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From: gw@grimwilliams.co.uk (Grim Williams)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 1 Aug 2002 00:29:35 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} The Cop Tease #2 (MF)
Date: Thu,  1 Aug 2002 00:10:08 -0400
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Standard disclaimer: Over 18s only



The Cop Tease
by Grim Williams (gw@NOSPAMgrimwilliams.co.uk)
Based upon an unfinished story by Joanna
And an original idea by Tony



Copyright 2002 Grim Williams 
 




An occasional serial...


If you missed part one, look for it here:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/grim_williams/www/coptease/jack.txt




Part Two



"Charlie?" 

It was Roger. He stood in the open doorway of his apartment with a bag
of groceries tucked under his arm and a frown chiseled upon his face.
He remained there motionless, ghostly.

He'd obviously forgotten my promise to buy him a girl. Either that or
he'd assumed I was winding him up.

As if I would...
 
"Larry called," I said with nonchalant ease, casually attending to the
paint on my nails, offering them one final coat. "He's found Lucy
Bowman's mystery rapist."

I was curled up on his sofa trying to re-read Lucy's statement: not an
easy task when you have wet sticky nails.

I casually caressed a sentence or two out of Lucy's earthy prose. It
was pretty titillating stuff: tit churning. My nipples were congealing
into giant chunks of goat shit, obscene and unmistakable beneath my
ultra thin tube. They were playing against it, burrowing to get out.
"Apparently Jack's well to do: rich family, good connections. He went
to medical school but dropped out after a year. Larry says he now
works from home, calling himself a natural healer. I have an address:
it's out Greyford way. What do you say? Shall we give him a call?"

But Roger wasn't listening. He was still somewhere back on page one
with his key in the door, his mouth wide open and staring at the state
of my chest. "What the fuck's going on here, Charlie?" he murmured,
trying vainly to understand why I had broken into his apartment. "What
is it? Why are you here?"

I certainly wasn't going to make it easier for him. "He's got form," I
continued, slowly bringing my knees to my breasts, tantalizing him
with the underside of my thighs. He likes that.

I was wearing this cute denim skirt I'd borrowed. It was tight and
short, a size or two too small, leaving nothing to the imagination. I
looked like a precocious schoolgirl out to seduce her teacher. All I
needed were the pigtails.

"He's raped before, Roger. Bold as brass," I said. "He's serial, just
as I told you. What do you make of that?"

There was coffee at my side, Lucy's statement on my lap and the sound
of Mozart chirruping from the stereo.

At least, I assume it was Mozart. All that classical stuff is shit to
my vulgar ears. Roger's a big fan though. I think that's the reason
his head is so mixed up. It makes him mental.

I sipped at my coffee, cradling the mug, fondling it, almost making
love to it. The aroma was delicious.

Come on Roger I wanted to say. Tell me. Be honest. What do you think?
Do you like looking up my skirt, almost to my panties, thinking of the
tiny hairs peeping around the gusset? I see you. Don't think I'm
blind. Does it turn you on, staring at me: my breasts, my legs? See
how tempting they are. Look well Roger, for they'll never be yours.

He paused. I could see him thinking about the coffee, the Mozart, and
that unattainable paradise lurking beneath my skirt: especially that.

I was arousing him and it was making him irritable. "Fuck, Charlie.
What are you talking about? It's late and..."

He stopped.

It was then that he reached page two. It came abruptly, without any
kind of warning at all. It made him turn his head and look at me
askance, suddenly puzzled. "Hey Charlie," he exclaimed, the mental
cogs squealing out in agony. "What's going on here? How did you get
in? You don't have a key."

Brilliant, eh? He's a gem! This guy should become a detective. I
grinned at him mischievously. I love such moments. I love being able
to torment him. "A key?" I quipped saucily, poking out my tongue. "Who
needs a key? That door of yours was easier to penetrate than a hooker
on St. Mark's Square! You should get yourself an alarm, buster!"

It had been too easy to get in, much too easy: an expired credit card,
a dollop of chewing gum and there it was: open fucking sesame...

Roger took off his coat and tossed it across a chair. He still didn't
understand, not really. He looked awkward, like a guest in his own
apartment, waiting for me to ask him to leave. "So what happened?" he
asked at last. "Whom did he rape, this other Jack Lawrence?"

I lifted my legs one over the other, teasing him, pointing my painted
toes. "It was a patient," I said, my pelvis jerking up and down
suggestively. I couldn't stop myself. "A woman named Debra Hatcher.
I've got her address too."

I could sense him thinking, the coins beginning to drop. He was
wondering what game we were playing, what prank I'd devised. It
wouldn't be long before he fell in. He's not a complete moron. Pretty
soon he'd make that short journey over to page three.

But not yet... He hadn't got there yet.

He wandered across to the kitchen, still pondering, still uncertain,
and unpacked his groceries, laying them on the work surface one at a
time. I finished painting my nails while he did so, feigning to ignore
him. The milk went in the fridge. A couple of tins found their way
into a cupboard. The loaf of French bread was stowed into a jar
labeled 'PAIN'.

All the time he kept glancing at me, restless and fidgety. He was like
a fish out of water now, wondering what I was up to. "Debra, you say?
Nice name."

How long before he discovered that I wasn't alone, that there was
another woman here in his apartment, painstakingly wrapped as a
present for her lover? I'd been out shopping too, you see.

I arched my feet, hoping he might catch the freshly painted nails and
gold colored toe rings. I wanted him to notice them for they weren't
mine: neither the nail varnish nor the jewelry. They were hers: even
as my tight little skirt and figure hugging boob tube were hers.

But he didn't notice. He saw nothing. He was too confused by the scent
between my legs, the swell of my breasts, the texture of teats
pressing against lycra.

"The name's not the only nice thing about her," I observed slyly. Dear
God. He was crossing to the bathroom now. This was it. He was looking
for her, hunting down his girl. I hardly knew what I was saying.
"Larry says she has a good body too: real nice firm breasts. He says
she used to be a model, even appeared in Penthouse."

I could feel myself drooling, knowing that soon he'd find my little
gift, my perfect present. And then, what would he think? Would he like
what I'd done, or would he think it too much?

He stepped into the bathroom, reappearing a moment later, his eyes
rolling with disappointment. She wasn't there. "So did she enjoy it,
this woman, Debra? Did he make her come, like he did with Lucy
Bowman?"

Oh God. He was teasing me, reminding me of Lucy, her pussy plugged by
Jack's mighty shaft. He knew how much that had aroused me.

Look at him! He was going to the shoe cupboard now! Christ. This was
torture. He couldn't possibly think she was there. It was impossible.
There wasn't room. I spoke hesitantly, cautiously, hoping to keep my
mind focussed. "I shouldn't believe everything Lucy says. No one tells
the whole truth, not even Lucy."

He scowled, for there was no one in the shoe cupboard. Of course there
wasn't. He closed the door, puzzled. "Maybe not. But then, she
wouldn't have admitted to the humiliation of being forced to climax if
it hadn't happened. A woman doesn't make up things like that, does
she?"

I shook my head. He was only seeing the obvious, what he was being
given to see. He didn't understand. I'd been re-reading Lucy's
statement and this time hadn't been so blinded by the overbearing
presence of Jack Lawrence, always just out of sight, dark and menacing
and so totally in control. I could see the discrepancies. There was
more to this story than Lucy had been willing to tell us. "I don't
mean the bit about him making her come. I can't comment on that. I
wasn't there. But other things: I'm talking about the beginning for
instance, where he's supposed to have shredded her clothes."

I shuddered, looking down at the neatly typed words. There it was
again: shredded. God. I hesitated, confused, my features suddenly
cloudy. What was happening to me? I couldn't see. The words were
hiding, moving on the page, dancing to a new master now. "She says he
shredded her clothes without so much as removing a garment..."

I paused, shaking. Where was the bit I was after? It had gone. Ah, no,
here it was! I'd found it! My belly tightened as I began to read,
finally finding the thought: "At first Mr. Lawrence just stared at me,
at what he'd done. I hung suspended with my bare feet dangling inches
above the concrete floor, splashes of red paint daubed upon each of my
toes. I was wearing clothes yet these were so cut and mutilated that I
was effectively naked. And he just stared. He'd fastened my wrists to
some kind of bolt. It was so humiliating. There was nothing I could
do. I was in the middle of this warehouse. It was massive. It must
have been the size of a football pitch, and it was cold and dank, no
heat at all. A cold water pipe had frozen and burst, dripping water
that fell into stagnant pools upon the floor around me. It was eerie:
horrible. My muscles were constricted and sore, my fingers numb. I
couldn't think, couldn't breathe. I was in the centre of all this
nothingness: hanging, cold, exposed, swinging back and forth by the
length of my arms."

Roger had stopped searching for his present and had paused in the
middle of the room, standing there stranded, lost. Just for a moment
he'd forgotten his girl. Instead, he was looking at me, listening,
imagining.

"And still he stared. Jack had noticed that my nipples were hard. He
could see them through the shredded mists of top and bra, the confetti
he'd created, and I knew what he was thinking: that I was ready. But
he was wrong. He thought I was aroused, but I wasn't. It was the cold,
nothing more. I willed my treacherous teats to go down and become soft
but they wouldn't obey, wouldn't listen. They were protruding little
bullets, peeping through the tatters of my clothes.

"I felt sick because I could see the front of his trousers. He wanted
to fuck me, to stick his shaft deep into my hole. I tried to persuade
him, to reason but he wouldn't listen. He was an irrational beast,
determined and cruel. He grabbed me with one hand, and... oh my God...
with the other hand he pressed a finger through the debris of my skirt
and panties. Suddenly his finger was inside me, lubricating my pussy,
touching... you know... punishing me there. It made him smile because
he found me damp. I didn't know what to say. How could I make him
understand that my body had betrayed me, that the moisture he'd
discovered was a lie?"

I stopped reading, completely distracted. My voice had become husky
and I was forced to disguise it through coughing. In my mind I'd
transposed myself to that warehouse. I could feel the cold drafts
against my skin, the cuffs about my wrists and Jack Lawrence's finger
invading my pussy, forcing a reaction I didn't want to show.

Roger, though, has never understood that. He was confused. He was
still thinking rationally, seeing with his eyes rather than his heart.
He's a man. He'll never understand what it is to be a woman. "So he
cut her clothes," he shrugged, turning away. "What's wrong with that?
He stripped the bitch and then raped her. Why not? She deserved it.
She's a fucking cock tease. Lucy Bowman led Jack to the edge of a
cliff, stood behind him and pushed him off." He scowled, probably
comparing her to me. He's convinced that one-day I'll go too far and
get myself raped. Bless him. "It was her own fault: all of it. But
that's where you Charlie, the law and just about everybody else
disagrees with me. So there we have it. It's settled. She was raped
and my opinion is entirely irrelevant."

He looked suspiciously towards the bedroom and I saw the realization
suddenly dawn as to where his promised present must be hidden.

Fuck. This was it! I sprang up and jumped in front of him, darting
across to the bedroom door. "I don't think you understand," I panted,
swiveling round, the words tumbling out as fast as I could muster
them. "If only it were that simple. If Lucy encourages Jack Lawrence
and then says no, he has to respect that. To force sex on a person is
rape whatever the provocation. But that's not what happened. Think
what she says. Think Roger: Lucy's story doesn't add up. Do you really
think it's possible to cut clothes in the way she describes?"

He wanted to pass but I stood my ground, intimidating him by my
presence. It was obvious I wasn't reaching him. He wasn't listening,
wasn't thinking. He was being a man, doing as men always do, thinking
with his cock. "Of course it's possible to cut clothes," he growled,
impatiently trying to brush me aside.

But I wouldn't give up. "Think, Roger," I pleaded with patient
simplicity. Why couldn't he hear me? "The clothes wouldn't stay put.
They'd disintegrate. They'd fall off. You'd have to be a designer to
have any chance of creating that kind of effect."

But he still wasn't listening. "Nonsense. You just have to know where
to cut and where not to cut..."

The Mozart had finished and something new had started up. It too was
shit: brash, discordant and heavy on the kettledrums. But it was a
tonic to Roger. Suddenly he lost patience and hoisted me out of his
way. He was determined to see what I'd hidden in his bedroom. God! Now
I'd lit his touch paper!

I struggled skittishly. "Roger! Put me down!"

No dice.  

He carried me through the door, still fighting, one large hand
languishing under my skirt; the other wrapped around my back. The
first hand slid insidiously up my leg towards my ass; the other was
propelling my breasts towards his face. Soon they were nuzzling
against his mouth, begging to be chewed. "Roger!"

I was fuming. No! How dare he!

My face had turned crimson, almost beetroot. How dare he touch me like
this! He lowered me to the ground but what can I say? That made me
worse. My anger was unabated, fuelled by total frustration. "It's
fucking harassment, Roger," I cried, straightening my top and my
skirt, my emotions difficult to describe. "Shit. I'll complain to
personnel. I will. You know I will. I've done it before. Is that what
you want?"

But he wasn't listening. That calm, lumbering bear stood frozen in the
doorway, absorbed by the erotic delight that now confronted him. Not
me, his benefactor, but her, his gift, bound, standing against the far
wall with her arms above her head. She was a vision of loveliness; her
wrists tightly cuffed with a shiny new pair of bona fide police
bracelets. These in turn, were attached to a heavy wooden beam by
loops of reinforced nylon.

The sight was pretty amazing. She had brown hair - just like mine -
and hazel eyes. She was slim, almost lanky. And she was wearing my
clothes.

All around her were photos of naked women in sensual poses. They
decorated the wall behind her, framing her head and shoulders, a
montage of erotic delight. I'd discovered a distinctly naughty
magazine next to Roger's bed and on impulse had torn out a number of
the pictures, pasting them to the wall with pieces of insulating tape.

I peeked over Roger's shoulder, nursing my pride. "Her name's Anna," I
murmured sourly, remembering how his big hands had touched me in
places they oughtn't. "She's from Albania."

He gawked. "Albania?"

I followed him across the room, coming as close as I dared, 
suddenly forgetful of my earlier outburst. "She's a refugee," I said,
somewhat proudly. "That's why she speaks Albanian. No English at all."
Roger seemed taken by the spokes of red cloth plugging her mouth and
puffing her cheeks. "I had to gag her," I explained stuffily, somewhat
begrudgingly. "It got tiresome, all that foreign jingo. She wouldn't
shut up so I corked her with a pair of your underpants. I hope you
don't mind."

I hadn't used his boxers of course, rather, a pouch I'd found hidden
at the back of one of his drawers. His face was a picture. "Fuck,
Charlie!"

Anna moaned into the aforementioned pouch and pulled hard against the
cuffs, using all of her hundred and ten pound weight. Jesus. I looked
up nervously at the beam and was reassured to see it still holding. It
was designed to support lighting, not women.

"How do you know she only speaks Albanian?" Roger muttered, taking a
sudden interest in the way her up-stretched arms were lifting and
flattening her honeydew melons.

I shrugged. "Well, I don't, I suppose," I allowed. "But since she's
Albanian I rather assumed that must be what she's speaking. What else
could it be?"

Roger nodded, silently accepting the argument, his gaze now wandering
across Anna's twitching body. "Does she mind?" he asked, noticing how
I'd tied her ankles together just above her stilettos. "I mean, being
tied like this? We're supposed to be cops, Charlie, and she looks,
well, not very consensual."

"I wouldn't know," I admitted sullenly. Hell. What was up with this
guy? How could he be so ungrateful? Anna was a whore, not some bloody
virgin. Why else had she been wandering down St Mark's Square in such
skimpy clothing? I smiled sarcastically. "I did ask her, Roger. I did.
But since she doesn't speak English, I couldn't be sure she understood
the questions. I sure didn't understand her answers."

Fuck, what did it matter? Any of it. We were cops. I'd look after her,
see her all right. Meeting me was the best thing that could have
happened to the bitch. Now the other girls would leave her alone and
she could stop worrying about the law.

Shit. "It's okay, Roger" I cooed, moving closer, resting my hand upon
the inside of his arm. I spoke softly, reassuringly, snuggling into
his side, allowing the magic of my perfume to waft across his face and
work its allure. "You don't have to worry. We'll pay her at the going
rate. I'll deduct it from her rent."

Nice girls don't walk the streets; they find other ways to support
themselves and their families. Anna had been looking for a john, and
she'd certainly found one. Me!

She was in need of protection. I'd teach her that. I was going to
teach her for her own lasting good. As they say: if you can't stand
the heat, you shouldn't be in the whorehouse.

I showed Roger the scissors I'd stolen from his kitchen, stroking his
arm with them. "As an experiment." I purred, presenting them for him
to take. "Let's reconstruct Lucy's story. Prove it to me, what she
said in her statement, what she claimed Jack did to her. Prove to me
that a woman can be stripped in the way she describes."

I'm not sure how much he was hearing. Roger was thinking too hard with
his cock to be listening, ogling the girl, noting how her skirt pulled
higher whenever she moved. This was better. I pressed myself firmly
against him, rubbing my body against his, sensing his growing arousal.
This was much better!

"Come on, buster," I purred, laying my hand over the front of his
shirt, allowing it to fall away towards his crotch. "Look what she's
wearing. Look Roger. My clothes. We swapped. That's my skirt, my
blouse, my underwear too. Look at her. Under that skirt she's wearing
those black polka panties you liked so much. What do you say, Roger?
Strip the bitch. Do it. She deserves it. Give it to her. Make her know
who's boss."

I was determined to arouse him, to make him hot, to fill his fantasies
with images of me. That isn't hard when you're working with a putz:
then the simplest things work best. A bound lady sends them gaga every
time.

"Come on, mister," I teased, tickling his crotch, touching him, liking
the reaction. "Do it. She's wearing my bra under that blouse. Think of
that. Strip her. Make her naked. You were the one who said it could be
done. What's up lover? Got cold feet?"

"No."

"Then show me. Do it. Strip her." 

I pinched his cock with my freshly painted nails, making it hard.
Shit! He was aroused, like iron, throbbing. I'd done that. He was
ungainly, clumsy and ponderous, a bear hiding unbelievable strength.
If he wanted he could knock me down with one flick of the arm. He
could rip off my clothes, rape me, plug my ass, do whatever he wanted.

"Tell me again," he said, his hands shaking, staring absently at the
scissors in his grasp. "Explain it. What is it? What do I have to do?"

Our bodies were touching, slowly melting one into the other. I could
feel his heat, smell his uncertainty. How much further could I push
him?

"I want her as good as naked," I mouthed, steadily massaging his tool
through his pants, pumping it. My breath was sizzling, rasping, red
hot as it brushed his cheeks. There he was, looking at Anna dressed in
my clothes and imagining me tied and about to be stripped. "You've got
to be able to touch any part of her, anything I name," I said. "I want
to be able to see any part, every part, but you mustn't remove a
thing. She's got to be nude, but it mustn't be real. It must all be
illusion."

He groaned for I was holding his balls in the small of my hand. "I
don't know Charlie... if she complains..."

"Don't worry," I said as recklessly as ever, closing my grip and
squeezing tightly. "I'll sort it out. I promise. She won't complain."

But it wasn't going to be easy: stripping her. Using a pair of
scissors to remove a lady's clothing isn't difficult in itself, of
course. One or two cuts at strategic locations will remove a dress, a
blouse even a skirt. But that's not the way Jack Lawrence works. He
doesn't undress a woman; he shreds her clothes like paper lacerated
through the shredder. She's dressed and yet undressed. Lucy told us
that he took his time. He treated her and her clothes as though they
were a work of art, yet he managed to create of it an act of rape.
Violence with finesse. That's quite a feat.

Now I understood why she referred to him as Jack the Ripper. It was an
ugly name but apt, truly apt.

"So where are you going to begin?" I asked, reluctantly letting go of
Roger's cock for he'd suddenly doubled up in pain and was clutching
his midriff. Even so, his equipment stood prominently to attention:
very sexy. Even Anna seemed taken by it.

Or perhaps it was just her fear that I saw.

"I don't know, Charlie," he bleated, eyeing Anna's outfit skeptically,
rubbing his groin. "If I cut her clothing..."

"My clothing," I insisted. "It's my clothing that she's wearing.
Remember that."

"Okay, your clothing... If I cut it to pieces, what will she wear? I
can hardly send her home naked!"

I raised a weary eyebrow. Sometimes he's a real disappointment. There
was that logic again. So boring. Why couldn't he be a real man and see
with his heart?

I picked up his torn, brutalized copy of Playboy and flicked through
what was left of the pictures. "Isn't that the kind of problem most
guys would love to have?" I asked mischievously, reaching out to him.
"Two girls, one set of clothes."

He turned away. "Charlie! Stop teasing. This is serious!"

"Oh! You don't think I'm serious?"

"You're never serious, Charlie. Be honest for once. You're always
messing around, winding me up! That's okay. I don't mind. It's fine
that you fool around with me, but involving someone else in your
games, a stranger, that isn't right. It's asking for trouble."

He was spot on of course. I am always winding him up. Maybe it's a
disorder, a sickness, I can't stop myself. That's me. I get off
risking showing him my body: or worse. "Okay. Turn your back, Roger."

"Eh?"

"Turn your back."

I'm a doer, not a spectator. Watching him with Anna was never going to
be enough. I needed more. "You're right," I acceded, unfastening the
belt of my skirt: Anna's skirt. "We can't involve Anna. You must cut
off her things and then she must have her clothes back: her own
clothes."

Roger was openmouthed, suddenly realizing what I was doing. 

"Charlie! Don't be daft."

"I mean it. She can have her things back."

Now that I'd turned the tables on him he didn't know whether he was
coming or going. "This is madness. God, Charlie! What will you wear?
How will you get home?"

I smiled, touched by his concern. "That's not your problem, Roger. I
tickled the two muddy lumps protruding through Anna's boob tube.
"Imagine it, Roger. Me, in your bedroom, nude, your very own
centerfold. Wouldn't you like that?"

He would. He wanted it, but he was scared. He was frightened that I
was teasing him again. "Fuck, Charlie. This isn't fair!"

"Don't you want me to undress?"

"God, of course I do. What do you think?"

"Then turn your back."

His head fell and I knew I had him beaten. He was the alcoholic
sneaking back to the bar, the addict on cocaine, the gambler at the
racetrack. I was his vice; Roger had no choice but to obey me. It was
the only way he could get his fix.

His shoulders slouched and he turned away, forced to look at Anna and
her consort of beautiful playmates, but yearning for me. His glorious
cock was heading for disappointment. He knew that. He'd been here
before. Even so, he couldn't resist.

I unfastened Anna's little skirt and hauled it to the floor, together
with her panties.

In my mind I was a stripper, on stage, dancing for him, for a man I
was desperate to fuck. In my fantasy I was dressed as Lucy Bowman had
been, the way Anna was about to parody. My clothes were torn and
lacerated, hiding and revealing in equal measure. I knew Roger was
looking at me. I couldn't see him properly because he was obscured by
the darkness. In front of him was a girl. She was small and naked,
Asian in appearance, with a tiny waist and flat, petite breasts. She
dropped to her knees and unzipped his pants, carefully withdrawing his
cock. She touched it with her fingers, kneading it, then caressed it
with her lips. Finally, her face disappeared into Roger's crotch and
his hard iron sword vanished down her throat.

Oh shit. I wriggled; wrenching the boob tube off my breasts and
throwing it onto the floor beside Anna's skirt and panties.

I had to dance. I couldn't stop myself. I had to do it. I danced for
Roger. I wanted to. I danced as I had in my fantasy. I danced the way
a woman dances when she excites a man, when she wants to give him
pleasure, touching herself, playing with her breasts and her sex.

But the only person to see me was Anna. She stared at me, bemused,
still a little frightened, her English insufficient to make sense of
what I was doing. She had every right to be anxious, for if I got my
way it wasn't me Roger would fuck but her. She would become the
unenviable target of all Roger's pent up frustrations.

I danced, opening my legs and caressing the lips of my pussy, rubbing
them, pulling them apart.

Here I was, in his room, naked. Roger had only to turn his head and he
would see me making a naked exhibition of myself, touching myself:
dancing. He could have me.

What's stopping you, Roger? All you've got to do is take! No judge on
earth would condemn you. Haven't I removed my clothes of my own free
will and accord? What clearer evidence of consent could there be?

But he didn't; he wouldn't. You see, my cumbersome bear doesn't have
the guts. He suffers his torture with quiet resignation, with hardly a
murmur.

I grabbed Anna's bag from where it lay and tipped its contents across
the duvet, frustratedly spreading them out. There was a purse; a make
up bag; a hairbrush; a box of condoms and a diary. Inside the diary I
found a small bundle of family snaps.

Roger was still turned away from me, his eyes firmly shut: so patient,
so in control of himself. He was waiting to strip his girl, but he
couldn't do that without opening his eyes and breaking his pledge. So
I lifted the bed covers and clambered inside, pulling the white sheet
up to my chin. Anything to make life easier for him, eh?

"Okay, buster. If that helps, you can look now. I'm decent."

Outside I was a picture of serenity, like ice, but inside I was
roasting with emotion. I yearned to touch myself. The girls on the
wall were looking down from their Playboy sets, laughing: mocking me.
They hadn't even the comfort of a sheet. "Look at us! We're doing it,
we're playing with ourselves, fingering our pussies," they seemed to
be saying. "Touch yourself Charlie... touch... touch..."

I swallowed hard. How much I wanted to spread my legs for him, to take
his cock in my mouth, to possess it, to have his body smothering my
own... and yet it wouldn't do. Tempting him was one thing, stepping
across the line quite anther. What was I thinking? I hadn't come all
this way to lapse in a moment of weakness. There was too much at
stake.

Shakily I flicked through Anna's bundle of snaps. There were several
pictures of her family: one of parents stiltedly posed in front of a
modest building; her grandparents; cousins; one of a dog. Poverty was
etched in each of those pictures: gaunt faces, tired smiles, cheap
functional clothing.

I looked up and fixed Roger with a hard defiant stare. He was so
inactive. "What's up?" I asked, daring him to hold my gaze. The sheet
between us was thin and he knew I was naked beneath it. "Do you expect
me to do it for you? To strip her?"

He shook his head reluctantly. "No," he sighed, not moving, gazing
sadly at the sheet. "I can do it."

"Good," I said. But still he wavered. 

I carried on thumbing the pictures. Suddenly, there was a change, a
new story to be told: bright lights, spirited laughter, leaning out of
a train. It was a good job Anna was gagged, cheeks bloated and her
mouth stuffed. She could see and was outraged that I was going through
her things. Still, what could she do?

And now somebody new, a man, young and worldly wise. He and Anna were
romantically entwined: kissing in one picture, in another she was on a
beach wearing a clingy bikini, smiling at the camera. The loose strap
had fallen from her shoulder.

And there the story abruptly ended. No more photos. How did she get
from there to here, I wondered. From girlfriend to whore? Had the guy
in the picture seduced her into prostitution? Or what? I couldn't
imagine that she'd been on the streets for long. She was far too
naive.

Well, whatever the beginning, Anna was due a shock. She was about to
experience the rough side of the business.

I put down her pictures.

"How long are you going to stand there gawking?" I asked Roger,
returning Anna's photos to her bag. I had become impatient. What was
keeping him? "Don't you want to do this? Is that the problem? Shall I
take Anna back to the square?"

That stung Roger from his reverie. The bear yawned and stretched his
heavy ungainly limbs. I tensed. This was it. Watch closely. He was
going to do it. God.

He was going to strip her.

I held my breath, an innocent spectator as he approached and then
hesitantly touched her. He ran the cold steel tip of the scissors
across her blouse, very timidly at first, but then with greater
confidence, tracing the rounded contours of her breasts.

Anna whimpered into her gag, sweating fear and dread. She had to idea
of our purpose. None. All she saw were the scissors. God, she was so
helpless!

Roger was like a wild animal now standing by its prey, and she was the
gazelle, with no idea at all into what trap she'd fallen. It was all
so different from the house in Albania or the guy on the beach.

And all the time there were the scissors, opening and closing within
Roger's grasp, stroking her, touching her. It was the scissors that
were her phobia, hurling her into fits of pitch-black terror. She
stared at the glinting scything blades wide-eyed, trying vainly to
struggle and back away.

Roger enjoyed that. I saw him, deliberately prodding the highs and the
lows of her breast with the point of his scissors, tormenting her,
searching and testing for the soft lump of her nipple. Dear God! My
stomach was in knots. Now that he'd found it he grinned vindictively,
evilly, and then pressed down, cruelly pushing into the meat of her
breast, directly through the heart of her nipple.

I gasped; leaned forward. Shit. I wanted to scream. What had he done?
Fortunately for Anna I'd selected blunt-ended scissors, but even so,
she wailed hysterically into the gag, bucking and swaying. I guess
that had hurt, or maybe it was just the anticipation of it hurting, I
couldn't be sure.

She must be thinking she'd fallen into the clutches of perverts, the
Bonnie and Clyde of vice. Maybe she thought we were psychopaths and
that once we'd finished, Roger would strangle her with a single sheer
black stocking while I smothered her with my pussy. She wasn't to know
this was a game.

I often wonder about such things. Are we good or evil, Roger and I?
I'm never quite absolutely sure, for unless you foster the thought
patterns of a felon and make them your own, you'll never be a good
copper. So what does that make us? There's a very fine divide between
saint and devil, between party girl and whore. "It takes one to know
one," a bent tealeaf once told me. Anna was going to learn that
tonight.

"Start with the skirt," I insisted, picking up Lucy's statement. "She
doesn't give us much detail. She just says he reduced her clothes to
ribbons. That means skirt to grass skirt I guess. Lots of cloth
filaments dangling from the waist."

Accepting my proposal, Roger began at the hem; making long vertical
cuts along Anna's thighs, over my tiny black g-string, the one he'd
liked so much, and all the way to the waist. It was a fairly short
skirt, but even so each incision was eighteen inches or so in length.
I tried to work it out: since Roger was making cuts about a quarter of
an inch apart, how many cuts would that require?

I quickly gave up. I never was much good at math. Even so, it helped
me understand that much effort is needed to shred a woman's clothes.
How long must Lucy have hung there, cuffed to a ceiling bolt in Jack
Lawrence's empty warehouse? She hadn't said, hadn't told us, hadn't
mentioned the time element at all.

That puzzled me. Surely if he'd really done this, shredded her
clothes, she'd have mentioned the time. She'd have described the agony
of hanging by her wrists, how her arms had became numb, how the
scissors had sent shivers down her spine as the cold steel had inched
across her bare flesh, how she'd been terrified he'd cut her.

I could see Anna was afraid, terrified. She felt such fear. I could
see her anxiety, hear it, almost smell it. It was raw and disturbed.
She was trembling and shivering with alarm. We were doing her head in.
That was to be expected.

So how come Lucy had been so calm? She should have been petrified too,
wetting her panties; scared shitless as Jack had approached. And then
when he'd started... oh God, how could she have been so calm?

I tried to imagine how it would feel, tied and gagged, being stripped
of my clothes and not knowing whether my assailant was just going to
rape me, or whether that was merely the hors d'oeuvre.

Would I have been so matter of fact? Could I have been?

No. I didn't think so. It didn't ring true. Lucy was spinning us a
yarn. The more I considered it, the more positive I became. The
question was: why?

"She looks like something out of South Pacific," I observed wryly when
Roger finally finished with the skirt. It had taken him twenty minutes
and his fingers were now aching from the repetitive action of working
the scissors.

"Which South Pacific do you mean?" he grunted, running his hand
through the strands of her skirt, making the ribbons dance as they
flowed through his fingers. "The ocean or the strip joint?"

Each time he did it, the polka dots of my panties flashed into view.
Bugger. That sure was sexy.

My expression slowly broke into a smile. "The strip joint, of course,"
I said, fluttering my eyelashes. "A very exclusive establishment in
the heart of the city. The ladies are all very free with their favors.
For twenty bucks a guy can have a girl to dance with, very sensual.
For a hundred bucks more he can have her, no questions: any girl,
Roger, for just a hundred and twenty bucks. Any girl that turns him
on. What do you say to that?"

He knew I was teasing him of course, and this time he ignored it. He
does that sometimes. It's his way of handling the pressure. But he'd
be thinking about what I'd said, pondering, wondering how I'd react if
he accepted the offer, if he gave me the money.

He began to cut again, this time Anna's blouse, cutting the material
into thin vertical ribbons. He left a long central spine running
across her shoulders and down the top of each arm, a support to keep
the garment from completely disintegrating.

His hands seemed to frequently brush the black gossamer beneath - my
bra - as he cut. It appeared haphazard the way he did it, but it
wasn't. I know Roger. He was teasing me. Each caress was definitely
planned, every touch a torture. His fingers crackled, dispatching an
electrical charge with every contact.

And it was working. The continuous random collisions were having an
effect. I rocked forward. She was enjoying this: Anna, the slut! And
from the state of Roger's dick she wasn't the only one!

I slipped my fingers between my legs. Part of me was still parading
around the stage at the South Pacific. I was the stripper. This was my
job, showing myself to men, especially to Roger. He wouldn't be
satisfied until I'd opened my pussy and shown him my pink. He wanted
me to touch myself, to masturbate with my legs wide apart. He wanted
to watch me come.

"The bra's going to be the hardest," I mumbled to myself, pressing my
finger deep inside my hole. I was thinking ahead, distracting myself.
What would I do if I had to strip this woman of her underclothes? No,
not me: Jack. What would he do next?

Then suddenly I saw him standing at the back of the South Pacific,
leaning nonchalantly against the bar. He was a handsome sophisticate
with an open shirt and a glass of red wine in his hand. I recognized
him at once. I knew him. Yes. That was Jack. Lucy's Jack. My Jack.
He'd come to witness my performance. He was waiting. He wanted to see
me spread my pussy and show everyone how hot I'd become. What could I
do? There was no way I could hide my arousal, not if I was going to
show everyone my pink.

God. 

It was Jack I was fantasizing about, the ever present, ever elusive
reptilian Jack. How do you do it, Jack?

That's what I most wanted to know. How do you rape those women and
make them come against their will? How do you remove their clothes
whilst still leaving them dressed?

What is it you do to women? How do you gain control of our heads?

I analyzed the soft semi transparent lace sheathing Anna's breasts and
tried to work out how Jack would have handled the challenge.

How did he cut so that the breasts were still within their cups and
yet easily seen and handled? If he cuts too much then the tits fall
out and the illusion is lost.

There had to be an answer. Lucy had been wearing a bra. There was no
doubt about that. She'd mentioned it several times.

What had she said? I looked down at her statement, still fingering
myself with the other hand. Yes, here. She was inside my head now,
whispering her words, teasing me, leading me on. I could hear her so
very clearly.

"Jack grabbed my bra between the breasts where the cups meet and
dragged me into his clutches, mashing me against his body, wrapping me
into his arms. Then he kissed me, his mouth crushing my lips and
demanding my tongue."

I looked up, squeezing my legs together, feeling the familiar ache.
"This isn't real," I said gruffly, my puffy lips begging to burst.
"The more I read this, the more uneasy I become. It's an erotic
fantasy, not a crime report."

But Roger wasn't answering me. He wasn't listening. He was finishing
his work.

He'd completed the blouse and had now begun to cut Anna's bra. A
single incision crossed her left breast. He deliberately flicked the
nipple with the end of the scissors sending Anna hysterical inside her
gag. I'm sure she'd convinced herself that we were going to cut off
her firm little teats. That's why she was scared.

But Roger's mind was elsewhere. "What are you going to do about
David?"

"David?"

"Yes, Charlie. David."

I parted my legs, unable to conceal the groan of excitement as my
finger explored a super sensitive spot. My breathing was short. "What
about him? Are you trying to get rid of me?"

I was on edge. Snip, scythe, snip. my beautiful bra continued to
disintegrate upon poor Anna's sweet breasts. It was me Roger was
punishing, me he was stripping.

Roger was doing that to me, not to her. 

I was flushed and panting, unable to stop caressing myself, kidding
myself that he wouldn't see because he was so preoccupied with Anna.
But I was wrong. He had seen, he could see. He paused and stared at me
straight.

"You need a good fucking, Charlie," he asserted, with more than a hint
of roughness in his voice. His gaze wandered across the barrenness of
the sheet and caught the movement of my hand. I stilled it at once,
tense and aching. "Stay in that bed," he said. "And I'll do it. I
promise. When I'm finished with Anna, I'll screw you and she can watch
me."

He was testing me, raising the stakes. But no way was he serious. He
hasn't the guts. I told him so. "You wouldn't dare."

He started to snip once more at Anna's bra. I could see both nipples
peeking out from between the strands of silk. "Be careful, Charlie,"
he said. "Either go home to David, or be prepared for the
consequences. I'm telling you..."

My pussy was squelching with juice. I was so hot. 

His hands were all over Anna's tits, squeezing, pawing. He kissed them
hungrily and roughly. I knew what he was doing; he's so easy to read.
He was showing me what he planned to do with my own pair of diamonds
if I stayed. He was getting near the edge now: just a little more
pushing. Just a little more...

"Don't tempt me, Charlie," he warned. "You can masturbate all you
want. But tonight you're going to get laid. You just have to decide
who it's to be: David or me."

My heart was racing, pounding. My tits ached and pleaded for
attention. He thought I would go, that I would take his warning and
leave him with Anna. That's what he expected me to do, what I ought to
do. But what if I didn't? Could he possibly be real with his threat? I
slipped a second finger inside my hole. "You reckon I should forgive
him, let him fuck me? David, I mean?"

He shrugged. 

He was still the lumbering bear, analyzing me logically. "That's your
decision, Charlie. He's your boyfriend. But if you don't let him do
it, I will." He stopped cutting, put down Anna's breast, and then
pointed at her tattered bra. "Do you think that's enough? If I cut any
more, her tits will just fall out."

I groaned in anguish. Why did he have to keep changing the subject?
Just as it was getting to the crux!

My index finger rubbed at my ecstatic clit while the second finger dug
deep inside. "Maybe Lucy had bigger tits," I gasped. "Not so flat."

Lucy had told us that she'd been as good as naked when Jack had
finished with her. Anna was indecent, but far from naked. I couldn't
see her nipples at all.

Roger eyed his handiwork critically. "But Lucy doesn't have big tits,
not enormous ones anyway. We saw her this afternoon. They're not much
different in size to Anna's."

Trust a man to both notice and remember. I grimaced: "Well maybe it
was just that Lucy felt naked, even if she wasn't. After all, this is
all subjective, isn't it? Lucy didn't have the same view as us. She
was tied."

He nodded. "Yes. We need Anna's opinion. Do you think she feels naked?
Let me cut her panties and then we'll ask her."

Ask her? What was this? How could we ask her? Had Roger suddenly
learned Albanian? The only English this poor rat understood was a list
of sexual services and their corresponding prices.

I watched Roger snip into Anna's panties, piercing the little polka
dots. They'd been nice panties. I was a little sad to see them go:
such a shame. Oh well!

Roger was cutting horizontally. "I'm cutting this way," he said, again
so very logically. "Because it makes her pussy easier to access. Lucy
said something about that. Do you remember?"

I did. I could quote it from memory. "If they're lacerated properly -
Lucy had been speaking of panties, of course - then the woman is
clothed, and yet naked; clothed, and yet instantly accessible to a
finger or cock."

Roger threw the scissors onto the bed. He'd finished. "Well, this is
the acid test, I guess," he sighed.

He placed his hand upon Anna's groin, upon my skirt. "She's still
clothed." I watched his finger slip between the ribbons of cloth. It
snaked through one of those wicked panty tears and disappeared into
the warmth of her body. Anna squealed in surprise, flush with
embarrassment. Had she been wet? I wondered. From the reaction I
guessed she must have been. "And she's also instantly accessible,
first to my finger."

I shivered, and finished his sentence, feeling my climax beginning to
build. I could hardly breathe. "And also to your cock."

Roger ran his other hand across her back, first up, then down.
Somewhere on the journey his hand slipped inside the remnants of her
blouse and onto her soft exotic flesh. He could obviously do now
whatever he chose, his hands were groping her ass, searching for the
crack. Anna fought the cuffs and kicked at the rope binding her
ankles. Her passions were obviously well stirred.

So were Roger's. "If you stay much longer, Charlie," he declared,
unzipping his pants. "You'll be next. I'll do it. I mean it. I'll
shred your clothes and then test you with finger and cock. I'll do it.
I haven't forgotten my promise."

It would have been churlish to have pointed out that I was already
naked beneath my sheet. Short sighted too, for it could only have
focussed his attention on the second half of his promise.

My orgasm hit me with the force of an express train. I didn't want to
come in front of him but I couldn't stop it. I'd reached that point
where there is just no way back. My climax was even more intense
because they were both watching, Roger in lechery, Anna in
consternation.

Dear God. What now? What should I do? He expected me to go, to leave
him with Anna. He'd fuck her, imagining she were me. He'd pin her to
his bed, just as I had pinned the photos to the wall. Oh shit. Inside
my head a voice kept calling. Tease him, it cried. Test him out. He's
bluffing as he always does. He won't touch you. He won't. He wouldn't
dare.

I looked down at Anna's clothes, strewn upon the carpet by the bed. If
I left I would have nothing to wear. They were Anna's now. My gift. So
how would I get home?

Roger was pulling out his cock. It was a monster. Jesus. He was going
to bang her, Anna. He was about to do it. But what then?

I had my hand of poker. This was it. We were playing to the edge as
I'd always hoped. Everything was at stake; the chips were piled high.
What should I do: should I play or should I fold? I glanced
frantically at my cards and wondered. It wasn't an easy one, but I
knew at once what I should do. There was only one decision to be made.
As they say, you should never bluff a bad player, you must always show
down the better hand.

I must fly home to David and leave Roger to his whore.

End of Part Two


More is written. It may be posted.

The Cop Tease
Grim Williams (gw@NOSPAMgrimwilliams.co.uk)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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