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.