A Policewoman’s Lot – Part Two

Alison Cox turned round apprehensively and looked up at PS Rose and the eight male PCs gathered around her in the kitchen, her mouth open and her eyes wide with fear. “But I haven’t finished the washing up yet, Sarge,”she protested weakly.

“That’s okay,” said Jim Rose. “Your induction’s overdue now and that comes first. Escort her to the snooker table, lads.” Don Marsh and another PC, Paul O’Neill, stood either side of her and held her by the upper arms, leading her towards the large snooker table in the recreation area on the top floor of the police station. The window blinds were drawn and a rubber stamp and inking pad were positioned on a small table nearby.

Alison didn’t resist or try to break free. There was no point. She knew it was going to happen, and there was nothing she could do about it. The only other policewoman on duty, Gail Holmes, was working in the station office. She hoped against hope that an emergency call came in to her rescue, a large fight or a road accident they would all have to rush out to deal with. But the radio and station tannoy were silent.

She knew that if she complained about this initiation ceremony, it was unlikely that anyone would take her seriously. It was just accepted that this happened to all new WPCs, and that was the way things were. If she did complain and was taken seriously, then that would be even worse. You just didn’t complain against other police officers. If you did, nobody would ever talk to you again and nobody would ever work with you again, even if you went to another station. Nobody would help you, and you might as well just resign from the police force. Better just to let them do what they wanted, she thought. Better just to get it over with.

Don Marsh and Paul O’Neill led her to the edge of the snooker table, with PS Jim Rose and the other half dozen male PCs in attendance. “I now have to perform your induction and formally welcome you to Cambridge Central Police Station, WPC Cox,” said Jim Rose. “Please bend over the table. Lift up your skirt and pull your knickers down.”

“Shouldn’t she take them off, Sarge?” said Paul O’Neill. “That’s what we did with Gail last time.”

“What do you think, lads?” asked PS Rose. “Down or off? It is indelible ink. Don’t want to get stains on her uniform. Not ink stains anyway.”

“Semen stains,” they guffawed in unison. “Off. Off. Get ’em off. Get ’em off, Alison.” Alison turned and looked at the assembled section, blushing scarlet with humiliation and embarrassment.

“Okay. Skirt first. Please take off your skirt, WPC Cox,” ordered Jim Rose. Alison thought she would die of shame. She felt like a stripper at a stag party. She unhooked the waist band of her uniform skirt, slowly unzipped it and pulled it down over her hips. She let it fall to the floor and stepped out of it, revealing black hold up stockings and tight black knickers, to a loud cheer from the leering section. Most policewomen wore hold up stockings, some others tights. She picked up the skirt and folded it, then placed it on the edge of the snooker table.

“Knickers next,” ordered Jim Rose.

Alison looked up nervously. “Down, or off?” she asked.

“Off!” the PCs chanted. “Off, off, off! Get ’em off!”

Alison was facing the nine male officers, all of them older than her, some like PS Rose a lot older. She didn’t know where to look. She stared at the floor to avoid their gaze, then reluctantly thumbed her knickers down over her thighs and stepped out of them, revealing her pert bottom and pussy and patch of blonde pubic hair. A raucous cheer followed from the assembled PCs. Alison covered her pussy with both hands and turned away from them.

“Please bend over the snooker table, WPC Cox,” said PS Rose. She complied and leant forward, fully exposing her bottom, dressed only in her white short sleeved blouse, black stockings and shoes. Jim Rose stepped forward and placed his hand on her left buttock, then on her right. He picked up the large police station rubber stamp from the inking pad. Holding Alison’s left buttock firmly with his left hand, he pressed the rubber stamp firmly against the bare skin, leaving the words “Cambridgeshire Police/ Cambridge Central Police Station/ Signed …………” clearly visible in dark blue ink. The PCs cheered. He then leisurely repeated the process with the right buttock.

“The stamp isn’t valid unless it’s signed, Sarge,” said Don Marsh, brandishing a felt tip pen.

“Better sign WPC Cox’s bottom then, lads,” retorted Jim Rose. The section needed no second bidding. Each of the PCs stepped forward in turn, held her buttocks firmly, and added their signatures to her bottom. Alison felt like breaking down and bursting into tears, but remained bent over the table. At least it would be all over in a minute, she thought.

“Just as well she took her skirt and knickers off to avoid the stains,” said Paul O’Neill. “What about her boobs, Sarge. Are we going to do her boobs as well?”

Alison turned and looked at the leering PCs in horror. She had thought that was the end of it. But they all enthusiastically agreed to stamp her bust as well. “Okay. Please take off your blouse, WPC Cox,” he ordered.

Alison reluctantly obeyed. She slowly unbuttoned her short sleeved blouse and drew it over her shoulders, revealing a lacy white bra. She folded the blouse and placed it on top of the skirt on the edge of the snooker table. “Bra next, WPC Cox,” said PS Rose. “Or it’ll be ruined with ink stains.”

Oh my God, thought Alison. They really were going to stamp her breasts as well. She hadn’t expected this. She flushed an even deeper shade of scarlet and reached behind her to unhook her bra, freeing her large breasts. She placed the bra on top of her blouse. She was now completely naked in front of the nine men, except for her shoes and hold up stockings, her breasts, pussy and ink covered buttocks exposed to their gaze. Alison wished the ground would just open and swallow her up. She had never experienced anything as humiliating as this before in her life. They all whooped and cheered.

Don Marsh ogled her large breasts. “You don’t get many of those to the pound,” he said, to sniggers from the others. “Maybe we need a bigger rubber stamp, Sarge.”

Alison made no attempt to resist or protest as Jim Rose stepped forward, grasped each breast firmly in turn with his left hand, and pressed the rubber stamp against it, leaving it covered with the police station logo in blue ink. “Signatures required again, gents,” he said.

Each of the PCs stepped forward eagerly to grope Alison’s bust and add their signatures to her breasts. Soon her bust was  covered in blue printing ink just like her bottom. She heard a loud click as PS Rose took a polaroid photo of her breasts. He then ordered her to turn round, and took a photo of her stamped buttocks.

“That completes your induction, WPC Cox,” said Jim Rose. “Congratulations, you are now a fully fledged member of Cambridge Central Police Station and its best Section, No. 4 Section. Gentlemen, three cheers for WPC Cox.” They gave her three rousing cheers. Alison’s spirits rose a little. It was the most humiliating experience of her life, but at least it was over now. And perhaps this meant she was now accepted by everyone as a member of the section.

PS Rose produced a polythene bag containing a bottle of whisky and plastic cups. He poured a strong measure into each and gave one to Alison. “Down in one, WPC Cox,” he said. “Gentlemen, a toast to our new Woopsie, WPC Cox. She’s a good sport and she delivers the goods.” They all whooped and cheered again. Alison coughed and spluttered as she gulped down the whisky. PS Rose and each of the eight PCs then stepped forward in turn, embraced the nearly naked girl, and kissed her on the cheek.

Alison had just been sexually assaulted by nine men, but she tried to rationalise this as high spirits or a practical joke, or just something they did. But at least it was over now. She gathered up her uniform from the snooker table and hurried over to take refuge in the ladies’ toilets and gather her thoughts.

To be continued.

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