requirements – big tits and free burgers. They were willing to let me go tonight because the rest of the force was out after medals of valor for catching the rapist.

When we got there, Blimpo didn't waste any time fleeing the scene. He told me that he'd spotted something suspicious out in the parking lot when I knew full well from scuttlebutt I'd overheard that there was a carhop named Bubbles who was a cop groupie. She gave free blow jobs to the boys from the 69th precinct, even if they were as fat as a hog. Boy, I thought, as he waddled out of the janitor's closet adjacent to the john where the hole was drilled, she sure must like cops.

What do you do if you're virtually trapped in a room the size of a closet that happens to have a hole drilled through the wall overlooking a can? Unless you want to chew on a mop, you look through the hole.

I didn't have a long wait. A teen-age boy came in and sat down in one of the stalls facing the hole, giving me a perfect view. I didn't expect anything since he looked clean-cut enough, dressed in jeans and a sweater and a letterman's jacket with medium-length, neatly combed hair. However, when he unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down and sat on the toilet, I was startled to see that he had a full erection, his long prick standing out at least eight inches from his loins. Obviously he wasn't in there to take a crap, not with a stiff prick like that.