WPC Cox ran with difficulty in her tight skirt, but she was grateful she had been allowed to discard her hat, tunic, tie and handbag. It was nice of all the section to turn out to cheer her on. She hoped she could do the four laps in her uniform in the allotted time. It was a lot different to running in shorts and trainers. She picked up the pace as she came to the first curve. Try to keep up a steady pace. The grass was quite wet and spongy and her shoes and the lower part of her stockings were soon covered with spots of mud. Just keep going, she thought. It was hard going with her skirt. It rode up with the effort of running, but was still tight and restrictive around her thighs. They should allow extra time for running in a skirt, but then again the test was supposed to be more realistic, and you didn’t go out on patrol in sports kit.
Alison set a steady pace, but was unable to lengthen her stride as she would when she was running in shorts. She completed the first lap to a round of applause and cheers from PS Cowan and the lads. “Come on Alison! Keep it up! You can do it! Only three more to go!” She smiled and gave them a brief wave as she passed them.
She started to tire a little halfway through the second lap, and slowed a little. Maybe she wasn’t as fit as she thought she was. Too many bacon sandwiches, maybe. But just keep going. She was slowly eating up the mile with every step. She got her second wind and stepped out a little, at least as much as the tight skirt allowed. She lowered her head and tried to power forward. Must keep within the time limit, she thought.
Alison finished the second lap to more applause and cheers from the section. Half way there, she thought. The third lap was harder going, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on. She wondered how she was doing for time. She finished the third to tumultuous applause. Last one now, she thought. Give it all she’d got. Try for a fast lap. Alison’s thighs strained against the restrictive skirt. If only the WPCs were allowed to wear trousers, she thought.
Alison gave it all she had as she finished the final lap, encouraged by the section cheering and beckoning her on, her lungs bursting as she stormed over the finish line. She came to an abrupt halt, bent double, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. “Did I do it, Sarge?” she panted breathlessly. “Did I do it?”
The section roared with laughter. Some of the PCs collapsed on to the grass. Alison stared at them in bewilderment. “What is it?” she asked. “What is it?”
The truth slowly dawned on her. “Oh no, you’ve done it again, haven’t you? You bastards! You bastards! You’ve done me again, haven’t you?” she panted breathlessly.
There was no reply. They were all helpless with laughter. Alison slowly regained her breath, and straightened up. PS Cowan produced a bottle of water, and she gulped it down greedily. “You bastards,” she said again. They all hugged her and patted her on the back, laughing uproariously. As they got back into the van, Alison finally saw the funny side of things and started laughing with them.
It was now Alison’s twentieth birthday. No longer a teenager, she thought, as she came into the station that night. It was a fairly quiet night when they came in for a refreshment break at 1 a.m. As she got out of the patrol car in the station yard, the rest of the section suddenly appeared, grinning broadly. “Many happy returns, WPC Cox,” said a beaming PS Rose. “We have to mark your birthday appropriately.” Don Marsh and Paul O’Neill took her by the arms. She struggled and tried to break loose, half expecting an action replay of the snooker table session. How did they know it was her birthday? She deliberately hadn’t said anything. She had heard that a WPC on another section had her birthday marked with a spanking. Supposedly her sergeant had put her over his knee, pulled up her skirt and pulled down her knickers, and smacked her bare bottom. What had they got planned for her?
They opened the automatic gate to the station yard and pulled her out towards the tall metal flagpole outside the police station. Alison tried unsuccessfully to kick Don Marsh and pull free. They held her arms and brought her up against the flagpole. It was a warm night, but the metal pole was cold against her thin blouse. The cord of the pole was clinking softly against the metal pulley. Alison stopped struggling. They brought her arms around the pole and quickly handcuffed her hands behind her back, securing her to it. She tested the handcuffs, but they were on too tight to slip out off. She was secured to the pole and helpless. “Hey, you can’t leave me like this. Not with my hands behind my back. Let me go,” she protested. They walked off calmly back into the police station. “Let me go, lads, and I’ll make the tea,” she offered hopefully.
There wasn’t much Alison could do but wait. Her key ring and handcuffs key was in her handbag in the patrol car. At least it wasn’t raining, she thought. She had heard of other WPCs being handcuffed to the flagpole at night. She wondered if they had their hands cuffed in front of them. That would at least be a bit easier. She had heard that one night a WPC had been cuffed to the pole when the Superintendent drove past her into the police station yard on an unannounced visit. Superintendents didn’t normally work nights, but theirs did occasionally, and even went out on patrol with them. He liked to be seen and understand what was going on. He had just smiled when he saw the WPC In Distress, and said nothing. He seemed to think that practical jokes of this kind were indicative of high morale on his station.
After about quarter of an hour they emerged from the station and unlocked her wrists. They took her back inside the station. “How did you know it was my birthday?” she asked.
“We make it our business to know these things,” said Don Marsh. “We have to look after our Woopsies.”
“Make a wish, WPC Cox,” said PS Rose, producing a large birthday cake bearing her name with 20 candles. Alison blew out the candles. “Thanks,” she said. They could be really nice and thoughtful at times, she thought – when they weren’t handcuffing her to flagpoles, and when they weren’t groping her, and when they weren’t playing stupid practical jokes on her.
To be continued.