At The Police Station - (M/f, no sex)

The appointment had not been very effective. George and Susan had invited
me into their weekend cottage but, German traffic being what it is, didn't
yet know when exactly they would be back from Italy. Therefore I was
supposed to take a room in the village inn. They would leave a message for
me and fetch me there. The inn was all right if not altogether inviting.
The bedcovers were checkered, the loo at the end of the hallway. No douche
but a washbasin, splash! It used to be that way some years ago, I thought,
what a terrible snob you are! I went into the pub, sat down in a corner.
There was the usual noise, sounded like quite a lot of beer and schnapps.
As I entered there was silence, but after some time they got used to me and
went back to their conversations. 'A beer please.' Otherwise I use to drink
wine, but here? It seems to smell like yesterday's cigarettes and well used
socks. Tired. I went to bed and didn't wake up until late in the morning.
Very unusual.

Breakfast. Much, much to eat, strange-tasting coffee. I ask the cheerful
maid if someboday has called for me. 'Ma, has somebody called for him?' Ma
seems to know at once who 'him' is. 'Naa' she hollers from behind. Ma must
be the lady with the enormous ass in a horrible red dress who works the
bar showing her sparkling gold teeth all the time. So, no message. What
now? I ask the daughter, could I stay another night? No problem, nice nod,
fresh coffee. What to do in the meantime?

Luckily I brought books. I find one, sit in the garden, read. Afterwards I
find out they have made up my room. Spit and polish, really! I decide to
walk a little. Left-right: people who stare at me. Some utter a cautious
'Mornin', some just stare. I suspect they murmur something rather
unfriendly to each other as soon as I have passed. But perhaps I am too
suspicious. Perhaps I am not as important after all. The village ends.
Fields, cows, some agricultural machines. A tractor with trailor passes,
the farmer nodds, fag in mouth. I kick at a stone, another, another .. hey,
this is not a stone. Some metal object, dirt coated. As I inspect it more
closely I see it is a pistol, dirty but genuine. I pull out the magazine:
full. The whole thing is ok, new and oiled. This is serious. To leave it
there is out of the question, so what to do? Police. Police? I remember
there was a board at the end of the village road. I wrap the pistol into my
handkerchief. Finally I have a task.

The station is one of these tiny hunched village houses. You can look into
its main room through a small window directly from the street, a drab place
with government-issue furniture and a barrier, presumably to save their
secret files from the likes of me. A police-woman! I had thought they only
have those fat village cops with glistening faces, enormous hands and red
fingers. She is sitting in the corner and reads a colourful magazin. It
takes me a moment to realize the unusual. She does not wear this becoming
unform that makes a girls look as if she has put on men's pants by mistake
and is now trying to hide the bulges. No, she is wearing fatigues, like
with their riot gear. A big, sturdy woman, I can see that. Black, sleek
hair, absorbed in her reading.

The entrance appeared to be round the corner. She puts her magazine aside.
I am dumbfounded! I hope I don't hallucinate. I saw it quite clearly:
SPANK!, and beneath this a picture I can't recognize from far. As she rises
it is hidden behind her. She is not bad, of robust build, no makeup,
perhaps a tiny bit uncouth, enormous chest. Her expression looks like what
we know and love about females in the German civil service: a mixture of
don't-touch-me and chief registrar, tight-assed, bitchy, bored and knowing
all. She marches to the barrier as if into battle. I may have looked at her
a bit markedly because she fills her fatigues really well, both sides. She
lifts her chin and even strengthens her sergeant's posture, looking at me
as if she smells something criminal or at least impudent. 'Don't be funny,
ass-hole' is written all over her. For a moment I think about leaving,
coming back and starting anew. Impossible, of course.

'Yes?' Oh dear, the voice matches the face. 'Good morning, officer' . I try
to be polite but this leaves her cold, apparently. The chin rises about two
millimeters. I translate silently, 'What can I do for you?' 'Well, I
believe, I've found a weapon. Am I right to come here?' 'Weapon?' Will this
go on all the time? 'Yes, well, let me show you.' I pull it out of my
overcoat, unwrap it and put it onto the barrier. Of course it is dirty, she
frowns, her face grows still unfriendlier. 'I see.' Cautious she lifts it
up, turns it around, inspects it. 'Are you sure this is a real pistol?' I
say, 'No.' A quick glance upwards into my face, am I kidding? I try to look
cooperative, her eyes lower again. 'Where did you find it?' I know the
trick. She hopes it was outside her jurisdiction and she cand sen me
elsewhere. 'In the village, just inside the village boundary.' End of the
dream. 'Identity card.' She puts out her hand without lifting her head.
Wonderful, I think, silly bitch. She takes the card, turns it round and
round. Oh dear, I didn't give her my identity card, I gave her the card we
get at the Attorney General's office. It looks similar. She becomes rigid.
I observe a well-known natural phenomenon, the sudden transition from
general to lance-corporal. You must have experienced it yourself, it is
undescribable. I seem to see her ass-cheeks doing a spasmodic, respectful
movement as if to keep an enema. The whole woman grows about an inch, her
waist straightens, her shoulders move backwards, her chin rises and
protrudes and her face, this is the real miracle, her face manages to look
martial, anxious and eager-to-please, all at the same time. Wonderful. She
takes me to be top-brass.

Markedly I glance to the table in the back. 'SP...' I can see, not more.
She turns to look and slowly blushes up her neck, into her face and behind
her ears. Her eyes look human at last. 'I am sorry, I believe I wasn't too
polite.' she tries. I don't answer, keep looking at her. Deeper she
blushes. I look on the table in the back. I try. 'That's right. And I
believe you know exactly what can be done about that.' A questioning
glance. Now it begins. Make a jocular face so as to better get out of it if
it doesn't work. Another marked glance to the table with the magazine. 'Over
the knee', I smile benignly, 'you ought to go over the knee.' She stares,
unbelieving. Unbelieving and insecure. I notice she stretches herself
another bit, inwardly. As she answers, her voice wavers. 'Over the knee?
Here?' Bingo! I see her mouth twitch. 'Where does that lead?' I point to a
door in the rear (don't blow the boss-role!). She says, 'My place.' I:
'Name?' 'Schmidt'. 'Schmidt, rubbish. Christian name!' 'Celestine.'
Celestine indeed, I chuckle inwardly. 'Well, Celestine, close your station,
I don't think there will be more business today, and then: off you go, on
the double.' Left-right, barrier up, left-right, to the door, close it,
turn the key, back, barrier open, left-right, through the rear door,
wonderful how she marches. I hadn't known that an open door between
typewriters and cheap police furniture can look so erotical.

Her home is nice. A bedsitter, kitchen, bathroom, not really rustic.
I sit down. She heads for another fauteul. I say, 'Hey!' Never let on.
Startled, she stands, looks at me. 'Well Celestine. If somebody enters your
station you say, Goord morning, Sir or Madam, what the case may be, What
can I do for you? Come on, try it.' She blushes again, I like that, her
voice wavers a bit, 'Good morning, Sir, what can I do for you?' 'That was
nothing. What do they teach you at academy these days? Once more, loud and
really friendly. Come on!' 'Good morning, Sir, what can I do for you?'
'That's nearly allright. Listen. If you need personal data, you need it,
ok. But you don't just put out your hand. You say, Can I please have your
identity card, sir, I need your personal data for my report. Come on, let's
try it.' 'Can I have please have your identity card, sir, ...' No bitchy
face any more. She is facing me like a child, eager to learn. That's my
girl. Silently I look at her half a minute. Then my eyes go downwards, and
up again. This face of hers, it changes constantly. The iron mask has
vanished. Her mouth is slightly opened. Her eyes, I don't know, her eyes
are like the moist eyes of a little girl looking at her birthday presents.

No mistake now, I think. 'You think you know. But of course you need real
training, we can't have this station fall back into what it was, can we?'
She shakes her head, still the birthday-child. My voice grows softer.
'Allright, come here. It has to be, you know. On your knees, on my right'.
I grab her under her right armpit, lift her up, she helps, and suddenly her
olive coloured behind lies before my eyes. 'Make yourself comfortable', I
say, 'you will need it.' The back of her head nods. I caress her hair.
Softly I ask, 'Shall we begin, luv?' Nod-nod. I jam her legs with my right
leg, my left arm is on her back, my right hand swings back high over my
head. THRASH! She twitsches. Legs, back, neck, everything gets stiff.
'Zssss', not more. Silence. She relaxes. I think, all right, let's go.
THRASH, THRASH, THRASH, I take up my rythm. She takes it well. The more
or less constant hiss I hear sometimes sounds a bit tearful. My hand aches. I
stop. She stays where she is. I ask, 'That was not enough, surely?' Very
soft, 'Yes, it was.' 'Are you kidding, do you think we are playing
housey-housey?' Silence. 'Hey, I am talking to you! Enough?' She shakes her
head, nearly invisibly. I stroke her hair. 'All right, stand up.' A I see
some tears have flown, and she hadn't been completely without makeup after
all.

I go into the kitchen as if to get me something to drink. I need that ,
too. My throat is dry. I am so excited. A bottle of juice, a glass. I
rummage through the drawer. Wonderful, a big wooden spoon. I return to the
other room, spoon in hand. She stares, again another face: a mixture of
fear and lust. For a moment I think I can smell her expression. Think? 'All
right, Celestine' (Celestine! Who will believe this?) 'let's open the belt
and, while you are at it, the buttons too.' Fiddle-fiddle. 'And now, let
them slide down, your civil-war pants'. Rustle. She gets used to the
procedure. I haven't told her to step out of them, so she doesn't. I
thought I would see reasonable outdoor cotton knickers: bot no: really
nice. 'Now put your palms on the sofa.' She hobbles through the room in her
let-down uniform pants, the belt behind her. Bows forward. I admire her
behind. Big, but really nice. I deposit my glass on a small table.
'Beautiful bloomers', I say. 'I don't really think we need them.'
Fascinating, on the inside of her upper thighs gooseflesh begins to grow.
Slowly and tenderly I pull down her panties, down to her knees.

'Let's be merciful, Celestine. Fifteen? OK?' She nods. Very, very soft,
little girl again, 'OK'. The gooseflesh grows stronger. I step aside a bit.
Her cheeks move slightly, clench, soften, clench again. Very beautiful. Not
too hard, I think. We don't really know each other. Don't spoil it.
Ssss-Whack. She retracts her fanny a bit, loud breathing, small whimper.
Fanny comes back. Well done, remarkable girl, I think. White spot in her
skin, then red and redder. I can distinguish the form of the spoon.
Sss-Whack, neighbouring spot. Whack, a little deeper. Whack, at the top.
seven, eight, nine, ten. Small pause. She breathes like mad. Her right foot
goes up, down again. Eleven, twelve, thirteen fourteen. Another pause. The
last one must be the best one. THWACK! Her shoulders twitch. 'Ooooooh',
suddenly she howls. She had pulled herself together until the end. Her hand
wanders back, feels for a cheek. Whack! the hand, fingers aching, goes
back. I caress her red cheeks. She stands up, half naked, head down,
sobbing, sniffing, tears now all over her face.I lift my hand, slightly
touch her face, her hair. 'Good bye Celestine. Did you learn something
today?' She nods eagerly. As I am about to pass the door I hear a faint
little voice behind me, 'Will you come back, sir?'

J.R.