Domination Inc. (27 page)

‘Police uniforms – the most authentic you have. The ones they use in reconstructions, not the fancy dress stuff.'

‘You're in luck,' Helen told him. ‘We've just had a few returned. I take it one's for you, but what about the other one? Is it a male or female friend?'

‘Male,' Warren replied. ‘Funny thing is, he used to be a copper at one point. He's roughly my height, but broader.'

‘Okay, let's see what we can do.' Helen took him out of the main body of the shop, and into a smaller stockroom. Costumes hung in plastic sheeting; one wall seemed to be devoted to nothing but outfits belonging to the emergency services. Warren's mind wandered as he stroked a hand absently along a rack of nurses' uniforms, and he found himself picturing Laurel in a tight, short blue dress, that would strain across her full breasts, with a little apron and a watch fob clipped to the front, and a cheeky little white cap pinned in her hair. When she bent over to take a temperature, the dress would rise up to reveal that beneath it she was wearing seamed stockings, suspenders and frothy lace knickers. Showing her undies to the elderly male patients, albeit inadvertently, would be exactly the sort of behaviour which would earn her a reprimand from Matron, and if that reprimand came in the form of a spanking on her naked, squirming little bum, then so much the better…

He snapped back to the present, aware that he was supposed to be helping save Laurel, not lusting after her. Helen had selected a couple of police uniforms from the rack, and was holding one out for Warren's inspection.

‘This should be about your size,' she said.

‘So you remember my measurements, do you now, Helen?' Warren replied. ‘Does that include my inside leg? I seem to remember you were very insistent on making sure everything was a snug fit in that particular area.'

Helen blushed. ‘You should try it on for size. It's a shame your friend's not here, too. I'm just having to guess what will fit him.'

‘Ah, well, he doesn't exactly know I'm here,' Warren said. ‘And he'd probably kill me if he did,' he added quietly.

‘Just what are you planning here, Warren Keating?' Helen asked. ‘I mean, I wouldn't put it past you to have some kind of bizarre strippogram business going, seeing as I haven't seen your name on many credits recently.'

Warren knew there was only one way to distract her from asking questions. He began to undress, letting his battered old jacket fall to the floor before slipping off his boots. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, then unfastened his jeans and stepped out of them to stand before Helen in nothing but a pair of black jersey jockey shorts. He was aware that she could not prevent her gaze from straying to his crotch, and was suddenly conscious of how the jersey material was clinging to his cock and balls, outlining them for Helen's appreciation.

He reached out and took the supposedly police issue trousers from Helen's suddenly trembling fingers. She had picked out a pair which fitted him perfectly, and when he buttoned up the crisp white shirt and the jacket with its shining silver buttons and insignia, he began to feel the adrenaline rush which always suffused him in the moments before he stepped in front of the cameras and began to act. Helen handed him the cap, and he set it smartly on his head, subtly altering his stance to that of an arresting officer.

‘D'you have a mirror anywhere around here?' he asked.

‘Come back through to the shop,' Helen said. He followed her out, and found himself staring at his reflection in a full-length mirror. He had not, as yet, played the part of a policeman and, as he appraised himself, he decided it was a gap on his CV which needed to be filled. There was no denying that the uniform suited him, and Helen seemed to think so, too, judging by the hungry way she was staring at him. He was beginning to understand what people meant when they talked about the aphrodisiac qualities of a man in uniform.

He would never know quite what devil took hold of him at that moment, but he turned to Helen and snapped, ‘Very careless of you, wasn't it, letting a man into your shop on such a flimsy pretext?'

‘I'm sorry,' she stammered. ‘I don't quite know what you're—'

‘He told you he was an actor, I believe you said, Miss Jeffreys. Rather strange behaviour for an actor, isn't it? Surely his costume department would organise an outfit for him, rather than him calling for it himself. Didn't it occur to you that he might have some ulterior motive?'

Helen seemed to have realised that Warren was playing a game with her, for she quickly responded, ‘I honestly don't know what it could be. I mean, there's no money in the till, not on a Sunday. Although he could have taken just about anything in the shop while my back was turned.' She glanced meaningfully at Warren. ‘And I mean anything. I was very distracted once he started undressing, officer. You see, he had a very good body.'

‘That's quite enough of that kind of talk,' Warren replied. ‘I'm supposed to be conducting an investigation here, and you're wittering on about the suspect's body.'

‘But perhaps that could be it,' Helen replied. ‘He might not be a thief at all. He might just get his kicks out of undressing in front of strange women. You know, like a flasher.'

‘Did you actually see his penis, Miss Jeffreys?' Warren asked.

There was almost a note of regret in Helen's voice as she said, ‘No, I didn't. Well, only the outline of it through his boxer shorts. He looked as though he was quite well-endowed, if that's any help.'

Warren shook his head. ‘I'm afraid it isn't.' He wandered around the shop, conscious of Helen's eyes on him as he moved. ‘You see, at the moment I can't see where a crime has been committed. Nothing appears to be missing from the shop, and this man didn't actually expose himself to you. You realise I could quite easily charge you with wasting police time, Miss Jeffreys.'

‘Oh, please don't do that,' Helen said quickly. ‘If my boss finds out I let someone into the shop on a Sunday, I'll be in terrible trouble. I could even lose my job.'

‘Well, perhaps we could come to some kind of compromise,' Warren said. ‘If you were to accept some kind of… physical chastisement, then I'd say no more about it.'

Helen's face flushed as she asked, ‘What sort of physical chastisement?'

Warren glanced round, and saw a crook-handled cane displayed prominently alongside a headmaster's mortarboard and gowns, and a tarty-looking schoolgirl's uniform. ‘I think a good old-fashioned six of the best,' he said, walking over to pick up the cane. He gestured towards the cash desk. ‘I'd like you to bend over that, Miss Jeffreys, and raise your skirt.'

‘Do I have to?' Helen asked, feigning reluctance.

‘I don't think you have a choice,' Warren replied. He watched as she obediently went over to the cash desk and bent over, one elbow resting on the counter top while the other reached behind her to flip her skirt up and into the small of her back. Beneath it, she was wearing functional navy blue cotton pants and tights in an unappealing tan colour.

Warren carefully tucked the hem of her skirt into the waistband, so there was no chance of it falling back into place while he caned her. Helen waited, her head resting on her folded arms. He tapped her bottom with the cane, measuring his swing, and then brought the thick bamboo down smartly on her fleshy cheeks. Though she had been expecting the stroke, she still could not prevent herself from rising up and rubbing her bottom.

‘Any more of that behaviour and I'll double your punishment,' Warren warned, as Helen leaned forward over the cash desk once more. Again the cane fell, parallel to the first stroke, and this time Helen made the considerable effort to stay where she was. A third blow followed in quick succession, and then Warren paused.

‘Your tights, Miss Jeffreys,' he said finally. ‘Take them down. And your pants, too.'

‘Are you sure this is necessary?' Helen asked. ‘I mean, it's not as though I've actually done anything wrong.'

‘You're currently obstructing an officer in the course of his duties,' Warren retorted. ‘Now take them down or I'll be forced to do it.'

After a short pause, Helen did as she had been told. Warren's cock pulsed in his trousers at the sight of her plump, naked bottom, the marks the cane had already left a dull red against her white skin. Helen had only pulled her pants and tights down as far as the crease of her buttocks, and Warren used the tip of the cane to push them further down her thighs.

‘Now, spread your legs for me, Miss Jeffreys,' he demanded.

This time, Helen did not question the order. She must have known as well as he did that as she parted her thighs he would be able to see the hair-fringed contours of her sex, pouched between her legs, and the rosy pucker of her anus.

Ruthlessly, Warren brought the cane down swiftly on Helen's arse once more, angling it so that it fell across the lines he had already imprinted on her flesh. This time, he could see the crimson mark that sprang up in its wake. Pleased with his handiwork, he added a second, crossing from the other side. As his final trick, he planted a stroke squarely at the junction of her bottom and her thighs, eliciting a howl of anguish from her.

Even though her stated punishment was over, Helen stayed where she was, her bum stuck out temptingly towards him. He was about to free his cock from his uniform trousers when he noticed the time. He had less than ten minutes before he was due to meet Joe. Choking back his frustration, he patted Helen tenderly on her caned cheeks.

‘Sorry, but I'm going to have to go.'

She stood up, pouting in disappointment. ‘Are you not at least going to tell me what this is all about?'

‘When I bring this stuff back, I promise.' He went to pick up the second uniform, which she had placed in a suit bag for him.

‘Close the front door behind you, then,' was all she said.

When he turned back after closing the door, thinking to blow her an apologetic kiss through the glass, he saw that she was sitting on the floor, back pressed against the cash desk, her fingers buried deep in her pussy as she brought herself to the climax of which Warren's precipitous departure had deprived her.

 

‘I hope you've got a good explanation for why you're bringing the force into disrepute,' Joe said, as he climbed into the passenger seat of Warren's four-wheel drive.

‘I thought it rather suited me,' Warren replied, indicating to turn out of Soho's snarled-up maze of streets and into Piccadilly Circus. ‘You've got one, too. It's in the bag on the back seat.'

‘You're joking.' Joe reached over and picked up the suit bag. He shook his head in disbelief as he realised what it contained. ‘Please, Warren, enlighten me.'

‘It's the perfect way to get into Lawson's house. We turn up, say we've had reports of a disturbance – I don't know, someone trying to break into the building – and could we check that everything's okay? He's not going to refuse what looks like a visit from two genuine members of the Old Bill, now is he?'

‘I can't do it,' Joe replied. ‘I can't put a uniform on again, not after what happened to me.'

‘You haven't got any choice,' Warren said. ‘Not if you want to make sure Laurel and Cindy get out of that place in one piece.'

Joe sighed. ‘He told me specifically not to involve the police.'

‘But you're not involving them. Trust me, Joe. We can make this work. Now, why don't you grab some shut-eye while I drive us down to the New Forest?'

Against his better judgement, Joe relaxed back against the seat's padded headrest and closed his eyes. Soothed by the car radio, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Warren brought the four-wheel drive to a halt a couple of miles down the road from Lymington, having taken the address of Lawson's house from Laurel's desk diary. He shrugged on the uniform jacket, which he'd taken off to prevent suspicion from passing motorists as he drove, and indicated to Joe that he should get into the back of the vehicle and change his own clothes.

‘I'm not happy about this,' Joe said, unbuckling his seat belt reluctantly. ‘Just looking at that sodding uniform brings back too many memories.'

‘I know, and I'm sorry, but I can't think of any way we're going to get into the house. I mean, we could hardly turn up as jobbing painters and decorators, or Jehovah's Witnesses, not late on a Sunday evening, now could we?'

Joe quickly stripped off his jeans, denim jacket and baggy jumper, and reached for the suit bag. A shiver went down his spine as he looked at the uniform Warren had picked out for him. Instantly, he was reminded of the many mornings when he had stepped into just such an outfit before being sent out on patrol. The camaraderie of the squad room; the thrill of making an arrest; the nerve-wracking moments waiting to give evidence in court... It all came flooding back, along with the frightening sight of the tree looming up before them, seconds before the patrol car had ploughed into it.

He was aware of Warren watching him impatiently, and at that moment he could have cheerfully strangled his friend. It was a stupid thing they were about to do, and he wanted no part of it. And yet he didn't want to hand over the agency deeds that were inside a plain brown envelope in his jacket pocket. He had dealt with blackmail cases several times in his police career, and it was a nasty, cowardly crime, made even worse in this instance by the fact that Roger Preston was intent on using the safety of two helpless women as his bargaining tool.