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From: secretkeeper3@comcast.net (Secret)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 17 May 2003 00:02:03 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Police Brutality
Date: Sat, 17 May 2003 06:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This is a story idea I had, but is not actually in story form yet.  I
don't usually write in first person, but my ideas tend to come to me
that way, in the form of fantasies.


     I am being dragged down to the shooting range in Bonner Springs,
by Police Officers Ruhulessin and Storms. Ruhulessin is mercilessly
dragging me across the sharp rocks in my bare feet, and I'm begging
him and crying. I fall once and beg him to carry me. Finally, for
whatever reason, he does, and as we arrive, I cling to him, begging
him to save me...to protect me. Little do I know, that they intend to
throw me in the river. I bury my face in his chest, clinging to him,
pleading, and he slaps me away in disgust. I recover slowly, looking
from him, to Storms, and weighing my options, I once again crawl
towards Ruhulessin, craving comfort or protection. The ropes attached
to the very heavy rock are brought out, and as they attempt to tie me
into them, a struggle ensues. I manage to grab one of their guns and
point it at them, making them temporarily back off. But Storms
provokes me, seeing my inability to shoot, and I fling the gun in the
river, helplessly, knowing that my last chance is gone. "I can't.." I
whimper, looking into Ruhulessin's eyes, praying for sympathy.
Suddenly he turns around and starts walking away, as Storms approaches
me, with murder in his eyes. "That was my Godamn gun, Bitch," he
curses at me, coming within reach. I just look up at him sadly,
waiting to see how he will hurt me next. I even reach out my hand so
he can pull me up into whatever hell awaits me, and as I do I start to
cry. "What is your problem," he growls. "You always used to be such a
Bitch." At his harsh words, I pull my hand back, and flinch away from
him. But he grabs my hand even as it retreats, and jerks me to my
feet. I sway, and then come up against him, looking fearfully up into
his eyes. "Don't hurt me," I whisper, tearfully. "Please.." And as he
draws his other weapon, I lay my head submissivley against his chest.
I know that this is the end, as I hear him cock the gun, but I don't
want to fight anymore. I squeeze his hand and wait for the bullet,
sobbing against his shirt in terror. I feel the cold metal against my
temple, as he caresses me with the gun. "What's the matter," he
whispers, uncertainty, evident in his voice. "You can kill but not be
killed? Be merciless, but yet expect mercy?" I don't answer, afraid
that defending myself could set off another dangerous argument. He's
completely convinced that I murdered Sargeant Hammondtree, and that no
amount of prison would be sufficient punishment. He let's go of my
hand and grabs a handful of my hair. I can tell that he wants to rough
me up again, as he is flooded with memories of his dead friend and
role model. He jerks back my head, forcing me to look up at him with
wide eyes. I shiver uncontrollably in the light drizzle that has been
falling all night. The two officers wear full unifoms with light
jackets, but I am dressed only in a spagetti strap tank top, and thin
cotton shorts. The afternoon had been warm when they arrested me. He
pulls back his other arm to slap me, and his hand lands in a pool of
tears.. The blow wasn't hard, but I know that's the first of many to
come. He's pacing me so that he can beat me longer. I stare into his
dark eyes, wondering how he can do this. The second blow is harder,
cracking my lower lip. The rain quickly washes away the traces of
blood, leaving my face a clean slate for his next assault. But his
next assault is different. He grabs the front of my shirt, and starts
to rip it off. "Storms..please stop...I'm sorry," I beg in cracking
tones. I now face a new terror. Rape. "Oh God, please don't do this,
Storms. Please, please, please don't..." I start to become incoherent
as panic sets it. This is worse than death. The fear in my eyes must
be something intense, because he lets go of my shirt, and takes a step
away from me. But his face contorts into an awful smile, and he yells
over his shoulder,"Ron! We don't have to kill the bitch! Come back!"


Comments are more than welcome.  Please let me know if you think this
story could go anywhere.  Thanx.
Luv, Cat

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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