A Citizen’s Arrest
I am standing stark naked, with a huge dripping erection, my genitals in a tight noose and my hands cuffed behind my back….
… in my female neighbour’s back garden….
… somehow unable to explain.
‘It’s all a just terrible misunderstanding. I know it looks bad but it was all completely innocent’, I say.
The two women exchange sceptical glances.
‘It’s not at all what it seems like, I wasn’t doing anything wrong, you have to believe me.’
I turn to the police woman, who has introduced herself as WPC Jane Berkshire.
‘You’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick,’ I plead.
Which is an unfortunate phrase, I realise, because she is gripping her large black police baton, and is quite clearly holding the right end. And more worryingly, she is evidently contemplating doing something with the other end which she fingering in a slightly menacing manner while looking too attentively at a certain part of my anatomy – causing me to clench my buttocks tight.
The other woman is my neighbour, whom WPC Jane refers to simply as ‘Madame C’, presumably to protect the victim’s anonymity. As I had only just moved in next door I hadn’t introduced myself yet, although I had inadvertently spotted her, through a very small hole in the fence, sunbathing in her garden – on a number of occasions. She is also watching me, rather too intently I feel, as if she is calculating and planning something. Which she hardly needs to do because she already has the upper hand, pulling tightly on the cord that she has tied around my privates.
Unfortunately, my pleas of innocence are being sabotaged by my own cock, which instead of hanging its head in shame is standing to attention, and drooling like an idiot. And why? Because there is something about these two women, standing together, that triggers a base unconscious urge which I am unable to prevent from surfacing in my mind.
Madame C, with a tousled cascade of golden blonde hair and ruby red lips, is wearing the tightest of silky hot-pants and a matching bikini top that offer scant concealment of her pale skin, her rounded breasts and her slim, firmly toned body.
In contrast, Constable Jane has a mane of glossy black hair and a low straight fringe above her hard penetrating eyes. She has full curvaceous body, tightly enclosed by her police uniform – which seems to have a lot more black leather and studs, and be much shorter in the hem, and higher in the heel, than I recall as normal for standard police issue.
‘Ok, Mr Smith (and I hope that’s your real name you’ve given me), tell it to me again,’ commands the WPC.
‘Well it was nothing. I just was relaxing in the sun in my garden, reading a book.’
‘In the nude?’ she asks.
‘No, of course not, I was wearing shorts. But, um, I had spilt my drink on them so took them off to let them dry in the sun. Nobody can see into my garden, so there’s no harm in that, is there? Just for a minute or two.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘Well, it was very hot, so I went to cool off in the shady hollow inside the old rhododendron there.’ I point to the large bush that forms the far end of the shared property boundary.
‘And when I was in there I just happened to notice that Mrs… Madame… this nice lady was working in her garden. I didn’t want to disturb her because she seemed so very busy, but I thought if I watched her I might, um… get some… gardening tips.’ I look anxiously from one to the other, hoping that they would understand.
‘Gardening tips?’ A look of disbelief passes between them.
‘Yes.’
But Madame C snorts with derision. ‘Is that what you needed the camera for?’ she asks.
‘Camera? What c…camera?’ I stutter.
She strides over to the bush, reaches in and pulls it out, its zoom lens fully extended.
‘Ooh, that’s a big one you’ve got there, Mr. Smith’, says WPC Jane, a tone of rather distasteful innuendo in her voice. ‘Let me have a look.’ She scrolls through the images on the LCD screen.
‘Hello, what’s this?’ She shows it to Madame C, and then to me.
It’s a close up of my neighbour as she was picking her nectarines, but rather poorly framed as I seem to have focused in too closely on her breasts and her erect nipples which are clearly visible pressing against the thin silky fabric.
‘Some nice ripe fruit you have there, Madame C,’ says the constable, with a smile. ‘I bet they taste a treat.’
A look passes between them that I don’t understand, but which seems somehow inappropriate, unseemly. There appears to be something shared between these two, some accord that has been reached.
She clicks onto the next image.
It was of Madame C weeding her vegetable patch, bent over on her hands and knees facing away from me, so that my main view was of her firm rounded buttocks. I had been worried that she might have sensed my presence in the bush, as a few twigs had snapped
underfoot as I had settled myself down to watch, but thankfully it was clear that she was blissfully unaware.
The next shot is an even closer image. I had clearly zoomed in too far as her rather attractive derriere completely filled the frame. I remember being concerned for her, as it had looked as if her hot-pants might be chafing her slightly, as they were be riding up very tight between her buttocks. A couple of times she had slowly wiggled her hips, evidently trying to make herself more comfortable, and then reached back with her hand, slipping a finger under the thin strip of fabric that barely concealed her modesty, to ease its pressure on her private parts. Her comfort was probably not helped by the fact that the fabric appeared to be slightly damp there, perhaps from the beads of perspiration that glistened on her body, or perhaps from…..
Any way, it was hard to take my eyes off her.
That had been the last frame I had taken, for moments later Madame C had stood up, stretched her pale lithe body and looked casually around her garden with evident satisfaction at her work. I knew she could not see me in the dark shadows of the bush’s dense foliage, and I had felt a tremor of excitement as she had walked slowly towards me, her attention clearly elsewhere. I was holding my breath, and afraid that she would hear the rapid beating of my heart. She was just feet away from me, but I was completely invisible to her.
Or so I had thought.
She moved so fast I had no time to react, plunging her hand into the foliage and, as if laser-guided, clasping her fingers in a vice-like grip around my genitals, then pulling me, groaning in pain, unceremoniously out into open through the branches.
‘You filthy little pervert’, she said angrily.
Grabbing a length cord, somehow readily at hand and with a slip knot already tied (where did that come from?) she slipped it over my cock and balls and yanked it tight. Then again, seemingly out of nowhere she produced a pair of handcuffs (what on earth would such a woman want with them?) and in one smooth move clasped my wrists tight behind my back.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ I exclaimed indignantly.
‘I’m making a citizen’s arrest. You’re nicked,’ she said with clear satisfaction in her voice.
And so bound, she had dragged me over to her gazebo and tied the cord to a high timber strut so that I was unable to move, almost dangling by my cock and balls.
Then she looked down at her hand, on which there was smeared a long streak of slimy wetness, and then at the dripping head of my swollen manhood.
‘Oh my God, you’re disgusting,’ she exclaimed, and presenting her hand to me said ‘Lick that off.’ And dutifully I obeyed.
‘I’m calling the police,’ she snarled, ‘I’ll make you pay for this.’ And with those words she had disappeared into her house.
And I was left hanging there, contemplating the utter indignity of my predicament.
I have to take my hat off to the police, though, for they responded very quickly, my neighbour ushering the woman constable into her garden in just a matter of minutes. I hadn’t heard the car arrive, but WPC Jane must have driven here without her jacket on, because she was still buttoning it up as she stepped out onto the patio. They talked out of earshot for a while, my neighbour pointing towards me, clearly explaining what had happened. They smiled and nodded to each other, then walked over and untied the cord from the gazebo, but not from me.
And so, here I am, in my abject humiliation, awaiting my fate.
But WPC Jane seems slightly preoccupied, still gazing at that last image on the camera screen, licking her lips distractedly. But Madame C coughs, catches her attention, and gives a sideways nod in my direction.
‘Ah yes’, says the police woman, ‘you’d better come inside.’
So I am led cock-first, waddling like a plucked duck, into the welcome coolness of the house. But instead of being released I am taken into a small dimly lit room with black walls and strange furniture. It seems that Madame C is a medical practitioner of some kind, for there are nurses’ uniforms and unfamiliar medical equipment, examination chairs and cages, and probes of all sizes, electrodes, vibro-massagers, clamps, tubes. masks and pumps piled high on wheeled trolleys, and hanging from steel frames.
‘Mr. Smith,’ starts WPC Jane in a very sombre voice, ‘in order that I can explain to you the very serious consequences of your actions, I am going to have to secure you, so the Madame C, who is the victim here, feels absolutely safe in your presence. Do you understand?’
I nod.
But, while I had expected the police woman simply to attach my cuffs to one of the fixtures in the room, instead both she and Madame C, working with what almost seems like practiced coordination, unclasp my wrists and strap them to a metal bar suspended from the ceiling, which they then hoist up, followed quickly by the tying of my ankles, widely apart, to rings fixed into the floor. I am bound and spread-eagled.
Silently the police woman walks around me, prodding me in my chest with her baton. Then running it up the inside of one leg, and jerking it into my balls, making me flinch. She brings it up to her face, and touches it to her lips, as if contemplating something, then licks its end with the tip of her tongue. I have a growing sense of unease.
She walks behind me, and I feel the cold hard object sliding up my other leg, into between my buttocks. Pressing there.
Meanwhile Madame C is reclining on a low divan, watching proceedings. It is clear, as I had suspected, that her hot-pants had been causing her discomfort, because she has undone the zip at the front, then licked her fingers and slipped them underneath the clinging fabric, and is now gently massaging herself between her widely splayed thighs. She has a slightly dreamy expression on her face, and in her demeanour I have a growing sense that she is not the victim at all, but is the one in ultimate control here, somehow directing these events.
‘In cases like this, Mr. Smith,’ continues WPC Jane, ‘the law has two options. One, we drag your sorry arse down to the nick and charge you with perverted sexual voyeurism and indecent exposure. You will go on the sex offenders’ register and you will never live it down. I am sure you do not want that.’
I shake my head, distraught, unable to utter even a single word.
‘Or we apply what is known as restorative justice, in which we give the offender the opportunity to make amends to the victim without getting a criminal record. To show remorse, to repay your debts, and ultimately to demonstrate that you are reformed and rehabilitated. It is a way of empowering the victim,’ she explains, gesturing to Madame C.
But Madame C, it seems, has been rather badly affected by the experience as her eyes are now half closed, and she is breathing heavily, still trying so hard to relieve the irritation between her legs. I cannot help but notice that her private parts, inadvertently exposed, do seem a little red and swollen. Maybe if she wasn’t rubbing them so hard.
The police woman loudly clears her throat, and looks rather sternly at Madame C, who suddenly sits up, her body shuddering slightly. I wonder if she is feeling chilled.
‘Restorative justice,’ says WPC Jane, ‘will involve a supervised community order, in which you will perform services to your neighbour, overseen on occasion by myself, until such time as we, together,’ and she glances towards Madame C, now more settled but still visibly flushed, ‘deem that you have learnt the error of your ways and have been corrected of your antisocial and deviant behaviour. Do you understand?’
I nod, and again sense some intimate unspoken communication pass between them.
‘So which is it going to be, Mr Smith?’
I have no choice. ‘Restorative justice, please’, I say meekly.
‘Well, then you are a very fortunate man, because I happen to know that Madame C is one of the preeminent practitioners in the field sexual perversion, and with a very exclusive clientele. Her experience is unparallel in a range of corrective treatments, including her own renowned Perversion Aversion Therapy.’
‘As part of your treatment, she will not only undertake the most exacting of medical examinations of every part of your body in order to determine the causes of your depraved behaviour, but she will also give you practical instruction in all aspects of sexual and erotic deviancy, so that you can recognise these disgusting and pornographic fantasies which clearly fill your dirty little mind.’
‘And in order that, some day, you can be released from the conditions of this order, you will be required to submit without question to Madame C’s will, performing for her whatever tasks she requests, however menial and degrading you may think they are.’
Now it is Madame C that stands in front of me, suddenly confident, imperious, proud and dominant – and, I see clearly for the first time, exquisitely beautiful.
‘Do you understand?’ she asks.
‘Yes’, I say
A stinging slap across my face.
‘Yes MISTRESS’, she insists.
‘Yes Mistress.’
‘Well there’s no time like the present, is there Constable?’
‘Indeed there is not’, the officer replies smiling, and removing her police uniform jacket to reveal a tightly fitting corset which enhances her figure, pushing up her voluptuous breasts.
Madame C pulls over a trolley, and draws on a pairs of thick latex gloves, snapping them onto her fingers.
WPC Jane squeezes a thick dollop of clear viscous liquid onto the end of her baton, and smears the slippery substance down the shaft.
Madame C wraps a piece of red cord tightly around my balls and cock which becomes engorged to bursting with pulsating blood.
WPC Jane forces open my mouth and inserts a large ball gag, strapping it tightly around my head.
Madame C attaches a set of electrode pads to my balls, and my cock, and my nipples.
WPC Jane spreads apart my buttocks, and presses the end of her slippery black rod hard against my anus, then pushes….
…. and Madame C places a drop of thick lubricant on the end of my dribbling cock, which she squeezes, so opening the narrow aperture, then takes from her tray a thin steel rod and, looking triumphantly into my eyes, and with a steady hand slowly….
I groan.
And so, Madame C, with the expert assistance of WPC Jane Berkshire, commences the corrective penetration of my naked and bound body, and the subjugation my will. And my sentence begins.
Another story after a trip down fantasyalley by Slave L
