A Sally West Misadventure
Part 1
Queen’s Bush was quite close to semi-rural Surrey, to farms and riding stables, to big golf courses and pubs called “The Haywain” and “The Cunning Poacher”, but the district itself was highly built-up with only a couple of decidedly small parks and Wicklow Wood for green lungs. Wicklow Wood had once been Wicklow’s Wood (the connection to Ireland being limited to the surname of the wealthy farmer who owned it) within the larger expanse of Leggeworth Common, but the common was long gone and it was widely supposed that Wicklow Wood had survived only because it divided the genteel community of The Village from the tower blocks and grimy yellow brick of the main part of Queen’s Bush.
Now, however, Wicklow Wood was a nature reserve and a popular location for dog-walking, school nature studies, mountain biking and dogging. In the last few years sensitive management by the local wildlife trust and the local council, with the aid of the police, had reduced litter and vandalism. This good work, however, was now at risk from the activities of the Lone Stranger. This publicity-loving sex pest had ambushed several women and assaulted them in various ways, but always leaving them with a sign or sticker with the words “LONE STRANGER”, or sometimes the words painted or stencilled on to their bottoms.
Police had even tried sending a decoy policewoman, young Melanie Flowers, into the wood with a homing alarm to bring help as soon as she was attacked, but the Stranger had leapt on her behind the bushes right at the margin of the Wood with Hollister’s Road and, with suspicious luck or inside knowledge, had immediately located the device hidden in her bottom-crack and had thrown it from the embankment on to the top of a passing open-topped tourist bus. This had led to several complaints by foreign tourists about police brutality and to Melanie receiving the most personal, pressing and intimate attentions the Stranger could provide.
After that, the police stuck to uniformed patrols in pairs.
This one paired PC Sally West with PC Yasmin Iqbal.
Sally and Yasmin cycled down the well-maintained track just a bit faster than was wise, enjoying the feeling of being carefree kids again, shouting to one another and giggling. A narrow miss, swerving round a bearded birdwatcher, caused them to calm down. After all, if they were quiet they might even surprise this awful “Lone Stranger”. That they did not do, but they did surprise a group of six or seven teenagers, mostly boys with a couple of girls, who were kicking at an interpretative board, evidently trying to knock it down.
“Stop that!” yelled Sally. They looked up, saw Sally steaming in, made as if to run, evidently changed their minds, prepared to receive her, saw Yasmin racing up in support, changed their minds again and ran. However, they were at a parting of the track. Some of them turned left on the well-maintained track, while others turned right on a bumpy track with puddles. Sally pursued the ones on the good track and Yasmin, seeing this, pursued the ones on the bumpy track.
Sally almost caught one of the girls, but she jinked and ran into the trees. The boy just ahead did the same. Sally soon concluded she could not catch them – or at best she would catch one and be lumbered with the little wretch – and that in saving the board and scaring the vandals, Yasmin and she had done a good job. She stopped and waited for her friend. Yasmin did not come, but just as Sally was starting to get worried, the svelte Pakistani girl came on the radio.
“Hi, Sal. I came a bit of a tumble and I’ve got a puncture. NO, NOT IN MY FALSIES, NUTCASE, I DON’T HAVE ANY. No, I mean I don’t have any falsies, not that I don’t have any tits. They’re real. What you see is what you get. The puncture is in my tyre. The bike tyre. Never mind, it won’t take ten minutes to fix. I’ll catch you up at the Warden’s hut.”
For the pair had intended to call in on the new Nature Reserve Warden, Mike Elliot. He was reportedly quite dishy, and Sally was not altogether displeased that she’d get first bite of the cherry as it were.
She arrived outside the hut, which had a grassy clearing on one side and a number of well-spaced oaks and hornbeams on the other. As she was approaching the entrance, wheeling her bike, a cheery voice called out:
“Hi! PC Iqbal?” Sally swivelled, got entangled with her bike and fell awkwardly in mud. The slim, balding man in jeans, running shoes and a check shirt hurried forward to help her to her feet. Despite the baldness, he was not so old, Sally thought, and had an interesting, expressive face which currently bore a quizzical expression. She was highly embarrassed at having made herself look such a fool. She smiled winsomely at the warden.
“Hi! Thanks a lot. Actually, I’m PC West – Sally West. PC Iqbal will be along later.”
“Hi. Mike Elliot. Pleased to meet you. You haven’t got any I.D., have you? Sorry to be such a nuisance, but with this Stranger type…I was expecting a PC Iqbal. Oh, thanks. Stupid really. Would you like me to brush…um…no, perhaps not.” He actually blushed and looked away from the large dollop of mud, with added dead leaves stuck on, which graced Sally’s bottom. Sally rewarded him with a broad, friendly smile. Actually the idea of him brushing her bottom was quite attractive, but she mustn’t jump the gun.
“So – how are things going? We really just wanted to introduce ourselves, hear any concerns about vandals or accidental damage, check if you’d seen anyone acting oddly – because of this Lone Strangler – sorry, I mean Stranger, of course.” It came out in a bit of a jumble, Sally realised, but perhaps it would make this pleasantly shy man feel a bit more confident. He really was rather nice.
He chatted about a few things and expressed concern about the Stranger, but admitted he had no helpful information on that score.
“So what were you doing when I arrived and interrupted?” asked Sally, wanting to keep the conversation going.
“Oh, a bit of a boring chore, really. In fact when you arrived I was overjoyed, um, er, break in the routine, you know?”
“Come on! I’m sure it was really fascinating!”
“If you say so. I was measuring trees in the study area. Checking growth.”
“Gosh! Estimating how tall they are?”
“No, that’s for tomorrow. This is about girth – measuring their trunks. I always thought ‘trunks’ was a bit of a funny word for trees, well, um, swimming trunks, boxers, pa…my mistake.” He blushed again. “I have to measure each trunk at precisely 70 centimetres from the ground with a tape measure. Quite easy for the smaller ones, but a real nuisance doing it to the bigger ones.”
“Why? Isn’t the tape measure long enough?”
“Oh, no. That isn’t the problem. Look – I’ll show you.” He led her into the well-spaced trees, towards an upstanding oak. He held the tape measure at one end and extended it. Sally quickly saw the problem. With the bigger trees, you couldn’t make the tape bend round the trunk. You really needed three hands…or a second person.
“Come on, I’ll help!” she announced.
“Oh! Would you? That’s most kind. Let me see. I’ll run the tape measure round the trunk as far as I can. Then you take over holding one end and reach round to take hold on the other side so I can draw it round to where we started.”
Sally did what he suggested, but he wanted her to reach a long way forward to hold the tape on the other side so she ended up hugging the tree with her two hands only about eight inches from one another on the far side of the trunk. Mike completed the circle, repeated the words “most kind” and asked her just to hold position while he checked the tape was touching the trunk at all points. She was happy to oblige. She did not at first understand the sensation of something touching first her left wrist and then her right. It was the sharp CLICK that made the penny drop. She had been handcuffed to the tree – and not even with her own handcuffs, but with a child’s toy plastic pair in bright pinkish-red.
“Mike! Stop playing about!” she cried.
“Just a mo,” Mike replied, running a rope round the handcuffs and attaching it to a heavy weight on the ground, forcing her arms down just as she had realised that if she brought them up, the narrowing of the trunk would mean there was slack in the handcuffs and a bit of vigorous tugging and shaking might break them.
“By the way,” said Mike, peering in her face and smiling amiably, “I’m not Mike the warden. I’m the Lone Stranger.”
Stupidly, Sally began to kick and twist. It did her no good, and the Stranger waited politely till her struggles had subsided. Then he bent to closely examine her bent, uniformed bottom, sniffed it as one would a fine rose or a rare vintage, and cupped her undercheeks in his agile, knowing hands before delivering a powerful double pinch. Sally was ashamed of the girly little squeal with which she responded. She tried to put the matter right.
“Look, Mike…er…Mr Strangler…I mean Stranger…I am a police officer. If you do anything bad to me, the whole force of the law will come down on you.”
“Hmm…” he replied, “it’s nice to know you are a genuine policewoman and not some silly kid in a joke uniform, but you ought to know I rather like doing things to policewomen. I promise I won’t do anything bad to you, though…”
“Oh, thankyou!” breathed Sally, profoundly relieved.
“…because what I do to you will be good, really good! As for the full force of the law coming down on me, if it’s anything like the full force of your big arse, I look forward to it!”
Sally was not one to give up easily.
“Er…my name’s Sally. What’s yours?”
“The Lone Stranger.”
“Er…do you have any friends?”
“Yes – an Indian pharmacist called Tonto.” Sally had the impression the man was not being entirely honest with her. She tried another tack.
“Look, I ought to warn you, my colleague will be here any moment.”
“Oh, right? Male or female?” Sally considered a straight lie and her honest nature rejected it.
“Female. She’s called Yasmin.”
“Oh, fantastic! I always have problems in the baker’s selecting brown or white. Well, two bums are better than one, they say.”
“There’s the warden Mike, too!” The Stranger smiled.
“Oh, I don’t think he’ll be a problem,” he replied. Whatever he meant by that, Sally reflected, it could not be good. She had nothing more to say. This was partly because the man was feeling the contours of her bottom most diligently and skilfully, but also because she felt the conversation had reached a natural end.
The Lone Stranger had also reached a natural end. Without warning, he delivered a sharp slap to Sally’s uniformed posterior. Caught unprepared, she squealed. He delivered three more in quick succession and was rewarded with three more slighter squeals. Then, to Sally’s horror, he started unfastening her belt. He removed all its stern paramilitary accoutrements. Then he seized the top of her trousers at the back firmly in both hands, the hands being quite spaced out (the size of her bottom giving him plenty of room) and tugged very hard. The material was strong: there was just the faintest of protesting sounds of something almost giving but not quite. The Stranger relaxed and then tugged again. There was a dramatic, catastrophic ripping noise and Sally felt gently sylvan zephyrs on her bottom cheeks. She also felt her ruined trousers dropping round her ankles.
There was a long silence. Sally knew exactly why the Stranger was now silent and still: he was staring at her bottom and at that lovely pair of pale violet knickers with white frilly borders that she had joyfully, naughtily, chosen that morning. They covered little more than half her bottom at the best of times, and as she was bent forward, they probably now covered less than that.
“Hmm…not bad,” said the Stranger. “Do you mind if I borrow your shoe? Either one will do.” Sally said nothing, so the Stranger plucked off her right shoe. As with all real policewomen, it was a “sensible” shoe, low-heeled and with a sole that gave a good grip. The Stranger flexed it and swished it around a bit. If you held it by the heel, the front part was not quite rigid, but just slightly whippy. Without warning, he raised it high and brought it down hard on her left cheek, right across the divide formed by the margin of the tight knickers. Sally screamed. He landed another fully on the knicker material and a third cunningly targetted to hit only her soft, bare undercheek. Four more powerful shots followed – but all on her left cheek.
“Weiow!” said Sally. “My left bum cheek is awfully sore. Please leave it alone.”
“Your wish is my command, princess,” he replied, and switched to the right cheek.
Where was Yasmin, Sally wondered. At best her friend would arrive and overpower the Stranger. Next best was that the Stranger would take flight. Still preferable to her present plight was that Yasmin would arrive and be overpowered by the Stranger, who would then give her own bottom a rest.
“These are very pretty panties,” said the Stranger. “Did you select them yourself, or were they a gift?”
“Er…thankyou. I bought them myself.” (Keep him talking, Sally thought. That increases the chances of him being caught, or at least of him giving something away, or at least it gives my poor bum a rest.)
“Then you must have known when you chose them this morning that this was going to be a very special day for you.”
“Er…no, I didn’t.”
“But of course you know now!”
“Er…um…yes, I do.”
“Good! Well, it’s fascinating chatting with you, but I do have things to get on with. I’m happy to say that these delightful panties will have pride of place in my collection.” With that, he produced a pair of nail scissors and cut Sally’s nice knickers precisely down her right flank from top to bottom. Released, the back of the ruined garment flapped down to reveal her bottom in all its glory to the Stranger.
There was a long silence. It was finally broken by the Stranger in tones of awed admiration:
“PC Sally, you have an absolutely gorgeous, fantastic, premier-class arse on you. Has anyone told you that before?”
“Er…yes,” said Sally. “Er…thankyou.”
“What a well-brought-up young lady you are! Hmm…better remove the panties.” He did as he said, stuffing the wisp of violet material in his pocket.
“I must say it’s superior to the very nice job on that colleague of yours – PC Flowery Melons or something – who turned out to have that distinctly perverted habit of stuffing an electronic alarm up her arsecrack. The things that young ladies get up to these days! Is your arse better than the one on this Asian bit who’s coming next?”
This question presented Sally with a dilemma. She was rather proud of her bottom, but did not want this horrible man to know that. She did think her bottom was better than Yasmin’s, and was always reluctant to diverge from the strict truth, but surely this was a special case where lying would be forgivable. However, she liked Yasmin. If she indicated that Yasmin’s bottom was even better than hers, given the praise this man had showered on it, he would be inflamed with a fierce desire to catch and strip poor Yasmin.
“Er…hers is smaller,” she said.
“Ah, but size isn’t all! Is yours better, more shapely, more bouncy, more thrashable, more sexy?”
“Er…I suppose it is.”
“I do like girls who have a proper pride in their arses,” he responded, “but I have to tell you that if this Yasmin turns out to have an arse superior to yours, you will suffer for your arrogance. Oh, please excuse me – I hadn’t paid any attention to your titties!”
The removal of Sally’s crisp white uniform blouse was no easy matter because her breasts were pressed hard against the treetrunk, but the Stranger had strong, muscular hands. A few good tugs ripped the thing into pathetic shreds. He stared with evident fascination at her lacy white bra, fingering her tight breasts, before unfastening her bra-strap with almost feminine dexterity, twisting it twice and re-attaching it round her neck, pulling her twin towers up.
“That really is rather artistic,” he congratulated himself, “but now I need to return to your hindquarters.”
He walked around so Sally could see him clearly – and see what he was now holding.
“I thought you’d like to see what I’m going to do next. Do you know what this is?”
From long experience, Sally knew all too well what it was.
“It’s a cane,” she said. The Stranger seemed to be impressed.
“Well done!” he said. “Have you been caned before?” Sally blushed. She had indeed, but she did not particularly want to discuss that with this man. But he had seen her blush.
“No, no, no!” he said fussily, “you’re blushing at the wrong end, young lady! Now – I distinctly remember asking you a clear question and I do not believe I have had an answer. HAVE YOU BEEN CANED BEFORE?”
“Er…um…well…”
“YES?” Sally could feel herself blushing even more.
“Um…yes, I have…er…just a few times.” Immediately Sally felt awful – both for admitting to this odious man, for his wretched pleasure, that she had been caned before, and for having lied, for she had been caned many, many times. The Stranger did not hurry into his reply.
“Just a few times, with an arse like that?” he tutted. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. What on earth are policewomen for, if it’s not to have plump arses and to present them when required? And what is the appropriate treatment for plump, presented official hindquarters if it isn’t to be caned? Or whipped, belted, paddled, tawsed, splatted with a table tennis bat and so on…not that these things are necessarily alternatives, of course – they can be combined. Anyway, if your rump has only received the cane a few times, young lady, it’s my painful duty to make up the number of cuts to an appropriate level. Painful to you, of course, not to me.”
“Where is Yasmin?” Sally thought with increasing desperation, “and where’s that nature reserve warden, for heaven’s sake? Out photographing butterflies?”
“I must say, young lady, this whole business is taking far longer than it should thanks to your feminine chatter. We really must get on,” said the Stranger. And with that he took up his position, leant back, raised his arm and cut in to his defenceless target.
Judging by the noises she made, Sally’s reaction came in three parts – an instinctive cry of alarm and then a full-throated expression of almost intolerable pain before a final peevish complaint. Thanks to the thoughtfulness of the Stranger, the event was recorded on tape and has been transcribed by Professor Arschhandler as follows:
“WEIAAAAAIOW!...AWAAAAAAAAAAAAAIOOWAHAAAAOOOWWAAAA....WAA, HAA, HUR, HUR, HUR…”
“Goodness! What a wide vocal range you have!” said the Stranger. “Well, here goes again!” Sally’s right arsecheek was now scored by a vivid red line and its sister was about to gain the same mark. Moreover, the sound effects were about to be repeated.
The Stranger was evidently a methodical man with high professional standards, not to say meticulousness bordering on the obsessional: each cut into one of the policewoman’s generous, firm but plump, quivering buttocks was balanced by a similar one on the other side, and as he moved up and down her target raining down fire, he kept evenly spaced until she was patterned from the small of her back to the overhang of her undercheeks. Sally’s salt tears ran down her less interesting cheeks and on to the trunk of the oak where they formed little rivulets in the crannies of the rough bark.
Having covered his primary target with neat spacing, the Stranger moved on to her thighs and did the same for them. The salty flow on the treetrunk attracted several butterflies and beetles. The Stranger finished off his exploration of her legs with a cruel cut to each of the backs of her knees, provoking wails as fine and dramatic as those with which she had greeted his first strokes. Then he completed the overall effect with two diagonal cuts across the middle of her cheeks so that her arse looked like an illustration of two five-barred gates.
“WUR, HUR, HUR!” said Sally.
“Well, that really was rather pleasant,” said the Stranger. “Did you enjoy that, PC Sally?” This was another question Sally found hard to answer. She was not immune to the pleasures of a little whacking, at the hands of sympathetic experts like Superintendant Carver, Sergeant Quinn or her boyfriend Nigel who had even introduced an element of bondage which Sally found quite exciting; but that was with people she trusted and she had given consent (though with the Superintendant she did not really have a choice). She did not at all enjoy being tied up and cruelly caned by this horrible, soft-voiced pervert, she told herself; but if she told him so, he might be angry and she might get even more painful punishment.
“I don’t really know,” she said. The Stranger laughed – a high, gurgling laugh, perhaps a little mad.
“Well, well! You don’t know? Now I wonder what I could do to give you the opportunity to find out! Aah, I know – cane you some more!” he said, delivering two sharp cuts against her shapely calves.
“Now, I’m sure you were wondering when I’d get round to fucking you, and very likely you were champing at the bit getting frustrated at my undue delay. Were you?” he continued.
“Um…no.”
“Never mind, Let’s get on with it. Have you ever been…” but he did not finish the sentence. A bicycle bell tinkled, and on the other side of the hut, a clear, cultured young female voice called out:
“Hellooooo! Salleee! It’s meee! Sorry I’m so late!” It was Yasmin. The Stranger, acting with impressive speed, and helped by a certain shocked indecisiveness on Sally’s part, gagged her with strips of her own blouse. Then he ran off: Sally heard his receding footfall for a short distance and then there was silence – silence from him, but not from Yasmin, who continued to call:
“Salleeee! Are you there? Where are you? Naughty girl, are you hiding? I can see you!”
There was no reply and Yasmin’s calls lost the strong suggestion of girlish play and began to betray concern. Sally writhed and struggled, trying to dislodge her gag. Finally she realised that she could make a noise in just one way. The Stranger had left one of her shoes on: she could kick against the treetrunk. It was not a loud noise, but it might just do. It did not do immediately, as Yasmin moved off to the warden’s hut and could be heard hammering on the door. Then Yasmin gave that up and came closer again. This time she heard the strange, regular knocking noise and approached it.
When she saw Sally bound to the tree, she screamed. That momentary feminine response was rapidly followed by a more professional one: she ran to Sally, exclaimed,
“Oh, Sally! Oh, you poor girl! What beast did this to you? Just let me catch him!” and vainly attempted to unlock the handcuffs without a key before equally vainly trying to wrench them apart. Sally remained firmly in bondage, so her friend removed her gag instead.
“Sally! What happened to you?” she asked.
“The Stranger tricked me. Where have you been, Yas?” Sally replied.
“Oh,” said Yasmin, just a little quickly, “I chased some of those kids who’d been vandalising the sign quite a long way, and when they stopped because they were tired out, I gave them a real talking-to before telling them I could have arrested them, but actually they could go. They were grateful.”
A fallen stick cracked. Yasmin spun around, half-expecting to see the monster who had assaulted her friend. There was nothing to see but a scurrying squirrel.
“Yas, why’s there a hole in the back of your trousers and muddy hand and footprints on them?” asked Sally. Yasmin spun round again, putting her hand to her bottom.
“Oh, gollygosh!” she exclaimed, “it must have happened when I fell off the bike.” Sally chose not to question this and instead asked,
“Are you going to get me free from this stuff?”
Yasmin seemed to find the change of subject welcome. She made another vain attempt to open the handcuffs, examined the tree as if wondering whether it might be felled or whether Sally could be pushed up it until she reached the top, but had to concede defeat.
“I’ll have to call for backup,” she admitted. “Bolt-cutters would do it. Pity we don’t carry guns like most other police services, or I could shoot them off.” Sally privately thanked her lucky stars that they did not have guns, as she would not have trusted anyone’s aim in such a delicate matter.
“YAS, WATCH OUT!” yelled Sally as the Stranger launched himself at the new policewoman.
PC Yasmin Khan was young, fit and had quick reflexes, as Superintendant Carver had found out the first time he had pinched her bottom. On that occasion, as was appropriate for an organisation based on strict discipline, her quick reflexes had done her no good and had merely ensured that he used the whip on her burning bottom after he had finished with the cane. Now she threw herself out of the way of the Stranger’s leap. Suddenly encountering nothing where he had expected policewoman, he pitched forward on his face – but Yasmin was down too. Sally watched helplessly as the two got to their feet at the same time, Yasmin drew her baton – and the Stranger ran off towards the warden’s hut, the avenging angel Yasmin in hot pursuit.
The trained professional in Sally noted that the Stranger was a surprisingly quick runner. Perhaps he was a track competitor, or had been? Anyway, Yasmin, a fit, athletic and long-legged young woman, was scarcely catching up on him as he reached the right-hand corner of the warden’s hut and disappeared round it with Yasmin pursuing, the hole in her trousers and the muddy marks across the seat rather more obvious than she might have liked. Moments later, he reappeared round the left side of the hut and ran across the front with his pursuer still following. After three more circuits, he actually seemed to be putting a bit more distance between him and the policewoman. Sally could not understand why he had not run off into the woods instead of running round and round the hut. She also wondered if it would occur to Yasmin, whose undoubted intelligence was perhaps overridden by the excitement of the chase, that if she just stopped still the foolish man would come to her.
But it was the Stranger who thought of it. Just round the left-hand corner of the hut stood a large box or pen, its frame made of stout wooden struts with a kind of thick wire or thin metal bars criss-crossed between them. The object was no doubt kept in case stray dogs or other unwanted animals needed to be restrained and removed humanely, and on top dead centre and on each side of the top were strong wooden handles. Previously the Stranger had skipped around this obstacle, but now he flung the door open, picked the thing up and held it in front of him. In her keen pursuit of the malefactor, Yasmin had gradually assumed a posture in which her head and torso were pushed forward and low. In this posture she raced round the corner straight into the pen, whereupon the Stranger tipped it up on end so his pursuer’s head was at ground level, shoved her protruding bottom firmly so she slipped further in, tucked her legs in before she recovered sufficiently from her shock to start vigorous kicking, and shut and fastened the door. It shut with a loud metallic CLACK that indicated that it would not easily be dislodged. He bent and looked long at the struggling policewoman trapped in the pen. Then he stood up, looked over to Sally, grinned and gave a thumbs up sign.
Yasmin was now starting to bang on the structure and shout:
“Let me out! Let me out! You can’t do this!” but for some strange reason the Stranger was not deterred. Using one handle, he dragged the object across the front of the hut. Yasmin was not the girl to take all this lying down – or standing on her head either – and struggled to get hold of her CS canister. She succeeded, but in retrospect might have preferred to have failed, for the canister went off without any harm to her captor, pumping stinging spray into the underside of her bosom. Her cries changed to mainly non-verbal ones, but the words “Let me out!” could still be heard, though in tones suggestive of desperation and pain, not affronted authority. Finally she squealed, “My breasts are on fire!”
“ARE they indeed? Goodness me, you ARE a hot young lady! Now - you really want to be let out? Fair enough!” said the Stranger. He had dragged his catch to a large water-butt. Showing considerable strength in the arms, he lifted the pen up till it was poised on the rim of the butt and then in two quick movements released the door and tipped the pen up. The big splash clearly indicated to Sally that the butt had been full of rainwater, though it now, of course, contained less water because of the amount that had been displaced by the body of a policewoman. Two slim and shapely ankles were sticking out of the top and the Stranger took the opportunity to rope them together before pushing them out of sight. Sally could no longer see her friend, but she could see the Stranger, who seemed first to be pushing Yasmin down, then lifting her up before he made other motions suggestive of vigorous washing.
When he pulled his victim out, she was indeed a sorry, sodden sight, her once-neat uniform sticking to her most revealingly, especially where two hard nipples thrust against a now transparent blouse. Her beautiful glossy black hair was plastered to her shoulders and over her forehead and face, giving her somewhat the appearance of a dark Old English Sheepdog. As the Stranger hoiked her up on to his shoulder in that classic pose of conquest and practical transport, arse facing the future, head hanging back, she did nothing but splutter and twitch.
The sight set contradictory emotions working in Sally. She was of course horrified to see her brave friend overpowered and in the clutches of the evil sex fiend; but everything from Yasmin’s headlong rush into the wooden box to her soaked re-emergence from the water-butt had also been very funny and (Sally reluctantly admitted to herself) sexy. The Stranger caught her gaze and grinned.
“That WAS fun!” he said. “Quite an adventure, in fact. Now the next bit is rather complicated.” He unloaded Yasmin, produced a long length of cord from his pocket, tied it tightly round her left wrist, pulled her upright and on to the treetrunk where Sally was captive, and, as his new conquest started to regain wits and strength and to struggle, drew her left arm back and then whipped it forward so as to send the cord snaking round the trunk, round Sally and back again, where he deftly caught it and fastened the other end to Yasmin’s right wrist. It was then a simple matter to draw her wrists together and fasten them tightly behind Sally’s back with her own handcuffs.
“Lucky she’s got such long arms!” he commented. He stood back and contemplated what he had done, finally saying, “Yes, that is decidedly artistic – don’t you think?”
“Let me go!” wailed Yasmin.
“In due course!” said the Stranger. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you have a hole in the middle of the back of your trousers?” As Yasmin did not answer, he gave her a stinging whack on her wet seat. “ANSWER ME!” he insisted.
“It was an accident!” said Yasmin. The Stranger seemed surprised:
“Really? Ah. I thought it might have been for a tail – a joke one, of course, like on a pantomime horse, though now I come to think of it, for all I know you could have had a real tail, and very nice it would have looked too, I’m sure. Or maybe you’re seriously flatulent? All those curries, you know. But it was an accident…”
“STOP FUCKING AROUND, YOU BASTARD, YOU SICKO!” Yasmin interrupted. Sally could have told her these were not wise words.
“Oh, dear,” the Stranger sighed, “I think I’m going to have to bring something rather special.” He left the captive pair and strolled off back to the warden’s hut, actually disappearing round the back.
He returned with an old but still garish skateboard which had lost its wheels. He smiled at Sally as if she was a confederate.
“When this foolishly forward young lady and I were chasing one another round the hut, I noticed this old thing just lying there and thought it might come in useful for something – and I was right! Wasn’t that fortunate?” Sally chose not to reply, especially as Yasmin would hear whatever she said, but so would the Stranger, so any reply would offend one of them. The Stranger looked slightly disappointed at her silence, but soon perked up.
“It really is much better without the wheels,” he commented, gripping the thin, light, not altogether rigid board firmly in both hands. Sally could see what he was doing, but Yasmin had lost sight of the board. He braced his feet, extended his arms back and up, and brought the board down on her drenched, dripping uniformed rump with horrendous force.
SPLACK! went the board on the fine young officer’s bottom.
“IAOOOWAAAAAAAAAAH!” went the fine young officer as spray spurted from her trousers and her stinging buttocks rebounded.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Could you say it again?” asked the Stranger politely. Yasmin had not yet learnt that it was best not to reply to such requests.
“You wretched perWAAAIOOOOOOW, wah, har, har, hur, hur, hur, hur!” she replied.
“Were you trying to say something? Would you like a translator?” he enquired, and brought the board down a third time.
“You know, people keep debating why policewomen switched from skirts to trousers,” he said chattily. “Some say it was because men kept looking up their skirts, though why that should be a reason for removing the skirts I don’t know. Some said it was because the tight skirts were impossible to run fast in, so these dinky little coppers were easily outrun by some lusty lad or even one approaching middle age like me, and putting their bottoms in trousers offered better sport because it was more of a challenge. Some said the trousers were more effective arse protectors, but that doesn’t seem to work, does it? Personally, I think it was just because trousers outline the arsecheeks better. What do you think, my dear?”
This time Yasmin stayed silent.
“Must be getting deaf. Couldn’t hear that at all!” the Stranger mused. “Only one solution!” He slammed the board down again. The noises from Yasmin now were not cries of proud, doomed defiance, but defeated grizzling – and he had not even got her trousers off yet, Sally thought with a hint of disapproval. He was in no hurry; but finally he decided it was time to move on. With dexterity and meticulous attention to detail – which Sally mentally noted so she could add to the psychological profile on the Stranger that had already been written – he relieved her of her belt with all its accoutrements and then tugged down her trousers. Because they were sopping wet this was not easy and took several vigorous tugs, which partly dislodged her pale blue knickers sprinkled with depictions of little yellow daisies so that most of one plump brown cheek was denuded while its sister was still decently covered except for the sliver of impertinent undercheek peeping out beyond the elastic. These charming knickers were also sopping wet, a fact on which their discovered remarked:
“My dear, I’m afraid your knickers are wet. Is that because you have had a little accident, or were you pleased to see me?” Yasmin’s spirit had not yet been crushed.
“Because you dunked me in the water butt!” she reminded him; but he merely replied,
“Because I dunked your butt in what? Young lady, ‘butt’ is American and I do not take kindly to invasive Americanisms. It is your arse. Now – let’s see if you’ve learnt anything. What is that big round thing that graces your rear elevation?”
But Yasmin did not match the punctilious courtesy with which the Stranger invested all his conversation.
“Piss off!” she hissed. This was not only undiplomatic but unwise.
“YOUNG LADY!” the Stranger spat out, “It is not your ‘Piss off’! Admittedly, one might with slight inaccuracy say it was your ‘piss from’, but describing it that way is indelicate. I see you need to be taught a lesson!” This time he did not use the skateboard, perhaps because its vigorous and repeated use would tire the arms of any man. Instead he belaboured the arguably unfortunate but indisputably rash, foolish and disrespectful officer with her own baton, delivering a series of stinging whacks to her wet and partially-knickered bottom.
Sally could see him delivering the blows, see him wincing with the effort, see him smiling at the results and see his trousers bulging more and more ominously – and she could feel her friend wincing and quivering, as well as hearing her shriek, wail and sob; but she could not see those friendly, carefully-nurtured, highly professional hindquarters growing redder or feel her friend’s hurt. In fact she was a little uncomfortable to find distinct signs that she herself was enjoying the drama against her better judgement. She could not see that he had used the baton to force her flimsy knickers deep into her tight crack, revealing a wider expanse of arse for his delight; but when at long last he rolled her last, pathetic defence down to her ankles, she recognised all too well that distinctive dominant action and knew her friend’s beautiful warm brown bottom was now staring back at its conqueror unveiled and inviting.
She was therefore not surprised when he placed the baton on the ground – he was not a man for throwing things down in an abandoned fashion – and instead took up the cane, or that he punctiliously showed it to Yasmin before dreaming of using it. His arm rose; his arm fell; and Yasmin screamed. Soon an age-old ballad was being played out, with a compelling rhythm, heady music and vivid words:
WHOOOSH
SPLACK
AIAAAAAAAAAAAH!
WAAAAAH, HAR, HUR, HUR, HUR, WAAA…
WHOOOSH
SPLACK
AIAAAAAAAAAAAH!
WAAAAAH, HAR, HUR…
Sally was not aware that she had been counting, but something inside her head had been doing just that: she had been good at Maths at school, and perhaps that was the reason.
“Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen…eighteen…nineteen…twenty…” the insistent little voice said. Then the Stranger laid down the cane. Sally could easily guess what was to come.
“Hmmm…” said their conqueror, standing to the side of the tree precisely halfway between his first capture and his second, “Just as I mentioned earlier, I always find it hard in the baker’s choosing between white and brown. White bun first, or brown? That is the question. Whether in the arse to suffer…No, that’s the second question. First things first. Well, this is difficult.” He paced back so he could take two good handfuls of Yasmin’s undercheeks. They were sore, so she shrieked, but he ignored this. “Hmm, I don’t think these are wholemeal. Much too smooth. Moreover, these red lines suggest they were baked too near to a hot grill. Damp, too. What about the white ones?” He switched to a position just behind Sally. “Bigger, but a nice texture,” he remarked as he squeezed her cheeks. “More fucks for your bucks, as they say. Right, that’s that decided. I prefer the white one – so I’ll leave that treat till last. Now – I can’t spend all day chatting with you two voluble misses. I’ve got work to do.”
With this, he returned to a position just behind Yasmin, clasped the treetrunk, and did not change position for a long time. The tree shook a little though, dislodging a shower of leaves and twigs. A series of “Oh” sounds from Yasmin provided a simple musical backing. A slight change of position took place, followed by a short squeal from Yasmin, and then routine returned. Sally was deeply embarrassed to find she was very wet.
She was more embarrassed when the Stranger came round to her and noticed this.
“Excellent! I aim to please!” he said, and she felt the slick but unstoppable power of the invader’s battering-ram crash through her gates and take the rich prize beyond.
She had stopped counting, and had no idea how much time had passed. She was only aware that the invader had switched from the main gate to the tight little back one. There was a moment of pain and then acceptance. Again she lost track of time. Finally it had ended. Someone was softly crying. Was it her, she wondered. No. Who then, and why? Oh, yes, it was Yasmin.
A voice of authority spoke:
“Well, thankyou, girls, for a wonderful time. I hope you’ve learnt from it. I would so much like to stay, but I must be going. As the Americans say, ‘Have a nice day!’ Perhaps I’ll see you again some time.” Sally heard his receding footfalls and then there was silence except for Yasmin sobbing and a robin singing.
Yasmin’s sobbing stopped.
“Sal?” she said tentatively.
“Yes, Yas?”
“My bottom is burning!”
“Mine’s really hot too,” Sally replied. As soon as she had said this, she realised it too closely resembled what various people had said about her area of outstanding natural beauty, including the male chauvinist Sergeant Tucker and the more moderate female chauvinist Sergeant Quinn.
“Has he gone?” Yasmin asked in a stage whisper.
“I think so.”
“How do we get free from this?”
“We don’t.” Yasmin started sobbing again and Sally felt guilty at her abruptness. “Yas, sorry, listen to me! I didn’t mean we’ll never get free, I just meant there’s nothing we can do.” Yasmin’s sobbing intensified. “I mean we just have to wait till someone comes along and rescues us. Where’s that crappy nature reserve warden, for a start? If no-one else comes, the boys and girls back at the station will realise we’re missing and not answering our radios and will come after us. Chin up! We’re trained professionals and you know how we British behave in adversity.”
“Grumble, innit?” said Yasmin. She was beginning to recover from her ordeal.
That was most helpful in the twenty minutes that followed. Then they both heard a slight, regular sound, growing louder and lower as if it was approaching. It was a small motor such as one found on buggies or no, there was only one terrestrial moving motor with a sound like that – a small motorbike or scooter.
The sound slowed and stopped. After a pause of a few seconds, which seemed much longer, steady steps crunched towards them.
05.04.11
story continues in In Wicklow Wood there is a Tree 2
o0o