This story was inspired by "My Birthday Suit" by Anne8505, who 
is, sadly, now among the vanished.  






                    THE SECOND TIME AROUND

                              by

                         C. Lakewood 



                    

    My name is Kimberley Clark.  When I was 18, I was, like many 
rather bookish girls of that age, a mixture of self-confidence 
and naiveté.  In my case, adolescence had come two or three years 
later than normal, and my hormones had not really settled down 
yet, complicating things.  I enrolled at prestigious Darwin 
University (long famous as the "whited sepulchre of American 
higher education") and duly pledged a choice sorority.  Two 
nights before the annual football game against our neighboring 
arch-rival, Huxley, a gaggle of us pledges was sent out to 
decorate the Huxley campus with Darwinian graffiti.  We'd all 
been raised in the suburbs (not in the 'hood) so we weren't too 
clever about it.  We were interrupted by the Huxley campus cops.  

    We all scattered, willy-nilly, but everyone else was either 
faster or wilier than me...because I was the only one caught.   

    I was almost pissing myself, envisioning some indelibly dark 
consequences -- including (but not limited to) expulsion from 
college.  But, after hectoring me unmercifully while taking me to 
the office, the woman cop who had me in custody finally informed 
me that, if I behaved myself from then on, nothing TOO bad would 
happen to me.

    She was a no-nonsense but not unattractive woman, in a sort 
of hard-edged, Mediterranean way.  She was about 5'6" and weighed 
maybe 140 pounds -- an inch taller and 10 pounds heavier than me.  
Her name-tag read "Stamos," and she wore what in the military would 
have been corporal's stripes.

    She left me handcuffed to a bench while she did some paperwork 
and then briskly escorted me, with my hands cuffed behind me, down 
a short hallway to what I guess was called an "interrogation room."

    The room was smallish, with a metal table and two chairs in the 
center, a big mirror on the left-hand wall, a metal cabinet on the 
right-hand wall, and CCTV cameras in two corners.  There was a 
brown plastic crate on the table and a metal flip-top garbage can 
on the floor nearby.  The can bore a bio-hazard symbol AND a yellow 
smiley-face sticker.  

    (Though it may sound like I was cool and observant, in fact I 
was numb and trembling at the time, and these details came into 
focus for me only gradually.  I haven't forgotten any of them in 
the years since, however; repeatedly re-running the experience 
mentally has made it crystal clear in my memory.  Curiously, 
whenever I do re-play the incident now, my patterns of speech 
and thought always revert to the way they were.)

    She told me to empty my pockets and put my stuff on the table.  
There wasn't much: wallet, keys, some coins, and a hankie.  She 
sifted through it quickly and dumped it into the crate.  

    "Any jewelry?  Watch?" she asked.  I shook my head.  I WAS out 
on a vandal raid, after all, not a date.  
 
    "Take off the sweatshirt and hand it to me."

    ("Omigod!" I thought.  How far was this going to go?)

    I slowly pulled off my sweatshirt.  It appeared I was going to 
be stripped....  Would I wind up NAKED?  My body was in decent 
shape, but I'd always been very self-conscious about being nude 
in front of others.  Having to use the gang shower after P.E. class 
in high school was awful.  Thank god the sorority had individual 
stalls....

    She felt the shirt and tossed it into the crate.  

    "Shoes and socks."  

    I shivered, and not just because the air conditioning was on.  
I took off my shoes and socks.  The cold linoleum floor caused my 
toes to curl.  I was actually being strip-searched!  Would I get 
to keep my underwear on?  Or would I have to strip entirely 
NAKED...in front of HER and -- I glanced nervously at the obvious 
two-way mirror -- god knows who else.

    "Jeans."

    Then, "t-shirt."

    Was there a gleam in her eye as she ordered me to take off my 
bra?  I had of course heard about women like that, but had never 
met one.  It was scary and embarrassing...but sort of, well, 
arousing, too.  

    "Panties."

    Was she breathing faster?  (I was.) 

    Oh, god!  When I handed her my panties, I noticed that there 
was a smallish wet spot in the crotch.  She obviously noticed it, 
too.  I wondered if she would sniff it.  Geez!  Why would I even 
think that?  Steady, girl! 

    I pressed both hands over my crotch.  The policewoman was 
smirking, apparently amused by my awkwardness and embarrassment.  

    "Stop playing with your cunt!  Put your hands on your head and 
keep 'em there," she ordered.

    My "CUNT"!  (That had always been the supremely indecent word 
-- even worse than "fuck.")  Oh, god...my cunt....  My-my cunt gave 
a lurch when she used that word.  I guess it wasn't a girlish pussy 
now, but a cunt.  I shivered, but put my hands on my head.  I 
didn't want to piss her off further.

    She scowled, but I could tell that she was pleased by the way 
things were developing.

    "Go over there and stand in the corner facing the wall," she 
said, gesturing toward the far corner.  As I walked across to my 
designated corner, my breasts bouncing and my ass jiggling, I 
glanced into the big mirror.  Were there any people on the other 
side of that mirror?  Just the possibility made me weak-kneed. 

    Corner time!  Just like a naughty little girl.  I guess I HAD 
been naughty, but now I'm an adult (sort of) and butt-naked.  I 
didn't have the right angle by looking at the officer's reflection 
in the mirror.  (Oh, that mirror!)  So I couldn't tell for sure 
what she was doing, but I figured she was searching my clothes 
further.

    I felt even more self-conscious because I didn't know who might 
be watching all this.  I mean, there could even have been a bunch 
of frat guys back of that mirror...or LESBIANS.  My butt twitched 
as I thought about it.    

    I wondered just how far it would go.  Would she make me spread 
my..."CUNT" so she could look into it?  And my butt-cheeks?  Would 
she stick her fingers in me?

    After a bit, she said, "Okay, now come and stand on the mark."

    I obeyed, hands on head, jiggling my way to the center of the 
room.  There was a worn yellow "X" painted on the floor there. 

    "I'll be right back," she added, picking up the box with all my 
clothes and leaving the room.  My clothes!  ALL my clothes!

    I got wetter.

    When she came back, she didn't have the box.

    "Put your arms out to the side, shoulder high, palms up," she 
said.  Then, "Hands behind your neck.  Show me your pits."  Then, 
"Take hold of your nipples and lift your tits."

    She took some time inspecting my "tits."  Then she gestured, 
"Turn around."  

    She checked my hair, but that was easy, since I wore it fairly 
short in those days.  I just had to bend over and shake my head, 
and comb my fingers through my hair.  I then had to show her that 
there was nothing hidden behind my ears.  After that, she checked 
the bottoms of my feet and made me spread and wiggle my toes.  

    Then I had to face her again and stand with my legs well apart.

    "Wider," she grinned.  "Reach down, spread your cunt lips, and 
give me three deep squats."  

    I bit my lip and acted scared.  Well, I WAS scared, but also 
very aroused.  I wondered if she could smell it.  (She did have a 
thoughtful expression.)

    "It-it's very awkward," I whimpered.  (Whining made me feel 
even more helpless.  Omigod!  I was really getting off on it now.)

    "Just DO it," she answered.  "And maintain eye contact while 
you're doing it,"

    I did it.

    "Okay....  Three more.  Bounce!"

    After the rep, she told me to turn around.  I guessed the 
moment of truth was at hand, and I almost orgasmed at the prospect.

    I heard her open the wall cabinet and take out some stuff.  
Then she snapped on a latex exam glove.  

    I said, rather querulously, "Ma'am?"

    She snapped on another glove and answered, "You and me are 
gonna get to know each other a little better, girl." 

    She stepped up beside me, handed me a tube of lubricant, and 
extended the first two fingers of her right hand.  

    "Grease 'em up, girl," she purred.  She was clearly enjoying 
this, maybe getting off on it, too.  Trembling, I squirted a large 
glob of goo onto her fingers.

    She took the tube back and casually tossed it onto the table.  
"Feet apart -- wide.  Bend all the way over...hands flat on the 
floor." 

    I braced myself with my hands on the floor and my ass in the 
air.  My feet were placed well apart and somewhat pigeon-toed, 
which pulled my buttocks apart, exposing...well, everything.

    "This is what we call an 'internal search,'" she said, dryly.  
"Just relax...and enjoy it."  

    She spread my...cunt-lips with her left hand and a finger of 
her right hand slithered well into me.  She wiggled it around a 
bit, pulled it almost out, and then slid it and a second finger 
back in, knuckle-deep.  She probed me skillfully for what seemed 
like a considerable time, bringing me right to the edge of orgasm 
-- and keeping me there.

    At last she pulled her fingers out, slapped my right butt-cheek 
smartly, and said, "Okay, stand up."  

    That was easier said than done.  I was dizzy from the 
finger-fucking, my vision blurred and legs wobbly.  But I 
did manage it, with some difficulty.  Once again, I shivered, 
imagining the audience who might be watching.

    She handed me the tube of lubricant again.  "More lube, girl, 
and be generous."

    Surmising where she would be going next, I squeezed out a 
double portion.

    "Okay.  Assume the position again," she said.

    Once I was down, she proceeded to tickle and tease the entrance 
to my asshole unmercifully.  

    "Please, ma'am...of-officer...please.  I've-I've never...."  

    "You trying to make me think your asshole's virgin?  Come on!"

    "Yes, ma'am.  Please don't!"  

    She chuckled and then I felt her finger s-l-o-w-l-y oozing into 
me.  I tensed up, involuntarily, but, if anything, that seemed to 
make it easier for her.     

    It was virtually a replay of the cunt search.  One finger, then 
two...slow and deep.  

    I writhed and softly whimpered.  Her fingering my cunt was 
embarrassing, but this was humiliating.  I felt so violated....
And -- oh, god! -- this time she played with me until I DID 
cum...powerfully, unstoppably.  I don't know whether it was 
just all the foreplay, or if it was the fact that I was being 
1) masturbated, 2) anally, 3) by a butch policewoman, 4) with 
the possibility of an audience.   

    I was in mid-orgasm when she slapped my ass again and said, 
"Okay...no contraband.  There's some tissues on the table you 
can wipe yourself with."  She peeled off her gloves and tossed 
them in the waste can.  It was a few minutes before I had strength 
enough to struggle to my feet.

    I used some of the tissues to wipe my cunt.  As I threw them 
in the trash, I saw that the policewoman was leaning back in one 
of the chairs, watching me.  I picked up some more tissues, paused, 
and confronted her (sort of).  

    "Must you watch?" I asked, querulously.  

    She smirked and nodded.  "Yeah.  Not still shy, are you, 
girlie?"

    So I had to be closely supervised while I wiped my ass.  That 
was weird -- even more unnerving than the "internal search" had 
been.

    I loved it.

    When I was finished wiping myself and had disposed of the 
"hazardous waste," the policewoman got to her feet and informed 
me -- finally -- that this wouldn't be going into my permanent 
file.  There'd be no official jail time, no criminal record, no 
school probation, and not even a fine...but there would be some 
"community service" required.

    "Can I have my things back, please, ma'am?" I asked.

    "AFTER you've done your community service," she snapped.  She 
cuffed my wrists behind my back, opened the door, and gestured.  
"C'mon." 

    Out into the station?  NAKED?  Helpless?  Omigod!

		******************************
 
    There were four campus cops -- all men -- in the main room.  
They all looked up when we entered.  And they all smiled -- one 
furtively, two broadly, and one enigmatically.  (It turned out 
later that this last guy was gay.)  

    She stopped by each of the four and chatted with him for a few 
minutes, with me on display.  Then she took me down the opposite 
wing of the station and into another interrogation room.  This one 
was smaller and contained only an army cot and a folded dark blue 
wool blanket.  (It did have one of those mirrors on the wall, 
however.)

    She took off my handcuffs and regarded me ambiguously.  "You'll 
be with us for the weekend and sleep here...with the door locked 
and the lights ON.  You'll shower and be issued a uniform in the 
morning -- which you'll turn back in at the end of each work day.  
Questions?"

    "N-no, ma'am."

    "Okay.  Go to sleep.  Your community service begins in a few 
hours."  With a chuckle, she left.

    I was tense.  Though I'd just had a monster cum, I wanted 
more, and it didn't look like I was going to get it any time soon.  
But the prospect of having to deny myself began to seem more and 
more...delicious.  I lay down on the cot and pulled the blanket up 
over me.  

		******************************

    I spent the next three days wearing only sneakers and an 
orange poncho, cleaning graffiti off walls around the Huxley 
campus.  At night, I slept naked, cowering on the cot under 
the coarse blanket and desperately hoping that no one noticed 
me playing with myself.  I was closely supervised as I showered 
twice a day in cold water.  (It didn't diminish my libido one 
bit.)  I lived on hamburgers and coffee.   

    I was released late Sunday afternoon, very much a changed girl. 
(Unfortunately, the change was not something I was comfortable 
about sharing -- other than with my own fingers -- all through 
college and grad school.  But that seemed okay; though lacking 
the element of surprise, masturbation had some benefits that sex 
with another person lacked.  And, yes, I did try the latter, but 
none of my vanilla boyfriends was able to satisfy me very well or 
for very long.  I suppose I was a bit frustrated -- unfulfilled -- 
but that seemed preferable to my other options.)   

		******************************

    Eleven years after the events related above, I was a 
newly-hired assistant professor at (of all places) Huxley 
College, with a recent PhD and some long-standing masturbatory 
fantasies.  That strip-search experience had turned out to be 
a seminal event in my life.  Basically, it influenced me to major 
in feminist studies -- in which I eventually got my doctorate.   
In fact, my dissertation was titled "Police Oppression of Women 
in Contemporary Society."  (And it included a long chapter on 
the use of "community service" to oppress and humiliate women.  

    And now I had returned to the "scene of the crime."   

    At the welcoming cocktail party for faculty and senior staff, 
I was introduced to the head of the campus police, Lt. Sofia 
Stamos, who shook my hand blandly.  She was a few pounds heavier, 
and her hairdo was rather less butch, but otherwise had not 
changed much.  I, on the other hand, was a lot different from 
the callow 18-year-old I had been, with a much more sophisticated 
look and demeanor.  At first, I actually began to believe that 
she'd forgotten me...until I realized that she'd stopped 
circulating and kept pretty close to me for the rest of the 
party.

    Although she never directly revealed our prior encounter, she 
did turn our little group's conversation toward preparations for 
the Huxley-Darwin game and, of course, campus pranksters of years 
past.  In fact, she dwelt on the humiliating processing of a coed 
vandal from Darwin about a decade before, when she had been 
relatively new to the force.  Everyone seemed to be fascinated 
by all the excruciating details.  

    By the time the party started winding down, my panties were 
absolutely soggy.  I had drunk a bit more than I should have, but 
still agreed to have a drink with the Lt. Stamos at the Wagon 
Wheel, a tavern on the fringe of the campus. 

    My heart was racing as I crossed the faculty lot to my car.  
I walked with a bit of a stagger, due to the drinks I'd already 
consumed, and it occurred to me that I probably should just go 
home.  But I brushed away the idea; I didn't want to disappoint 
the lieutenant.

    I wondered what SHE was thinking....  She must have noticed 
me squirming while she regaled the group with the story of that 
hapless coed.  She MUST have guessed how humiliated I was.  
Couldn't she tell how much I dreaded meeting her again?  (I did 
dread it, didn't I?)  Weren't my shame and embarrassment obvious 
to her?  What could she want to talk to me about?

		******************************

    At the Wagon Wheel, I got a screwdriver at the bar and took 
it over to a secluded booth.  It was cool in the tavern, but I 
was sweating.  I didn't have to wait long, though.  Lt. Stamos 
soon arrived, looking very dominating, having changed into her 
crisp uniform.  

    She gazed at my drink, nodded, said, "Looks good," and went 
on to the bar.  

    When she returned and slid into the booth, she put a fresh 
screwdriver in front of me.  "I've read your book, Kim."

    "My book?"

    "Your dissertation.  And, according to the press release the 
college put out after you were hired, you ARE expanding it for 
publication in a year or two, right?"

    I nodded.  My mouth was dry.

    "An interesting dissertation," she continued.  "I got 
a photocopy of it right away.  It's given me much food for 
thought -- and a few ideas that I've incorporated into my 
own procedures for handling bad girls...."

    Her lips were smiling, but her eyes narrowed to slits.  
"Have you been behaving yourself since we last saw each 
other, Kim?  Have you been a good girl?"

    "Y-yes, ma'am...," I said, sheepishly, so easily slipping 
back into my former role with this woman.  I finished my drink 
and started on the new one.

    "Oh, I don't think so.  I was observing you at the party, and 
you obviously have a guilty conscience....  Well?"

    "Per-perhaps I...um...HAVE been a-a bad girl...occasionally," 
I murmured, blushing hotly.  I felt my nipples erecting.

    "A lot more frequently than 'occasionally,' I'm sure.  For 
example, you committed DUI a few minutes ago.  Think you could 
pass a breathalyzer test?"

    "How about you?" I countered.

    "Oh, I'm fine.  At the party, I was tapering off as you were 
turning it up."

    I looked at her drink.  "And now?"

    "Pure orange juice," she laughed.  "But you're not sounding 
repentant at all.  We'll have to fix that.  Now, tell me -- do 
you want me to handle this formally or informally?"

    "Informally, please," I murmured.

    She nodded, picked up her paper place mat, edged out of the 
booth, and said, "Okay.  Come with me."

    She nodded to the bartender in passing and led me back to the 
men's rest room.  Inside, she curtly ordered me to "Strip.  Bare 
naked."  We were too far down the road for me to put up even a 
token protest.  As I was obediently stripping, I noticed she had 
flipped the place mat over and was writing on the back with a 
felt-tipped pen, "OUT OF ORDER."  She stuck this sign to the door 
of one of the two stalls with a bit of chewing gum.

    She bundled up my clothes and nodded toward the stall with the 
sign.  "You can hide in there until I come back.  Contemplate your 
bad behavior."  Then she swept out, leaving me naked and aghast. 

    I managed to pull myself together enough to scurry into the 
stall, lock the door, and crouch atop the toilet seat (so my feet 
wouldn't show).  I had to be particularly careful to control my 
breathing whenever a guy came into the restroom.  When that 
happened (and it did happen fairly frequently) I was scared that 
I'd be discovered, arrested, fired, ruined....

    I was terrified...and horny as hell.  At first, I really didn't 
blame Lt. Stamos for what she was putting me through.  Instead, as 
I'd been told, I counted up all the ways I'd been a bad girl -- 
sometimes a VERY bad girl.  I suppose I did have a tendency to be 
pretentious and self-involved.  I'd also cheated on a few exams, 
stolen a rare book from the library, been a prick-tease, driven 
under the influence more than once, masturbated excessively....  
(In fact, I realized that I was playing with myself at that very 
moment.)

    Later on, though, I began to get resentful.  After all, I WAS 
a PhD, a college professor, a well-paid professional, a feminist, 
a woman of taste and accomplishments...one with a book contract, 
by God; I was SOMEBODY.  She, on the other hand, was a blue-collar 
thug, a bitch with a badge -- and not even a REAL badge at that -- 
a jumped-up rent-a-cop....

		******************************

    She left me there for an hour, I guess, though it seemed much, 
much longer.  When she finally re-entered the men's room and called 
me out of the stall, I was in the middle of a down cycle once again 
and feeling very penitent.

    When I stood before her, shame-faced, she gave me a long look, 
in particular frowning at the sticky mess between my legs.  A 
glance in the mirror confirmed what I suspected: my normally pale 
complexion was flushed. 

    "Well, Kimmie, have you decided whether you're a good girl or 
a bad girl?"

    "Y-yes, ma'am.  I...I'm a b-bad girl."  I trembled as I said 
it, because I knew it was true.

    She nodded and scowled at my crotch again.  "You know you're 
gonna have to get rid of all that hair, don't you?"

    "Yes, ma'am...."

    From the paper sack she was holding, she took a cheap pair of 
scissors, a disposable razor, and a can of shave cream.  "Then do 
it."

    "Um...c-couldn't I do it later...somewhere else?"

    "Here...and now.  As they say, 'It's my way or the highway,'  
so you'd best get used to being obedient.  I want that disgusting 
cunt shaved bald.  Understand?"

    Yes, ma'am."

    "Then don't fuck around.  You've got ten minutes."

    I hurriedly washed my crotch in the sink, snipped my auburn 
pubic hair as short as I could with the scissors, lathered up 
(oooh! menthol!), and shaved myself smooth.  (I was so nervous 
that somebody would walk in that it was a wonder I didn't cut 
myself.)  Rinsing off, I regarded my bald cunt in the mirror.  
I hadn't looked like that in 17 years -- but something told me 
that it would be a very long time before I'd be allowed to have 
pubic hair like a responsible adult.  Kimmie, the bad girl, was 
going to have to pay for her sins...and pay...and pay....  And 
my nasty cunt was absolutely drooling at the prospect.

    Lt. Stamos snapped, "Okay, time's up.  Let's go."  She tossed 
me a Huxley College t-shirt (which turned out to be long enough, 
with some tugging, to come a couple of inches below my cunt).  She 
opened the restroom door and paused to remove the "Out of Order" 
sign she must have posted there earlier. 

    I nervously followed her out of the restroom...and on down 
the road to who-knows-where.  This time I'd go all the way to 
the end...and it might well be a one-way trip.          

