In The Box - An April Fools' Story

"A good woman needs a good man. Someone to take charge of things. In the world, a man needs to be a leader of people, providing the women with a strong example of masculine virtue. In the home, a man is the leader of his wife. He provides her with the fruits of his labor, so that she can have food, shelter, clothing. A good woman is virtuous for the man who leads her. She meets him, she belongs to him, and she will do whatever he deems necessary to satisfy him. Her flesh exists to serve his needs, and only his. Should her dedication falter, it's understandable that he might see fit to correct her. Should she deny his needs... You see what I'm saying? He must do his duty. The man who allows the woman to leave his needs unsatisfied is a wimp. His negligence invites her to stray, which in turn invites disrespect and disease into the household. It's irresponsible of him. A man must have integrity and unshakable moral fiber, and he must uphold those values within his dominion with a steady hand. It's the woman's duty to cater to him, to support him in that mission, and it is the man's duty to correct her when she fails. But his correction must be pure. Should the man act upon the woman in anger, or to satisfy some urge for personal retribution, well, that wouldn't be proper. Wouldn't you agree?"

The hick and his scrawny eye-blackened wife sit across the metal table, staring back at me like cattle. They look so old. They aren't even 30 yet. I think he understands me just enough to be chastened.

We have a rotating cast of hicks, hayseeds, and bumpkins who periodically give us cause to drag them down to the station, sit their asses in the interrogation room, do the marriage counselor routine.

I pulled the short straw today. So I get to take a break from paperwork, sit in the box with these two, and give them the straight talk.

Sergeant Jacobs is watching through the one way mirror that fills the wall behind me. There's a hidden intercom for him to listen in on us. No good reason, except we all get a kick out watching people sweat.

In so many words, I tell the hick to dial back the rough stuff, and I tell her not to forget her place. Quietly, I tell her to suck his dick once in a while, to remind her that their marriage matters to her.

I saw her naked once, in the field. A domestic call. Real shithole. We left him cuffed him on the sidewalk and interviewed her. She was too drugged or upset to care about her nakedness. I doubt she remembers.

Skinny, the unhealthy kind of skinny that makes her teeth look big. Faded tattoos, nonexistent boobs, stark capicola areolas. Big dark diaper bush that crawls up to her navel. Belly like crumpled paper.

She was so animated, twirling and gesticulating madly. I saw everything except for what she had for lunch that day.

Cute ass, though.

I shoo her out the metal door and into the reception area of the station. Before her hick husband can follow her out, I hold him back, shut the door, corner him there, and give him one last quiet warning.

"We keep a record of all the times you've been down here for this. It would make it very hard for you to defend yourself in court if she... if anything ends up happening to her. Do we understand each other?"

He nods slowly. I think he gets it. I open the door and tell him to get the fuck out, and he does.

Once they're off to the front desk, I exit the box. Sergeant Jacobs is waiting for me outside the observation room next door.

He says, "By god, Bill, nobody does that Biblical shit like you. Great fuckin' act. Five stars."

I say, "It's not an act. These crackheads beat their women to a pulp and they still can't keep 'em in line. I'm just trying to train him better."

Jacobs shrugs. "Whatever. I'm just joking around. You know this job will grind you down if you got no sense of humor."

I say nothing.

From across the room, we watch the two hicks head towards the elevator. They're easily the shabbiest people on this floor. He walks like he's the proudest man in the world. She walks with her head down.

"Man," Jacobs murmurs, "I would love to take a piece out of her skinny ass."

"She's a whore," I say, and turn to head back to my desk.

Sergeant Jacobs is younger than me. He's got the higher rank, but life hasn't shaped him into a man yet. He has no principles. All he cares about is pussy.

I hear the distinct sound of the elevator doors closing. For a split second, I can hear him starting to yell at her in his indecipherable shithead accent.

Hicks, hayseeds, and bumpkins. Their women are all whores and their men are all wimps. They're playacting marriage without doing anything to uphold what a marriage is. Sometimes, I almost feel sorry for them.

*

Elise is 25 years old. 20 years my junior, but as clean and virtuous as any woman from times gone by. Thin, blonde, long hair, just the way I like it. Flat stomach. She diets, and she does zumba or something.

Her tits are just okay. They're a little too small, and they're not as perky as they used to be. But, then, she's not as young as she used to be, so I can hardly fault her for that. I care for her just the same.

I drive the prowler home. It's late, but Elise has stayed up to serve me dinner. She greets me at the door with a kiss on the cheek. My eyes crawl up and down her body as I take off my jacket and patrol belt.

Tonight, she's wearing gray joggers and one of those cropped sweatshirts that cinches around the belly. I make a mental note to talk to her about the clothing she wears when she waits up for me.

I'd like to see her in a sundress, or maybe a blouse and skirt--long enough, but not too long. Or that nightie and bathrobe set I spent too much money on. Or, hell, nothing but plain thong panties and a smile.

Still, as I sit at the table and watch her from behind as she fixes my plate, I can't help but look at the couple inches of her exposed back and think about what a perfect place it would be to deposit my cum.

I eat. She tries to make conversation, and I go along with it, even though I'm careful not to discuss anything that doesn't concern her. She asks to be excused, and I allow it. I finish my meal in peace.

I don't tell her that the major has a hair up his ass for no reason, that I've gotten every shit assignment to hit our unit, no matter who's up in the rotation, that I'm all but letting them buttfuck me.

It's okay. Once I get those stripes on my arms, it'll be my turn to deal out the shit. Let the humps and the rookies deal with it while I kick back and relax. Fat paycheck, cushy chair, no getting rid of me.

I go upstairs, take a shower, dry off, wrap the towel around my waist, and head to the bedroom. Elise is lying in bed, elbows propped on top of the comforter, reading by the light of the lamp on her nightstand.

I take off the towel and slip naked under the covers. She doesn't notice. She's engrossed in her book, a biography about some actor with the same face as a half-dozen of those forgettable Hollywood hunks.

My hand slithers under the covers and finds its way to her. She still has the joggers on. I touch her leg through the cloth and start rubbing. I move to her inner thigh and squeeze. She keeps on reading.

Finally, I say, "How can you read that shit?"

"It's good," she says.

"You know those guys are all rapists, right?"

"Not all of them. Some of them are nice guys."

I scoff. She's obviously wrong. But I have better things to do than argue.

I touch her bare belly, then slip my hand under her shirt and cup her boob. I tug at the nipple, feeling it get hard. Her nipples aren't very sensitive. One of those things about her body that disappoint me.

Then my hand moves down her pants, between her legs. Every couple days, she shaves herself completely bald down there. If I ever feel stubble, I remind her to take care of it. But, tonight, she's smooth.

I worm my hand between her thighs, touch her hot little snatch, stick a finger in. Her pussy is soaking wet inside. Of course it is. She can be stuck-up all she wants, but she's horny for me and she knows it.

She puts the book down. "Okay, okay. You're so persistent."

As I pull the covers away from her body, I contemplate whether or not she's being disrespectful, but I decide that she's just being playful. I let it slide, though I might talk to her about it after we're done.

She takes my cock in her hand and starts stroking me. I take her hand away and tell her to disrobe. I watch her hot body wriggle its way out of her clothes. Then I tell her to get on the floor, on her knees.

I tower over her while she sucks my cock. (I wouldn't be caught dead getting a blowjob while lying on my back.) It's not bad--I have to warn her once to stick to the head if she wants anything to happen.

She's been doing her wifely duty for seven years now. Quickly, I start to ejaculate. She must not notice right away, because she gags for a second. But then she recovers, and she obediently swallows every rope.

I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for my heart rate to go down. She gets on the bed and hugs me from behind, pressing her tits into my back. She rubs my shoulders, kisses my neck, whispers seductively.

"You know... I wouldn't mind if you returned the favor."

"That's disgusting," I mutter. "And besides, it's unbecoming for a man."

"Okay. It's just that--"

"Just what?"

"I have all these fantasies, that's all. About you."

I turn to look at her over my shoulder. "If they're about me getting down on all fours and licking you between your legs like a dog, they can stay fantasies."

She smiles mysteriously, then lies down on her back, knees up, and spreads herself wide for me. It's tempting, but it's too wanton for my liking. She's not that kind of woman. But I'm feeling magnanimous.

"What am I supposed to do with that?" I say.

"If you're not interested in what I want, maybe we could compromise."

"Compromise?"

"Maybe those big scary balls have round two in them."

"I'm not 20 years old, Elise. Besides, you did a pretty decent job of pleasing me just now. That's plenty for you."

She closes her legs.

"Okay," she says.

I think I detect the ghost of a frown in her smile. But, again, I'm feeling magnanimous. I'll let her get away with it. I reach over, turn her light off for her, roll over, and fall almost instantly asleep.

*

In the night, I have a dream, strange, fragmented. I'm back in the box with the hick couple. I'm instructing them as to the virtues of men and women, but the instruction is indistinct. The words are garbled.

Then she's naked on the table, that big bush shining with perspiration and whatever else, and I'm naked and on top of her, and I'm continuing to instruct the man even as I'm taking his jezebel in front of him.

I feel no remorse. Only pleasure. I come raw inside her, her skin sweating and clammy against mine, and the skinny bitch loves it.

When I wake up in the morning, the house is already filled with the smells of breakfast and coffee. I pull on pajama pants and a flannel shirt and go downstairs. I find Elise bustling around in the kitchen.

She's wearing tiny shorts and a matching spaghetti strap top. Sensible pajamas for a girl like her. I hug her from behind, gripping her belly and pushing my cock against her ass. She turns her face and kisses me.

"Thanks for last night," she says. "You were so good."

We have breakfast together, then she gets dressed to go out for the day. Errands, she says, and that's all I care to know.

She's in a fitted red blouse with long sleeves and buttons down the front, fitted white pants that stop at mid-calf, and slip-on flats. I like the way it outlines her body. She looks modest, but fuckable.

Before she leaves, she says, "Don't fall for any April Fools' Day pranks."

"Oh," I say. "God damn it."

"I know, right?" she says. Then she's gone.

She knows it's my least favorite holiday. It's so stupid. Only idiots find pranks funny.

I spend the morning taking it easy. I can't be too tired for when I go into work this afternoon. Any time I get up and around, I make sure to note the little things I think should be done by the time I get home.

I have another breakfast, take a nap, wake up horny. I scroll through porn on my phone. I see a girl who looks like the hick's wife, the one with the blackened eyes. My dream from last night comes back to me.

I prop the phone up on the nightstand and grab some tissues. The girl in the video and the memories of the dream seem to blur together while I masturbate. The mixture does a pretty good job of getting me off.

Then I decide to hit the shower. Passing by the bathroom mirror, I automatically suck in my gut, which doesn't help as much as it used to. I tell myself I'm not getting any younger. Nobody could fault me.

I take a shower, eat the leftovers in the fridge, and head into work.

When I get there, Sergeant Jacobs finds me.

"Be ready in the spy room," he says. "We've got a hot one coming in for interrogation."

I nod solemnly, putting my duty face on.

It's just me in the observation room. I can see into the box, but there's nobody there yet. As I sit there waiting, I hear a strange noise outside the door, but I'm not really paying attention to that.

Then she comes in.

Sergeant Jacobs leads Elise in by the arm. He closes the door behind them and directs her to sit in the chair at the metal table, which she does. She's sitting across from me, and she doesn't even know it.

I have to laugh when I see her. She looks so upset.

I wonder what she did to end up here. Or maybe she didn't do anything at all. She knows Sergeant Jacobs and several of the other cops. Maybe it's just a prank. It would be stupid, but at least it's not on me.

Timidly, she asks, "They never told me why I'm here."

The sergeant says, "Is that a question?"

Her face faults. "No, sir."

"Good."

She respects authority above all else. Good girl.

I expect him to reveal the ruse at any moment.

Instead, he says, "I'll be right back."

He leaves her in the room, the door locked. She doesn't move. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't even look around. She just sits there, shoulders down, head down, looking at the blank gray tabletop.

I'm getting bored. I just start to think about leaving the observation room and getting her out of the box myself, when the metal door behind her opens again. Sergeant Jacobs is back. He has the major with him.

I lean forward in my chair. This is interesting.

He stands at her side, his hand on the back of the chair, looking down at her. The sergeant stands close behind them.

"Hello, sweetheart," the major says in his gravelly drawl.

"Hello, sir," she says, without looking up.

He's an older man, graying, balding, fat. He would look kindly, like Santa Claus without the beard. Except I know him to be a cruel, manipulative bastard who has an angle for everything he says or does.

The major asks, "Do you know why you're here?"

"No, sir."

"No what?"

"I don't know why I'm here, sir."

"You should always speak in complete sentences. It's a good habit."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you still want to know why you're here if I told you it wasn't important?"

"No, sir."

"No what?"

"I know you have your reasons, sir. And it's not my place to question them."

"That's good," he says, patting her on the shoulder.

For just a second, she lifts her head with a strained smile. Then it's back to looking down.

The major asks, "Do you always trust the man in charge?"

"Yes, sir. I trust you."

"And what about Sergeant Jacobs?"

"I trust him too, sir."

"You'll do as you're told, without question?"

"Yes, sir, I will."

He pats her on the shoulder. "Good, yes, good. You're a good girl."

"Thank you, sir."

This time, he doesn't take his hand away. I can't help fixating on how close his fingertips are to her tit. But he's the major. I'm a sworn officer. As much as I hate him, it's my job to trust in his methods.

The major looks over at the sergeant.

"Has she been searched yet?" the major asks.

"No, sir," the sergeant says.

Both of them are pointedly speaking as though she can't hear them. She acts as if she doesn't.

The major looks down at her. "We're going to have to strip search you. It's protocol."

She looks terrified, but she nods.

"Stand up," the major says.

The two men stand to either side of her while she slides her chair out with a metallic scrape and stands up.

I don't like this one bit.

But this man has my career in his hands. I have to think about that. It's better for me this way. Better for her, too, I remind myself. Humoring the major could put both of us on easy street. I stay put.

"Off with your shirt," the major says.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat like she's about to start sobbing, but she holds it back. She obeys, working her way slowly down the buttons of the red blouse, slowly revealing a plain blue-gray bra.

"Faster," the major says.

Her fingers get clumsy as she scrambles to undo the rest of the shirt. Soon enough, it's open, and her bra and stomach are on display. She shrugs the shirt off and holds it for a second, unsure what to do.

"You can just put it on the table in front of you, honey," Sergeant Jacobs says helpfully.

She does as she's told, setting the shirt down in a crumpled heap.

The major says, "Off with your shoes."

Below the edge of the table, out of my eyeline, she moves her feet. She reaches down, lifts the shoes into view, and sets them down on the tabletop next to the shirt. Then she stands ramrod straight, nervous.

"Off with your pants," the major says.

She stares straight ahead, almost meeting my eyes without knowing it, while she unbuttons and unzips. She wriggles a little--they're very tight--and starts to pull them down. She has on floral cotton panties.

She shimmies them down her thighs and bends over to take them down the rest of the way.

"Stop," the major says.

She pauses, unsteady in her bent-over position. The pants are around her knees. I can barely see them from my vantage point.

He reaches behind her, feeling with his hand through her panties. Her ass? Her pussy? She stumbles, catches herself on her arms on the tabletop, bent over while the major pokes and prods her from behind.

The major is breathing heavily, murmuring things like, "Hm... yes... ah..." He's loud enough for me to hear it through the intercom in the spy room.

"Sometimes, women hide contraband in their underthings," the sergeant explains.

She nods.

"We can't hear your head rattle," the major says.

"Yes, sir," she mumbles.

The major says, "Take your pants the rest of the way off, dear, and stand up."

She does.

He reaches into one of the cups of her bra and feels her tit. She shivers. I realize the major's hand is probably freezing cold. We run the AC so damn much in this building. But she isn't one to complain.

After he does a thorough job of squeezing and stroking her boob, he does the other one. She stands still the whole time, like a soldier at attention while his fingers work on her flesh under the padded cloth.

Then the major withdraws and jokes, "Thanks for warming up my hand." For the sergeant's benefit, and probably for mine.

She looks up for just a second, then dips her head again. The body language is clear to anyone who's seen it all before. Am I done? Can I go? But she says nothing. And rightly so. It isn't her place to ask.

"My dear," the major says, "I'm afraid I'm not satisfied."

She's trembling now. She can't stop herself.

I'm starting to think about getting up, going over there, putting a stop to all of this. But it's just a fantasy. I know I'm going to stay here. I know what's good for me. What's good for us. I don't move.