15 SECONDS
Stephen Plummer was irritated. As owner of a small but growing business, his time was valuable and right now it was being wasted. There were long queues on the main road up over the moors. No planned roadworks, so it was something else.
At last he got a clue. A police car, lights flashing, was visible up ahead and traffic, instead of continuing along the main road, was diverting left down a B road. It was still stopping near the police car before carrying on, so no doubt an officer was explaining the situation.
The road at this point was two lanes each way. Nothing was coming the other way, but just ahead of his Audi in the outside lane was a white Transit. The driver of the car directly in front of him was being addressed by a policewoman. The car moved on – down the B road – and she walked across to the Transit. A dark-skinned young man in the front passenger seat spoke to her through the open window and she responded, getting into a conversation with him and the driver. More delay.
Stephen drew up alongside the Transit and wondered if he’d get into trouble if he just did the obvious thing and drive on down the B road: he knew roughly where it went. But there was the question of how far down the main road was blocked, so he waited. The policewoman leaned in through the van’s open window to talk with the driver – another dark-skinned youngish man – and Stephen was given a second reason for not driving on, for she had a big and well-rounded behind in clingy matt black trousers. She was young and blonde, with her hair done up in a bun as was common with female officers on duty, and she had a curvy, pinkish, solid village girl look, the sort that used to serve meals in the inn, dance round the maypole, get pregnant before it would now be legal and get married off fast. Stephen amused himself waiting for her to turn to him by studying her delicious fat arse.
She never did get to him. The van’s rear doors opened, a third young man got out (Pakistani, almost certainly) and walked briskly and lightly across to the policewoman. He seemed to study her bottom for a couple of seconds before neatly giving her a karate chop and dragging her round to the back doors. Policewoman disappeared inside; man followed her; doors shut and van drove off. 15 seconds if that from the young man’s appearance to his disappearance.
It was so brief and so extraordinary that Stephen wondered if he’d imagined it. Well, there was the police car, lights still flashing, and no other officer was in evidence. Besides, he did not have that much imagination. No, it had really happened. Had anyone else seen? The vehicle behind the van was a truck, the driver busy on his phone before noticing the way was open for him and driving on. Almost certainly he had not seen. The car behind Stephen’s sounded its horn and Stephen moved on too, behind the truck and still in sight of the Transit.
He analysed his feelings about the incident. It had all happened too fast to have feelings about it, but now, he was finding it exciting. He had no sympathy for the police piece. Joining the police with an arse like that was asking for trouble. He thoroughly admired the nerve and skill of the young men, whether it had been planned or was a bit of inspired opportunism. No doubt right now in that van he could see ahead, interesting things were happening.
It occurred to him they might not just be lustful opportunists, but maybe jihadis. They would have captured the police officer not because she was hot, but because she was police. But they were still vigorous young men and could one really doubt that young Muslim extremists who had captured a hot policewoman, and had every opportunity to rape her, would not do so before killing her? After all, rape could be out of anger and revenge. From his point of view, it would be a shame to kill such an obviously usable cunt, but a great deal more acceptable if at least she’d been well-fucked first. He was surprised how far his thoughts were going. The little cameo he’d seen had been a revelation about him.
The road divided. The traffic ahead bore right, the obvious choice to get back to the main road sooner or later. The truck bore right. The white van turned left, or rather, kept going almost straight up a somewhat more minor road. Stephen had a quick decision to make. He followed the white van. He was finding more out about himself all the time. If the van occupants were jihadis, he might just have signed his death warrant. But then, one other vehicle, a red post office van, had made the same choice ahead of them. It was not that strange.
The road plunged down into a sparsely-wooded valley. A bridge showed up ahead. Just in front of the bridge, to the left, was a kind of lay-by or small parking place, perhaps for people to walk alongside the little river or otherwise enjoy it. The van pulled over and parked. From Stephen, a big choice, an instant choice, was demanded without warning. No going back. He pulled over and parked.
The front doors of the Transit opened and out got the two young men on opposite sides. Stephen knew he had to play this right. He got out, unhurriedly. They saw him. Amazement, uncertainty, worry. If they were jihadis, he was dead. But they seemed to unsure for that.
“Gentlemen, you’re understandably surprised.” They remain confused and conflicted. Is he police? Is he mad? Is he harmless? “You’ve nothing to fear from me and I hope I have nothing to fear from you. I saw what happened. It was masterly. I was impressed. May I ask you what you intend to do with that silly police piece?”
The two young Pakistanis looked at one another. The driver made a decision.
“Rape her.”
“Very natural, even laudable. I hope it doesn’t seem too impertinent, but might I have a piece of her?” They looked at one another again. This 40-ish slightly overweight white man is no threat. Why not count him in?
“Of course – be our guest.” That was the driver. Stephen realised his cock had risen. The other lad noticed and gave Stephen a shy, complicit smile. Despite appearances, one of us. He opened the back doors. Inside, a lumpy, dark-clad body and the karate expert, who looks very surprised. The front-seat passenger hastens to reassure.
“Youssef, this is…”
“Stephen.”
“…Stephen. He’s OK. He’s like us. He saw what we did and he just would like to join in.” The lad still looked uncertain, suspicious. The driver intervened.
“It’s OK, Youssef, brother. Relax.”
Youssef had not been inactive. The policewoman’s fine breasts were bare and her pink bra lay sadly on the van floor. Her trousers had been lowered to mid-thigh, revealing pink panties with a girlie cartoon little cow front and back. She had been handcuffed behind her back with her own cuffs and her mouth was sealed with duct tape. It all looked quite professional. Stephen asked the driver,
“Have you done this before?”
“Not with a cop slag. Otherwise, five times, all successful. Three white sluts, one Hindu whore and one wog. Only the wog told on us - she was some kind of social worker. Don’t think the cops took it too seriously.”
“They’ll take this one seriously.” The three lads all laughed.
“Is this whore serious?” Youssef smacked her fat buttock and laughed.
“Right,” said the driver, “other vehicles may come here. We’ll leave the front doors open for more light, but we must shut these back doors. All that we do to her must be inside and hidden.” Soon they were ready to proceed. Her boots came off: quite delicate feet in pale yellow socks. Her trousers were tugged right down. What a magnificent peasant arse! Those pink panties covered rather more than half of it, but left plenty of buttock bare. Youssef slapped it as one might a child or a dog. Did that wake her up? She began to stir just as her trousers were slipped off over her ankles. Comical. Where am I? What’s happened? What’s happened to my uniform? Who are these men? Oh God, no, no, no.
“Hello, cop cunt!” said the driver brightly. “Welcome to the white van.”
“What are you doing?”
“This is a rape. Had training about rape? I’m sure you have. Well, this is a practical demonstration.”
“You can’t do that!” They laughed.
“Oh, but we can,” said Youssef. “We’ve got five cunts this way and you’re just the sixth. Nothing to do with the PC Plod uniform.”
“Personally,” said the studious lad who’d been in the front passenger seat, “I do find the uniform adds something and knowing she’s a cop is hot.”
“There’s going to be a huge search for me.”
“I’m sure your friends will find you eventually,” said the driver. “Now – you start learning respect.” He slapped her face hard. After a moment’s disbelief, she started snivelling. He shoved his hand between the cups of her bra, pulled the thing out by the central bridge, and tore it off her. Her pinkish big breasts wobbled invitingly. He pinched one. A little helpless girlie squeal.
“Panty time,” said the studious lad, his eyes glinting. “I want her arse up.” She was turned over and lay with that great fat wispy-pantied rump fully displayed.
The lad pinched and squeezed it. Then, with a devilish smile, he spanked it. He spanked on the panties and on bare buttock. He spanked as if in a dream. He spanked out all the cop girl’s pretensions, all her authority, all her ideas. Then he paused. He removed her panties slowly, gently, reverently. Down, down from her fat peasant buttocks, down over farm-girl thighs, over slimmer calves, over girlish feet and off – off to be raised in triumph, to be sniffed with a smile, to be passed round for all, Stephen last. A sweet blend of cunt and sweat. Any proud, idealistic or bossy policewoman, he mused, could be reduced to this. They all had cunts. Not all of them had panties, he assumed, but cunts you could count on. With a sweet smile, the studious lad raised his palm and spanked the fat arse. Without question, it was made for this.
The crack of impact was shocking. She screamed! Oh, how the silly slut screamed! Her plump buttocks flattened, rebounded, reddened. Who had authority now? The other rapists clapped in unison with the spanks. Finally, the lad stopped. He poked the red, wobbly object. A piercing, disproportionate scream. The lads laughed. Maybe it was the laughter: the policewoman burst out in uncontrollable tears, which made her arse wobble, to further amusement.
“May I?” asked Stephen. He received nods and smiles. What a wonderful target! A vast, quivering fruitiness blushing pink, blushing scarlet! How on earth could this be on an officer of the law? Disgraceful! Take that and that and that! Yes, wail and shriek, slut! Stop and listen to her sobs. Magic!
Stephen had been in a fervour, a dream. When he came out of it, he was sweating and his cock was pressing urgently at his trousers. The Pakistani youths were looking at him with some amusement.
“Time to fuck her,” announced the driver. “Let’s see – on the rota it’s my turn first. Then Youssef, then Kamal. But of course, our guest Stephen goes first.”
“Oh, no, you’re too kind. I had nothing to do with capturing her. You all go first, please.” Amazingly, the policewoman tried to have a voice in the matter.
“Stop talking about me as if I’m some amusement! Oh!” Youssef had slapped her face.
“Shut up, slut! You haven’t got a say in this. You’re just cunt.”
And so she was fucked. Raped, used, hammered, had, screwed, shagged, invaded, conquered. By three men for whom she was just white cunt. By men she might had dreamed of arresting.
Studious Kamal finished, carefully adjusted his dress and nodded to Stephen.
This was it! He was actually about to rape a girl. A policewoman, indeed! In you go, old chap. Yes, in! In, in, in, in, in, in, in! Respond to me, play to my rhythm! Be my drum, my violin! My whore, my fuck-toy! Aaaah, got you, got you, got you! Finished with her cunt. She has an arsehole. Turn her over! Tight as the slut’s cunt was, her arsehole was tighter. It resisted, but resistance was useless. Up you, up you, up you, up you, up you! What joy, what triumph! He wiped his penis on her crisp, white shirt. As he made himself decent, he saw the Pakistani youths watching him. He saw surprise, admiration. He must have been going a long time and with impressive vigour.
And now the triumphant men stood over fucked cunt. They looked at it and felt disgust.
“We’ll have to kill this one,” said the driver. “Can’t rely on her not telling like the others.” There was a moment’s silence: their first kill.
“I want to do it,” said Youssef.
“There’s a better way,” said Stephen. “Killing her is risky.”
“Yes, but what…”
“I’m in import/export. I ship things to all sorts of places. It’s a legitimate business, but I have dealt with some strange people. I’m pretty sure I can sell her abroad. Russia, China, Nigeria; maybe Yemen at a push.”
“Is this for real?” asked studious Kamal.
“Certainly, though I admit, I’ve not done this before. But the risk is lower than for a killing and the proceeds could be substantial.” The young men conferred. Youssef spoke.
“How would the proceeds be divided?”
“There would be costs incurred by me, so I suggest I take 40%, with 20% for each of you.”
“22% for each of us.”
“21%.”
“Done.” Stephen shook hands with each of them.
“Follow me back to my little store and we’ll pack her away. I’ll make a couple of phone calls. Better tape her up again.”
And so it was. The police identified a number of vehicles from the camera on the police car and one of them was the white van, but they found nothing. They did not identify Stephen’s Audi.
The policewoman sold for a most impressive sum. Stephen and the young men formed a partnership. The policewoman was never heard of again, but in Azerbaijan, she was for a while quite famous.
