The trooper clocked the convertible mustang at 86 miles per hour in a 55 zone. He also clocked a baseball cap, big, dark sunglasses and a dark ponytail.
Stopping her was fairly easy; she about came to a full stop as soon as he hit the lights a siren behind her. As he approached, he saw the hat come off, the hair tie pulled out and the glasses whipped to the seat beside her. As he got up to the driver’s side window, she was already talking, “didn’t realize I may have been going a little . . . “ but he wasn’t listening. Instead he was looking at the dark yoga pants covering the driver’s thighs and her tight, brightly colored tank-top.
“License, registration and insurance card, ma’am.”
After running her name and plates, the trooper learned the woman had no record or warrants, owned her convertible and was 26 years old and single. He returned to the car.
“Ma’am, in Texas, operating a motor vehicle at more than 20 miles per hour over the posted speed limit is reckless driving, a class A misdemeanor. I am going to need you to follow me to the station.” He turned on his heal and headed back to his cruiser before she could respond. As he pulled back onto the highway, he saw the little white convertible drop in behind him dutifully.
At the station, the trooper led her to a metal chair in a windowless room with bright, fluorescent lighting overhead; he turned and left, closing the solid metal door behind him. Of course, one wall was dominated by a huge mirror; the woman had seen enough Law and Order episodes to know it was likely a window into the other room.
She heard a sharp click; a speaker seemed to turn on somewhere in the ceiling and a man’s voice she assumed was the trooper’s, boomed into the room, “Ma’am, I am afraid I have some news you are not going to like. Since it is after 5 on a Friday, the county judge and the local DA have left for the weekend, as have both our female officers; it looks like we may need to hold you over the weekend until we can get you processed and released.” Click, the speaker clicked off.
“You have got to be kidding,” the woman huffed. “There is no way it is fair to hold me in jail for a freakin’ speeding ticket; that is ridiculous.”
Click. “You know, I totally agree with you and I want to work with you to get you out of here, I promise,” the voice said. “How does that sound?” Click.
“O.K. Great,” the young woman replied, a bit too eagerly, perhaps. As she spoke, she sat up straight in her chair and tugged at the bottom edge of her snug top.
Click. “What you may not be aware of is that we have a huge drug smuggling problem here in our small county and one of the first things a judge would want to make sure of is that you are not carrying any contraband. Do you understand?” Click.
“Well sure, I guess,” the woman muttered; “You can see I am not carrying anything,” she said, looking down at her form-fitting outfit. Click. “Well one thing that might help is if you gave us permission to search the bag you were carrying, can we do that?” Click.
The woman seemed to catch herself, she clearly wanted to cooperate, but the wheels in her mind were spinning fast through the contents of her purse; “I would rather not have you go through my bag; is that really necessary?”
Click. “Nope. Not at all. We can skip that and simply wait for the judge to come in; he sometimes works weekends, but just not very often.” Click.
The woman slumped a bit in her chair; “Oh, alright, fine. Search it.” 10 minutes clicked by on the big clock on the wall, during which she fidgeted with her hair and sunglasses.
Click. “Ma’am we found no illicit items, we just need you to confirm some of the contents for our records.” Click “Uh, OK? I guess.”
Click. “One wallet; one i-phone; several lipsticks; various make-up items, and some gum.” Click.
The woman seemed to relax slightly, “Yup, that is all mine.” Click. “One pair women’s panties, red.” Click.
A slight pink color instantly rose in the young woman’s cheeks and she dropped her head a bit. After a pause, “Yes, those are mine.”
Click. “I believe these are technically called a thong.” Click.
“Yes, yes, those are mine.”
Click. “One personal massager, plastic, pink in color.” Click.
“Oh my God,” she mumbled, as she hung her head in her hands. Quietly, she said, “that is a very personal item, all I was doing was speeding.”
Click. “Is the item yours or not, ma’am?” Click.
After a pause, the woman shook her head but said, “Yes, that item is mine.”
Click. “What is it for?” Click.
“What?” she asked the ceiling, “What do you mean?”
Click. “I need you to tell me what this item is for so that we can assure the judge it is not a weapon or other contraband of some kind.” Click.
“You can’t be serious,” the young woman pleaded, her voice rising. “Hello?”
There was no response. “It’s for fun; it’s a toy,” she finally said, deadpan.
Click. “If you want to leave here tonight, you need to be more specific.” Click.
“Fine,” the woman snapped, “I use that to masturbate; are you happy?”
Click. “You touch yourself with this item for pleasure?” Click.
Suddenly, and very much in spite of herself, the woman felt a small twitch between her legs; she shifted in her seat, surprised at how much she enjoyed the feeling as she rearranged her legs. “Yes,” she finally admitted.
Click. “Where?” Click.
This could not be happening; “I touch my vagina with that toy; my clitoris; is that what you want to hear?”
Click. “Thank you. Was that so hard?” Click.
Her face was now burning red and hot; and she felt herself, against her wishes, squirm just once in the chair.
Click. “We need your permission to check your phone as part of this process; please provide the pass word.” Click.
“First of all, there is no way that is legal without some kind of warrant and second of all, no way am I agreeing to that,” the woman huffed, with more confidence than she actually felt; oh God, what if they looked at the phone?
Click. “You are correct, we would need your permission, absent probable cause. I fully understand your position and we can just wait until Monday.” Click.
As her mind raced through the information on her phone, she kept coming back to a few select photos—stuff she took and sent to an old boyfriend, stuff she never meant for anyone to see. But then . . . “Look, how about I tell you what is on the phone that I don’t really want to have made public and then you don’t need to look at it; I can assure you it has nothing to do with drugs or anything like that.”
Silence
“Hello? Will that work?” More silence
Click. “It will depend on whether you are believable.” Click.
“Fine. The reason I don’t want to show you is that there are two pictures on there that I took for my boyfriend; selfies. Sexting I guess you could say, OK?” She shifted in her chair again as she recalled taking the selfies she had sent. There were only two, and she had been trying to be as sexy as she possibly could. The memory of the pictures, and his reaction to them sent a little shiver from the base of her skull down her spine.
Click. “Describe the pictures.” Click.
Describe them, she thought, oh my god. Really? “C’mon, this is so far out of the realm of smuggling or whatever, this is silly.”
Silence.
Finally, in quiet voice, sullen and self-conscious, she spoke, “The first is a picture of the front of my body. I am naked in the picture, in my bedroom.” She paused, she was not sure she could continue; then the words came out in a jumble, “The second is a picture where I turned around … bent over … I used one hand to open myself and took the picture with the other hand. There, are you happy?”
Click. “Tell me what you mean when you say you used one hand to open yourself.” Click.
“You can’t be serious.”
Click. “Say it.” Click
The weird lighting, the huge mirror, something about this guy’s voice, his manner was getting to her. He was so authoritarian, he had such leverage over her, and yet, he didn’t seem harsh or mean…..maybe a little playful even . . . this made no sense.
“What I mean is that I used my hand to open myself, like between my legs, so my boyfriend could see . . . inside me,” she trailed off, hearing herself and not really believing what she had just said.
After a long, awkward pause, click, “Thank you for your cooperation; we do not need to search your phone. However,” and here she felt her stomach drop, “we will need to be sure you have no contraband on your person.” Click.
And there it was. She had known on some level this was where this was all going, and she expected to feel panic, even fear, and she did feel those things, but she felt something else too . . . .
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/2lt17e/the_interrogation_mf_domination_this_is_part_1
I really enjoyed reading your story–especially the part where the officer keeps prodding and prodding her to reveal more… personal details. Looking forward to reading part 2!
I am glad you enjoyed it.
posted part 2.
Great! I’ll go check it out ASAP