Breaking Down the Law

The day began like any other for Caspar Pollock. He got up for work, fried up some eggs, blasted down the road in his truck, and made it just in time to be five minutes late. Pollock was a tall, bald man with an expansive set of tattoos and small, rather cruel eyes that seemed to narrow in on whoever was unlucky enough to cross his path. He was a heartless bully, known around his neighbourhood for a nasty criminal record, a tendency to abuse women, and a drinking habit that made him a nasty customer at any time in the evening.

Work was the usual tradesman kind of labour. He worked as a welder in an automobile line, doing some of the finer work that the bigger machines did not handle. Caspar had steady hands, steady and strong, and they seemed immune to any heat and any strain, so that he rarely took his unpaid break through the course of his nine-hour shift. At the end of each day, he was sweaty but far from exhausted. Usually he would prowl the streets as though looking for trouble. Often he found it.

He joked with his workers, from time to time. They often told stories about the beautiful women they had intimidated into sex. Not one of them admitted to having intimate, loving sex; and between the lot of the blue-collar men, none of them cared for this kind of attachment. Each knew what they liked, and found their way to get it. For Jacques, it was seductive words and hooded eyes. For Freddy, it was a look of elegance and decency -- that collapsed as soon as his prey was in his arms. For Caspar, as often as not it was rape. Once he had been jailed for a time, until the woman refused to testify and the charges were dropped -- though not before a trial had been gone through, even in the absence of the woman's testimony.

At the end of this sunny Wednesday, Caspar found himself stuck in traffic on the way home. The heat was beginning to rise degree by cruel degree, until the interior of his truck was beginning to almost bake him. He was stuck in the middle of a busy roadway, flies buzzing around his head -- Caspar occasionally pulverised these with an idle, meaty hand -- and the radio screaming out his favourite heavy metal songs. His truck was caked with mud, on the front, the sides and even over the license plate. It seemed to steam like some infernal engine, overheating in the sun.

Growing fed up with all the blistering heat and the annoyance of the conditions, he threw open the door of the truck and stepped out, looking for somewhere to shoot up on heroine. Glancing around, he barely bothered to obscure the tube hanging from his pocket as he sauntered over to an area overgrown with trees by the side of the road. He did glance around a little, but seeing no police, he was not concerned. He vanished into the trees.

Meanwhile, May Frost, an elderly woman of conservative background and timid but insistent demeanour, watched in fury from her car. SHE knew what was going on, and her small, fierce little eagle's eyes watched from her tiny car, as the long-legged working fellow vanished into the trees. Youth these days! Shooting up and getting drunk -- probably beating their wives -- May knew, and judged, and smouldered. Her own car smelled strongly of pine, filled with air fresheners, and she looked around for someone to help her out. She almost dialed the police using her antique, oversized cell phone. But she froze as the phone reached her ear. Someone was coming down the road -- looked like a cop. She pulled open her door and stepped out.

The traffic was back-to-back, bumper-to-bumper, and an occasional car honked as the day steamed on. The sun was sending them all slightly mad. A few sighs of relief emerged as the cop car pulled closer.

Constable Heather Westfield was a fresh recruit, straight out of police school. Being something of a looker, a rather cute blonde with short hair in a bun, and cool, collected blue eyes, she was the heartthrob of the academy. That she was relatively inexperienced in sex hardly seemed to matter, as she wore her uniform with a special pride that imbued her with womanly charm, and a strange grace. She was like an angel trapped in the clothes of a mortal. A little overheated, she had cranked down her window. Today, she was riding alone for her first time without a partner, for the heat had given her usual partner Michael a spat of migraines once again. Heather felt confident that the few hours she would be alone, should be fine. She had been dispatched, in this case, just to deal with a traffic backup, to nip any road rage issues in the bud.

Exiting the squad car, she stretched her short legs, pulling her arms over her head to stretch for a second, before remembering herself. Glancing around, there was no sign of hostility from anybody, save an occasional honk. She looked around for anyone in distress, and May took her by surprise from one side, a bundle of nervous elderly energy.

"Hey there! Hey there, officer! I have news for you, I have news...the man from that truck, he went off down into the trees there. Yes, into the ravine. No, you can't see him from here. But trust me! Trust me. He was there, and he had one of those -- you know, those drug tubes. He meant it, officer. Believe you me, he meant to use it. He's probably shooting up even as we speak!"

Heather paused. It was against procedure to rush off into the trees alone, but there was no reason to think the man was armed. And if he was doing heroine, he would not be paying attention to who was sneaking up behind. She had her gun and nightstick. She was hardly concerned. She shrugged. "Well, policy is..."

"Never mind policy, officer! Never mind that! C'mon now, he's just a big bully I expect, all muscle and no action. Probably will pee his pants when he sees a police officer with the cuffs and all." May squinted at Heather awfully, almost threateningly, and suddenly Heather knew that if she did not act, there would be some stupid report against her, some needless paperwork to fill out. Well -- it was only meters from the roadside. What was the worst that could happen?

Westfield scratched at her forehead where a mosquito had bitten her. Under the blonde bangs that had snuck out from her hair bun, her eyes were still calm, but a little annoyed. "Alright, alright. Just please get back in your car. Traffic isn't moving anyway, I guess it'd be a while until help could arrive. And in the meanwhile..."

Suddenly, she was a little excited. She was really going to catch her first 'bad guy', and even red-handed if she was lucky. She headed down towards the trees, away from the noise. The young female officer was surprised by how quickly the road noise vanished behind her as the first couple of trees flanked in around her. Rising up in deadly crescent, they seemed to engulf her rapidly. There was no sign of a man down here. Heather was inclined to rather doubt the story. Her head swiveled. Left -- right -- then she saw something. It looked like a towel.

This was a little odd. Heather crept towards it, her lean body leaning forward like a hunter stalking its prey. Where was the man who had left it here? Or was this just coincidence? She crept closer. Suddenly, she saw a tall, bulky shape in her peripheral vision. Turning quickly, she almost saw who was there -- before something struck her on the side of the head, and she fell...

***

Heather came back around as something slapped against her face. The constable blinked, coughed roughly, and tried to stand, only to find this surprisingly difficult. Her arms were behind her, and despite her struggles, they remained there, fastened somehow. Her handcuffs...? Yes, it was them alright, jingling behind her stubbornly. Her wrists were forced roughly behind her back, in a harsh position. Again, she was slapped. This time, the source was more obvious: a rough, hairy arm was angling in from behind her, and contacting her face to rouse her.

She tried to bark out that she was a policewoman, and that he should rethink assaulting her like this -- but no words came out. Something filled her mouth, leaving it dry and feeling stuffed. It was some kind of rag, tasting of dirt and salt. She spluttered against it quickly, but found her mouth too full-up to even moan properly.

The constable's head spun. This was all wrong, terribly wrong. How was this not working out for her? Where was her gun?! That last point could not be certain, but her holster felt light; or maybe that was just her imagination?

Behind her, Caspar looked down with cold eyes at the woman. Well. She hadn't seen his face before he had struck -- that much was almost certain. Come to think of it, his truck was dirty enough that she probably lacked his license plate. And now she was good and helpless. A job well done. He squinted up at the road. There was still plenty of traffic. Thinking it over, he realized he had at least fifteen, twenty minutes to kill; maybe more. There was no risk down here. He could stake it out, careful not to let the idiot policewoman see his face. Thinking more carefully, he pulled off his shirt, folding it with surprising dexterity before wrapping it around the top half of her face. She was effectively blinded by it. Caspar grunted in satisfaction.

Shirtless and tattooed, he stood in the wooded copse, naked from the waist. Below him, the woman looked adorable in her uniform; neat, tidy and prim. Probably a little prude, he thought idly. Probably never put out. This gave him an idea. Something to kill time, and mess with her psychology a little. The thought of terrifying this young officer gave him a certain thrill. His experiences with the police had not been positive ones.

Drawing out a knife he carried in his pocket, he knelt down behind her, squeezing her legs between his own strong thighs. This stopped her from kicking back at him. With the knife, he traced a line along the crack of her buttocks over her uniform trousers. She writhed violently against this, but it seemed to be ineffectual in throwing off the weight on her legs.

Blinded and gagged, she felt confused and disoriented. What was he doing? Was he really going to try anything -- sexual? Her face flushed and burned in anxiety and fear. Her whole body felt flooded with nervous energy and terror. The knife poked more insistently, winding down between her legs to her cleft...she shuddered at the damage he could do to her down there, if he pleased it. WHO WAS THIS PSYCHO? She tried to scream, but the gag was effective at silencing her. Her arms strained uselessly at the cuffs, as though trying to squeeze her wrists out through the chains.

There was a muffled, dry bout of laughter from behind, and strong hands grabbed her thighs, pulling them apart as a hand reached between her legs to her stomach, tugging at the button, then the zipper of her trousers. Her pants were forced down rapidly, leaving her only in the silk panties she was wearing today. Every Wednesday, she treated herself to a masturbation session at home after work, and she wore silk panties through the day because they felt sexy, and had her worked up by the time she got home. Even now, moisture still clung to the panties. They were not quite a thong, but rather closely rode up her backside, leaving her cheeks mostly exposed to the air now.

The horror of the situation -- her ass exposed to a complete stranger, gave rise to a growing, stifled scream in her throat. Heather kicked hard, but her legs were crushed against the earth by her attacker.

Caspar smiled lustfully at the flesh laid out before his eyes. So smooth, so spotless and hairless...he just loved a woman's ass. Grinning, he began to smack each cheek in turn, spanking the poor, half-naked officer with the palm of his hand. A satisfying crack accompanied each strike. The cop had a wonderfully tough tush, firm and almost hard. He spanked harder and harder, until her cheeks shone red, and he grinned at the sight, leaning in to lick at her buttocks soothingly. She writhed under him in hate and fear, disgust flooding into her head.

Heather felt terrified as the touching stopped. He was just a dead weight on her legs. Then...

...her panties were ripped away, with the aid of the knife. And she heard a bloodchilling sound. Another zipper.

She fought and tugged and kicked as much as possible, but every effort was neutralized by her attacker. He was all over her now, stroking her thighs, smacking her buttocks, and then suddenly he caught her clitoris between his fingers, and she froze up entirely, the fear of what he might do stopping Heather in her tracks.

"Got yer attention, do I, constable? Okay. Your choice. Your cunt or your mouth. You bite, this knife turns your throat into ribbons."

Heather didn't know what to say. Nor how to say it.

"Ah, hell. The gag. Well..." Caspar slipped a single finger into her pussy opening, an inch or two at the most. "...squeeze once for your mouth, twice for your cunt."

Heather despised herself for acknowledging him at all, but eventually her fear of being forcibly fucked drove her to respond. She squeezed her vaginal muscles once for yes, head hanging in shame.

"Alright then, copper. But you'd better make this good. And smile for me while you do it." This was a strange request, Heather thought, but it was all part of the humiliation she assumed.

She welcomed the removal of the gag. "Please stop this," she whispered, knowing that he would kill her if she screamed for help. "Please, just let me go. You win, okay. And all my money...hell, have my gun. But don't make me do this."

Caspar chuckled at her pleading words, but stopped laughing when the garment on her head almost slid off. "Bitch!" he yelled, backhanding her on the face with a fling of his hand. As she fell, he pounced on her again, wrapping a cloth around her eyes so that it was secure and left her mouth unobstructed. He reached down, dragging her up to her knees.

"There you go, officer. On your knees, like the little cocksucker you are. Probably busted up my boys at some point, didn't you? Enjoyed that?"

Heather was confused. "No, no, I'm a new police officer, I've never...I've never arrested anyone, let alone anyone you know...please, just stop this -- "

Caspar could think of nothing witty to say. She sort of had a point. Not that he cared for morality or anything. "What's your name, bitch?"

Heather mumbled: "constable...I'm Heather Westfield. Westfield." Caspar listened attentively. "Westfield," he repeated carefully, as though keeping this in mind. Covertly, he opened her wallet, left in her trousers, and rifled through it while she kneeled, mouth dry and clamped shut. Caspar's own mouth nearly dropped when he saw that she had some five-hundred dollars in cash on her. But he left it. He didn't want her to know what he was learning. He memorised her address, confirmed that she was telling the truth with her name, and admired her picture. It was a little hard to get a sense of her face with the blindfold on.

He liked blondes, though, and now he knew -- from the modest patch of carpet that he'd seen -- that she was a natural, it filled him with hunger. His erection was beginning to push against his jeans. He lowered them, and a huge tent was pitched in his boxers. Replacing her wallet, he shuffled towards her, then grabbed her hair and thrust her face against his pelvis. "What do you smell, Heather?"

She was almost crying now. "I don't -- please don't -- "

"I said what do you smell, whore? Tell me or I swear to God -- "

Heather broke down. "Your penis...I smell your penis..."

"My cock. It's my cock you smell. Now lick it, sniff it, get ready for it. Got that, my little slut?"

Heather's mind was spinning. She was a policewoman, not some streetwalker. How was this happening? Nevertheless, she complied. She had given head before, and the smell set off something in her that was undeniable, much as tried to ignore it. She licked reluctantly at the cloth, feeling the swelling erection contained within. Reasoning that she might as well get it over with, she licked harder, with broad strokes of her tongue.

"Keep smiling while you do it. Then pull down the boxers with your mouth."

She had little choice about that, anyway, with her hands cuffed behind her back. Heather smiled as much as she could, and it seemed weirdly natural to Caspar. He drew out his cellphone, and started filming her silently with one hand, while the other stroked her cheek. "Oh, Heather, that's sooooo good," he whispered with a quiet laugh. "I love how you're so kinky."

Heather did not know what was going on, and feared contradicting her tormentor, so she said nothing, but smiled up towards him painfully, the smile hurting every bit of her but seeming genuine enough. Her teeth slipped around the elastic of his boxers, and drew down, grazing past his erection as it flopped out at her, striking her forehead. It was already wet, and left a cool mark on her brow. Her smile faded for a second, but returned when she remembered the knife.

Caspar was proud of his phone camera. It was a high-resolution beast, could shoot for a good ten minutes, and captured all the important details every time. It was small enough not to capture the knife, large enough to capture the smile -- yes, and the fine cavity of the mouth as it opened to accept him inside. Before she started, she whispered, "please..." up at him. Caspar, for the sake of the film he was making, simply said, "thank you for asking first, my slut; you may...begin."

Her lips wrapped around his cock and she slid her mouth down onto his bulging erection. It filled her mouth quickly, and she felt that it was at least seven inches long, maybe eight or nine. It was too much...far bigger than her previous boyfriend. It felt meaty and salty in her mouth, like sucking a great sausage, and the humiliation of knowing that it was some stranger's dick overwhelmed her. The worst part was the sound. She made a wet, sucking kind of vacuum sound, like she was enjoying slurping on the dick jammed in her face. Noisily she sucked at him. She continued her strategy of trying to get him to blow his load quickly so this could end.

What she didn't know what that Caspar had an incredible staying power. He could happily let his cock be blown for a half-hour without difficulty, and this little tart, gorgeous as she was, was hardly going to be an exception. The purple head, like a heavy fruit, was engulfed by the ocean of her mouth, again and again. Her mouth began to water increasingly, as though trying to dissolve away all the salt being introduced to it. Caspar made a kind of rumbling, purring sound as she worked. Now and then, he would comment, and the words stabbed her to the quick. "That's right, my little officer slut. Whatever would your cop friends think of you if they saw you now, happily gagging on my dick? No, not gagging. Speaking of that..."

He began to transform the fellatio into more of an assault for a bit, penetrating her throat with a full-on facefuck. She gagged helplessly on him as his shaft was shoved repeatedly down into her mouth and then throat. This generated far more spit than before, and his cock ended up fully drenched. "Yeah, get my dick nice and sloppy, constable. Just like that. Oh, Heather..."

She wished she had given him a fake name. Hearing it said like this was the worse part. Blindly, she kept thrusting her face upon him. "Now you do it voluntarily. Take it down your throat. Deep-throat me, slut."

Being called slut was also a terrible insult for her. She was so careful with her body, who she chose to sleep with. This was unfair, so profoundly unjust, to be raped and called a 'slut' for it. She tried to force him down her throat, but struggled at it. She wanted to bite him, and use his shock to escape. But handcuffed like this, and him with knife and possibly gun, she just could not take the risk. When would help arrive? Her base pussy was attracting a fly, its juices drawing the fly in for a taste. It hummed and buzzed between her legs, making her vulnerability all the more obvious. She shook, trying to get rid of it, and Caspar noticed.