Chief-Thief

Excerpt

Once in the storage closet I moved some of the boxes over and created a small wall against one corner in case I needed to retreat further. Finished, I moved a crate over to the door as a seat, and waited.

Mercifully, the light in the dungeon went out just two minutes before Chief McCarthy and her husband, Mike, came in. Through the slanted shutters I could see that they each had iced glasses in their hands and appeared to be laughing about something. Their carefree nature made me mad. While they giggled and played with their sex toys, the city government was falling apart. I wasn’t the only one who’d gotten axed; twenty-four other good cops had gotten kicked off the force. Chief McCarthy and her mayoral husband had sworn that it was necessary because of the economy, and other trumped-up excuses. Most of my fellow pink-slipped buddies had become mall cops, security guards, or had rejoined the Army or Navy, fading back into the armed forces from which they’d come. I’d had no luck with any of that, only able to find part-time bartending work. That was the reason I had become a professional thief.

The Chief finished off her drink and looked up at her husband and tilted her glass back and forth suggestively. He smiled at her, and then, without warning, backhanded her across the face. The smack of his palm on her cheek was like a gunshot. But when she looked back at him, she was smiling.

“Again,” she said, and he blasted her face with his palm, this time on the other cheek.

Mike McCarthy then took her glass and his and set them on a cocktail table set against the wall. He snapped his fingers at her, and she stripped before him. I was stunned. At the department, Chief McCarthy is called “McSharky” behind her back because she was such a terror: barking orders, and biting people’s heads off for even petty infractions. She would have put a Marine drill instructor to shame, and was the most hard-driving officer I’d ever served under. But here in the dungeon, her politician husband snapped his fingers and she obeyed like a cowed schoolgirl in front of the principal. This was unprecedented!

I pulled out my iPhone and hit the video-record button. This was more than just revealing, it was damning. I’d been a professional burglar for just seven months, and already the talk at Pat’s (a cop bar) was that they were building up a task force to catch me. While it was flattering, I felt sure that I could leverage some leniency, if they ever caught me; so long as I had this kind of proof!

Mike caught Chief McCarthy by her hand and threw her over his knee and spanked her little white ass with his hand. She didn’t kick, didn’t scream, and didn’t protest at the spanking; she laughed, and whooped at his treatment of her. In seconds her butt was a flaming red, but all he did was stop using his hand and switch to a heavy wooden paddle that he yanked from the wall. The impacts were now small explosions on her behind, and he punctuated each stroke with an insult, getting darker and more demeaning with each one. “Bitch…slut…slave…phony!”

The Chief just laughed and yelled at each impact, and after third or fourth blow with the paddle she began to cry and her voice became a long wail of supplication. But, rather than evoke any kind of mercy from her tormentor, the mayor’s arm of discipline seemed to gain in strength. His face darkened and his denunciations of her became vicious blasts of hate and damnation. His paddle switched from her ass to backs of her thighs and calves. These strokes fell upon near-virgin flesh, and from the Chief’s cries I could tell that they hurt more.