Stripped Down (27 page)

“Nothing in here,” the Sergeant announced as her finger probed up, down, and all around. “Nothing but shit, anyway. I think this one needs a good enema to clean her out. Make sure she hasn't swallowed any dope balloons.”

Phoebe had shut her eyes again, and her brows knit in a look of concentration. I was starting to wonder what was
up when her expression changed to blissful serenity.

“Hey!” The Sergeant bellowed and jerked her arms back, nearly losing her balance. “Hey! The bitch is
pissing
on me!”

A dark stain spread from the cuff to the elbow of the Sergeant's midnight blue shirt, and she held her arm as far away from herself as she could. Drops fell from the fold that clung to her forearm and she tried to shake the liquid out. Caine and Walters stepped back in a hurry.

Phoebe was laughing into her gag as a puddle formed at her feet.

Avoiding it carefully, I stooped to push my face right up next to hers. She was still laughing. I grabbed her nose and pressed my hand over her gagged mouth. That took the smile out of her eyes pretty quick; when she started to look panicky, I let go.

“Don't begin to think you're gonna get away with that. You're going to lick that floor clean before we're done with you.” I grinned my most evil grin. “But remember what they say: revenge is a dish best eaten cold.”

Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a look of revulsion cross Walters's face. Phoebe just cocked an eyebrow at me, mumbling something through the gag that might have been, “Make me.”

Stripped down to her white T-shirt, the Sergeant came back from the washroom, drying her hands with a wad of institutional brown paper towels. She tossed them in a corner and put her fists on her hips, glaring at the prisoner.

“Whore's gonna pay big-time,” she growled.

“Sounds good.” I motioned to Caine and Walters. “Take her down.”

Actually, it took all four of us to uncuff the cute little thing
and secure her again on a vinyl-covered prison cot, face up with her thighs doubled up over her. It was no mean feat, getting her legs pinioned that way. I got a kick in the ear for my part. God knows why, after all that, I took pity on her, but I knew it couldn't be easy to breathe. When we finished, I knelt by her head, panting a little.

“Now, if you'll keep that sewer mouth of yours shut voluntarily, I'll take the gag off you,” I told her. “You will speak only when you are directed to speak. You will address the officers respectfully unless you want to get that filthy yap washed out with soap. And if I have to put that gag back on you, I'll clean out the other end of you, too, with that nice enema you love so much. Is that understood?” I picked at an edge of the adhesive tape. Phoebe grunted. A couple of quick yanks and the gag was off. She yelped as the tape took some of the down from her face with it. I poked a finger into her ribs.

“I said,
is that understood?
”

She had turned her face away from me after I pulled off the gag. I got a handful of hair and twisted her face back in my direction. She winced and replied grudgingly.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Didn't your mother teach you any manners, fuckhead? What do you say?” I knuckled her hard in the ribs.

Sullenly, she answered, “Thank you, ma'am.”

“Isn't that nice, now.” I smiled. This girl was about to have an attitude adjustment. I got to my feet. “This piss-ant little tramp is all yours, Sergeant.”

Maybe muscles don't make a butch, but they sure don't hurt. In her white T-shirt and well-fitted uniform trousers, the Sergeant was a vision of bulldyke splendor. She had the build that makes girls swoon, and she had the swagger, too. Self-doubt
had never been her bête noire. Many large and imposing girls had quivered before the Sergeant's steely gaze, never realizing that she was several inches shorter than themselves. She had what you'd call a commanding presence. Not that Phoebe was impressed.

The Sergeant walked slowly around the cot, twitching a bouquet of Flex-Cufs against her thigh. When she reached her prisoner's head, she bent and grabbed a fistful of blonde curls.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, cunt,” she ordered, pressing Phoebe's head back into the cot and making her arch her back to accommodate the awkward angle of her neck. Wincing, Phoebe tried to school her features, but she was clearly enjoying this. The corners of her mouth persisted in curling upward. The Sergeant stared at her coldly, then abruptly let go of Phoebe's hair. The prisoner's body relaxed only a little; I could see her bracing herself for what was coming next.

The first blow of the narrow plastic straps fell solidly across Phoebe's exposed thigh. It had not been a very forceful blow, but Phoebe yelped and jerked her lower legs down, flailing them sideways. Caine or Walters—I'm not sure which—snorted; Phoebe did resemble poor Gregor Samsa, on her back like that and waving her legs in the air. One of her little pink feet just grazed the Sergeant, unintentionally, I'm reasonably sure. But still, the Sergeant frowned menacingly.

“This won't do,” she said. “Give me some more rope.”

There was just enough left to truss Phoebe's ankles to the cot over her head, with a rolled-up towel under the small of her back to take off some of the strain. The Sergeant went back to work, laying another careful stroke across each of the prisoner's cheeks. Her thigh was now sporting a blazing red stripe where the first blow had landed. Phoebe jerked but did
not cry out again, even after four more broad, ragged imprints had been scorched onto her soft pink skin. The Sergeant took her time, placing each stroke carefully as she walked around the cot, scrupulously avoiding the furry trough of Phoebe's splayed cunt.

Phoebe's face was screwed up in a knot of pain, and tears were leaking from her squeezed-shut eyes, but she made no sound. She held her whole body rigid as she waited for the next blow to land; when it came, she writhed in silence, then braced herself again, gasping for breath. Stroke after stroke fell across her quivering thighs and ass, until they glowed a livid red. Sweat beaded up on Phoebe's brow as she panted and strained against her bonds. Finally, when the purple weal of a blood blister crossed one fiery cheek, the Sergeant tossed the handful of plastic straps across the cell. She was breathing hard and her own face was flushed, but not from effort. With a low groan, she bent to run her hand across Phoebe's hot flesh. Phoebe shivered. The Sergeant slipped her other hand between the prisoner's spread legs; Phoebe moaned and raised her hips to meet the probing fingers.

“Christ, she's wet,” the Sergeant muttered, fucking her rough and sloppy so we could all hear the moist sucking noise of her fingers moving in and out. Phoebe went wild, humping up against the ropes in time to the Sergeant's crude pumping. I took a step forward, and the Sergeant got control of herself, pulling her hand reluctantly away. She straightened up, and Phoebe let out a low wail of dismay. I chuckled.

“Plenty of time for everybody to get some of that,” I said, raising a warning eyebrow at Walters, who was watching the scene slack-jawed. “Later,” I added pointedly. It was just not possible that that thing in her trousers was any bigger than it
had been before; it must have been the way she was squeezing it.

“Let's get rolling here.” I barked out some more orders, and pretty soon the hum of electric clippers was the only sound in that small space. Phoebe went rigid as soon as I reached for her. Oh, how tenderly I stroked those golden curls, waiting for her to relax and open her eyes. She wasn't expecting tenderness: as I leaned over her, watching, her eyes shut even tighter and her lip trembled. She was trying not to cry. I grabbed a handful of hair and held it gently. Finally, she got herself under control and opened her eyes.

“It's what you wanted, baby,” I whispered at her, leaving room for it to be a question.

After a second she nodded, biting her lip, and closed her eyes again.

I brought the blade guard up to her hairline, just touching her brow. Phoebe flinched.

Handfuls of yellow curls tumbled to the floor, leaving a pale fuzz that I hated to shave off, it felt so good to my hand. No going back now. I handed the clippers off to the Sergeant who was already in position, ready to start on Phoebe's pussy. Caine passed me the shaving gel and a disposable razor. Walters stepped over and held Phoebe's head well up from the cot, but it was awkward. I nicked her, in spite of my efforts, and she jerked away from the blade.

“I didn't think I had to tell you not to move, fuckface.”

Phoebe strangled a rejoinder and stared daggers at me. She obviously hadn't forgotten my earlier threat. Suddenly, her eyes went wide and her mouth formed a cartoon
O
. We'd both forgotten about the Sergeant's activities down south, and I hadn't noticed when the buzzing stopped. It was the cool
tingle of the gel that got Phoebe's attention, I'd bet. I finished scraping the fuzz from the back of Phoebe's skull and straightened up to watch.

The Sergeant could have been an Italian barber. Shaving is not just another one of her many areas of expertise; you could say it was her calling. I'd seen her shave a very hairy man's entire body to baby-bottom smoothness without so much as a nick anywhere. And it was not just the garden-variety Bic or safety razor that she wielded with consummate skill. She could lather up a toy balloon and scrape it clean with a straight blade, the classic test of mastery. That's what Phoebe had asked for, but the Sergeant wasn't sure what light we'd have. She wouldn't do it.

Four quick swipes and Phoebe's mound was as smooth and pink as the day she was born. With a frown of concentration, the Sergeant pulled Phoebe's labia together and drew the razor in short, precise strokes from the tops of Phoebe's inner thighs to the edges of her slit until nothing was left but a fringe of stubble. The Sergeant paused to dunk the razor in the water basin, and we crowded in a little closer.

Probing and pulling, the Sergeant rolled the edges of Phoebe's labia under her fingers and held them flat as she scraped off the remaining fuzz. Then, with the handle in a dainty two-fingered grasp, she maneuvered the blade carefully around the notch where the mound and labia meet. It wasn't until the shaver clunked against the metal basin that I realized we'd all been holding our breath. Phoebe let out a huge sigh. But it wasn't over yet.

With an evil grin, the Sergeant smeared another dollop of gel down the crack of Phoebe's ass. Phoebe squealed in surprise and jerked against her bonds.

“You'd better not do that again, slut.” The Sergeant's voice was stern but her face clearly showed amusement. Phoebe clamped her eyes shut and grimaced; as she forced her lower body to relax, her face went slack again.

Deliberately, the Sergeant made stroke after painstaking stroke toward the tight rosebud of Phoebe's asshole, then repeated the process even more slowly on the other side. At last, there was nothing left but a ring of stubble around the sphincter itself, and Phoebe was trembling with tension.

The Sergeant reached down to rinse the razor and paused, her face clouded with displeasure.

“Stop moving!” she roared.

“Jesus!” Phoebe yelped. Her visible effort to still herself only made her involuntary movements bigger and more spastic.

“Shit,” the Sergeant muttered. “Do something to take her mind off this, will you?”

Walters looked at me and stroked her fly. I nodded.

“No, hang on,” I told her a moment later, realizing there was no way for Walters to get at her prey. We got Phoebe's ankles back to where they were before, in the dying cockroach position, and hooked her bracelets together underneath the cot. Now that her arms and legs had more free play, Phoebe would just have to hold still. The Sergeant waited patiently at the foot of the cot until we were ready.

Walters swung a leg over the narrow bed. With a wide-legged straddle, she rested her butt lightly on Phoebe's chest. “Suck on this candy, baby doll.” Walters licked her lips and started to work the big dick out of her pants.

Phoebe wasn't going to make it easy: her lips pressed shut in a thin white line before the rose-dark cockhead that
bounced impatiently on her chin. Even with Walter's thumb and forefinger firmly pinching her nose, she seemed ready to hold her breath until she turned blue rather than let that monster in her mouth.

I leaned in and whispered in Phoebe's ear, “Maybe it's time for that enema after all.”

Phoebe's lips parted. Walters guided the big knob into our captive's mouth.

“Hold…still…
now
,” came the Sergeant's muffled voice. The entire tableau froze, Walters straddling the cot and pressing her hard-on down into Phoebe's candy-glossed piehole, me and Caine at either side like altar boys, steadying Phoebe's winglike knees, and Sergeant Greenvale in full genuflection, ready to administer the sacrament.

Four precise strokes, and the razor landed in the basin with a clang.

“All right, boys,” the Sergeant sang out, “as you were!”

Phoebe gave a little cough as Walters pressed the big dildo home. The Sergeant and I stood back to watch while Caine unzipped her own rod and worked it into Phoebe's well-lubed cunt.

“That girl sure is a piece of work,” the Sergeant told me, shaking her head in admiration. Phoebe's eyes were closed; so were Caine's. Walters bent over to gently cradle Phoebe's hairless head while fucking her mouth. We could hear little grunts and moans of pleasure from all three of them.

“She sure is,” I agreed. “We're gonna miss her.”

Phoebe's excitement was building. Walters swung off so she could kneel by the cot, stroking and squeezing Phoebe's breasts, kissing her ears and cheeks and head and eyelids while Caine moved rhythmically in and out.