My fur burned where the blood was matted into it, pulling my skin every which way. At least she’d left me the robe that she was wearing to replace what she shredded. I pulled it on, cringing as it went over my back. I felt like something a bearcat dragged home.
It was still night, so I didn’t get a look at myself until I had limped through the alleyways back to my planetside quarters. Shango woke up and wandered out of his quarters when I rolled in, so he got the first look. “By the sacred flames!” he whistled. “Oh honey, you did it, didn’t you?” He hauled me into the bathing area and cleaned me up, then left me to soak while he got food like the pal he is. I hoped he would want to visit me on Hana-altair, after I broke the news.
I was still lying in the bath when I saw a light sheen of rainbow scales appear under the short fur on my arms. Hauling myself to my feet, grumbling and groaning the whole time, I looked at my back in the mirror. In the center was a bloody claw mark that looked branded into my skin. Scales shone under that, too. The news was going to break itself once he got a good look at me.
I stared at my hands, waiting for claws to sprout like little seedlings. They didn’t, but they would soon. I could feel it. Soon I would be going home. Home. The tenth planet from the sun, Hana-altair. I rolled it around my mouth, liking the way it sounded. I wondered what it would be like having a tail.
PHOEBE’S UNDERCOVER BON VOYAGE
Skian McGuire
It wasn’t hard to take Phoebe down. I had my knee in the small of her back and was slapping the cuffs on before she knew what hit her. Of course, she wasn’t really resisting yet. It wasn’t any fun until the cuffs were on.
For a moment we just sat there—or lay there, in Phoebe’s case, with her face pressed against the pavement—and I looked around. I don’t know if any movies were ever actually shot at the Bijou’s warehouse annex, but the rich man who built the theater spared no expense in creating this celluloid fantasyland next door. All under one high ceiling is the perfect little city scene, three row houses and an alley with plenty of room for the squad car my boss Verlaine got from a junkyard. The row houses were no mere false fronts, either. It didn’t take much to turn one of them into a station house, right down to an old-fashioned POLICE lamp outside.
The doors from the club were closed to the regular Sunday evening traffic. This was a private party, to give Phoebe a good send-off. I hoped she would have something to remember us by.
I managed to get the locks set while we caught our breath, Phoebe and I. Just. Then she went wild, trying to buck me off, swearing and kicking and grinding her head against the asphalt, trying to brace and get her feet under her while her hands were cuffed against her back. Phoebe was a fighter, all right. After she elbowed me in the gut and knocked the wind out of me, I was ready to call in backup. The other uniforms were standing by, grinning on the sidelines and more than ready to mix it up with our little blonde hellion. I called them over as soon as I could suck in air.
Anybody who didn’t know Phoebe would see nothing but a sweet, helpless little thing, all pink and pretty. She’d be cute in camouflage, from the halo of pale gold curls and blue eyes down to some size four combat boots. Just five feet tall, she looks like something you could toss over your shoulder and carry away, while her tiny, perfectly manicured hands beat on your big strong back. You can almost imagine her squealing, “Oh, put me down, you brute,” now, can’t you?
Nope. No way.
In a short, tight little dress, with bright red lips à la Courtney Love, she can kick off her strappy high-heeled sandals and send two grown men to the hospital with only her bare hands and feet. I’ve seen it. If Phoebe didn’t want to be subdued, I would be missing some teeth before ending up in the cuffs myself. It’s a good thing Phoebe likes cops. I mean, she really likes cops. Hell, I guess that’s why she is one.
Between the four of us, we got a grip on her and hoisted her up. She sure as hell wasn’t going to walk.
We manhandled the jerking, heaving, spitting, biting one-woman riot up the station house steps, cursing, and struggling to hold on. There was one last thing to make sure of.
“You remember your safeword, don’t you, baby?” I asked her, panting.
“Of course I remember my fuckin’ safeword, you stupid shithead,” she screamed at me, trying to twist around so she could sink her teeth into my arm. “If I want to use my fucking safeword, I’ll use my fucking safeword, you motherfucking asshole. Arrgh!” At this, she kicked one leg free and booted the Sergeant right in the tit. I whistled through my teeth. Phoebe would pay for that later.
We hustled her straight past the desk into the holding pen, where Caine and Walters held her upright against the chain-link while the Sergeant and I messed with the cuffs. It took some doing, but eventually we got her strung up facing us, with a set of bracelets locking each wrist to the mesh, crucifix-style. She never stopped struggling, and she never stopped calling us every vile, filthy, ridiculous thing she could think of. Phoebe has a wonderful imagination.
Caine and Walters backed off her fast; her legs were thrashing out at them the minute they let her go. I surveyed the scene while we regrouped.
Nobody would have mistaken us for real cops, or if they had, they wouldn’t have figured us all from the same department. The Sergeant favored a midnight blue uniform, with a cross strap over the shoulder to her basket weave Sam Browne belt. Caine was gaudier, with a broad navy stripe up the legs of her sky blue trousers, and navy blue epaulets and pocket flaps adorning her sky blue shirt. Did I mention sewn-in creases? Clarino duty belt and chukkas, too. The glare could blind you. Walters and I went for the traditional look, with navy blue trousers and light blue shirts; Walters spiffed hers up with a real NYPD shield. I’ve got my Bijou Security patches and the badge that Lainey got me. Not very salty, maybe, but I’m the one with the keys.
The Sergeant dusted off her hands. “All right, Officers,” she said. “Let’s get this prisoner strip-searched.”
Phoebe blew a wet raspberry at us and brayed a loud, mean laugh.
“You fucking bunch of thumb-twiddling pig-assed twats think you’re gonna lay a finger on me, you got another thing coming, you stupid blue-face cuntsuckers!” She kicked one foot out after the other and ended up hanging herself up on the cuffs.
“Grab her legs.” The Sergeant shot a look at Caine and Walters, and they dove in before Phoebe had a chance to recover. I got some Flex-Cufs around her ankles. As Caine and Walters panted and wiped the sweat from their eyes, I doubled the plastic straps, just to make sure.
The prisoner rested against the bonds for a moment and delivered a few desultory epithets, conserving her strength. The Sergeant was unfolding her drop-point blade from its pearl handle. I pointed to the leg of Phoebe’s jeans just above the Flex-Cuf.
“Poke a hole there for me, will you?” She knelt to oblige, then started working on the other jeans leg herself, sawing away slowly with that cold shank of steel. My handy-dandy EMT knife was nowhere near as sexy, but it made short work of the denim, all the way to Phoebe’s crotch in one clean swipe.
Phoebe thrashed as best she could to keep me from unbuttoning her fly and yanking down the zipper, but it was no use. I cut through either side of Phoebe’s cotton panties and yanked them off her. Then I straightened up and looked her in the eye.
The girl was still spewing insults as fast as she could think them up: full-auto, that is. I waited until she paused for breath, then I stuffed the wadded-up panties into her open mouth.
I’d have sworn that the look on Phoebe’s face was nothing short of triumphant. Caine was on the job with a roll of adhesive tape before she could spit out the gag, and we got the thing secured. It was strapped on well enough to hold, but loose enough that she could breathe around it if she had to. She could still make plenty of noise, too. I didn’t want to take away all of Phoebe’s fun.
“Well, now,” I said. I grabbed a handful of tit and squeezed, none too gently. “Got anything hidden in that bra? Besides a ni
ce pair of hooters, I mean.” The other officers started snickering and snorting. Phoebe’s eyebrows shot up. “Let’s find out.”
My knife made short work of the T-shirt she was filling out; a shame, because it was a beauty, sporting a cartoon of a cop waving a long-barreled revolver and the legend It’s not how big it is… it’s what you can do with it. The Sergeant finished slashing off Phoebe’s formerly skintight jeans and pulled them free of the Flex-Cufs just as I zipped through her bra straps. I had already released the front hook; I tossed the flimsy scraps and put my knife away.
After Caine thoughtfully removed the prisoner’s child-sized Nikes, the little blonde stood gloriously naked, except, of course, for the bracelets and the wadded-up panties stuffed into her mouth, which hardly counted as clothing anymore. There was nothing childlike about her figure: full, round breasts; a small waist on womanly hips; and a thatch of pale hair that attested to the authenticity of the curly golden locks above. Phoebe was a beautiful woman, even wearing a gag. Perhaps especially wearing a gag. Without the threat of the Sergeant’s well-honed edge against her tender flesh, the prisoner had resumed her struggles, issuing unintelligible but loud vocalizations I was glad not to understand. She’d have been spitting, if she’d had the chance.
I stared her down as I took her nipples between each thumb and forefinger, twisting and squeezing until tears came to her eyes. Still, she didn’t drop her gaze. I grabbed a curl of blonde hair close to her temple. She winced, shut her eyes and whimpered.
I pretended to look closely. “I think the sleazy whore has lice!”
Phoebe’s eyes snapped open, in spite of the pain, and she jerked her head away from my hand. Redoubling her efforts to pull a foot free of the Flex-Cufs, she almost succeeded before Walters dove into the fray and yanked on one more loop.
“Caine, you go get the shaving gear. We’ll have to move her again, but let’s check those body cavities for contraband first.” I nodded to the Sergeant. “Would you like to do the honors, sir?”
She didn’t need to be asked twice. With a self-satisfied smile, the Sergeant pulled a latex glove from the pouch on her belt and snapped it on. I passed the lube to her and she dropped to one knee between the prisoner’s legs. Phoebe wasn’t in the best position for a thorough search, but as she wouldn’t bend over and spread her own cheeks, this would have to do.
The Sergeant’s fingers disappeared between Phoebe’s thighs, and I watched the prisoner’s face while a diligent probe was made. Her chin tilted up and her eyes closed; her breasts rose and fell.
“Don’t need any grease for this hole; the slut is dripping wet,” the Sergeant said, working her fingers in and out. “She doesn’t care how she gets fucked.” Phoebe sagged against the handcuffs. For the first time since I stuffed the gag in her mouth, she was actually quiet. “I bet she’d like a nice hard nightstick up her snatch, right about now,” the Sergeant purred.
Phoebe squinched her eyes shut even tighter, then her face went slack and her eyes opened slightly. Her skin glowed with a light sheen of sweat. Her lower body swayed a little, as if moved by a gentle breeze.
I glanced over at Walters, who was stroking the bulge in her pants. “Later,” I told her. I was feeling a little sweaty myself. “Let’s wrap this up.”
The Sergeant pulled her hand back out from between Phoebe’s thighs and squirted a generous dollop of lube on the end of her gloved forefinger. Then she hooked her other arm around the prisoner’s hips. Phoebe bounced a little as the Sergeant’s groping hand goosed her cheeks apart. She let out a muffled squeak as the Sergeant’s finger plunged past her tight sphincter up to the last knuckle.
“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. Th
e 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.
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