It wouldn't have happened if we hadn't had to use Oscar-Tango 13 that night. I'm pretty sure it's illegal to go out in a patrol car that doesn't have an operational camera system, but we had two off the road needing major repairs, and due to financial restraints and sickness there was only one overloaded mechanic working that week, so the sergeant in Ops just allocated us O-T13 and told us with a wink to try and avoid arresting anyone that night.
Sorry, I'm not starting at the beginning – I do that sometimes. My name's Shelley Porter, I'm 22 years old and I'm a constable with the Metropolitan Police Force, based in Streatham on South London. I'm petite – five-foot-two with a slim figure and a small bust – and I've always been considered quite pretty, with collar-length bobbed corn-blonde hair, blue eyes, a pert nose and a small mouth with generous, naturally pouting lips.
I'd been out of training school less than two months on the evening I'm talking about I was on patrol with my regular partner Bob Friend. Bob's well named: a beefy Glaswegian about 40 years old, who treats me like a kid sister, protecting me half the time and poking fun at me the other half. He's a good copper and I think I can learn a lot from him. Anyway, about half an hour before the end of a quiet shift we were patrolling streets near Streatham Common, lined with the sort of big Victorian houses that have now been converted into half a dozen flats, when a call came in about a disturbance a couple of roads away. With a groan Bob drove over there, but without the blues-and-twos (flashing blue lights and two-tone siren).
When we got there we didn't need to look at hour numbers to know which address we were heading for: the place was lit up like a Christmas tree, with a battered computer chair lying in the small front yard outside a smashed downstairs window and a cacophony from inside suggesting that all hell had broken loose. Another patrol car was already parked across the street and Bob yanked ours to a halt under a street light, snarled "Stay here" and charged through the open front door of the house like a bull stung by a wasp. I did as I was told but sighed in frustration; I knew he was trying to keep me out of the way of trouble, but that was the first real action we'd seen all week and I'd joined the force to get involved, not sit like some porcelain doll on a shelf.
Nothing happened for a couple of minutes, then Bob and one of the other lads emerged dragging a struggling figure between them: an angry and vociferous black woman - IC3 female in our jargon - in her early thirties, over six feet tall in the four -inch heels she was wearing, accompanied by a flimsy vest which struggled to contain her impressive bust, and a brown leather skirt that ended a third of the way down her naked thighs. My colleagues pulled her towards our car, and as they passed through the garden gate one of her shoes came off. Quick as a flash she managed to free one of her arms from the bloke helping Bob, stooped, grabbed the shoe by the toe and tried to use the stiletto heel to puncture Bob's head. His reactions were too fast and the woman yelped in pain and dropped the show as Bob's huge hand closed tightly around her wrist. Tottering on one high heel she kicked it off angrily and Bob snatched open the rear driver's-side door of our car, bundled her into it and snapped his handcuffs on one of her wrists, cuffing the other link to the door. Then, panting slightly, he told her, "Right, you can sit there and calm down a bit." Turning to me he added "Watch her." Then, looking back at our passenger, he asked her, "So, were you working in there Lola?"
Suddenly calm, she gave him a big-eyed innocent look and replied, "I don't know what you mean officer. I was just a guest at the party."
Bob chuckled at that. "So not one bloke's given you fifty quid for a blow job all night?"
Still looking as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth Lola wrinkled her brow. "I'm sorry, blow job? What does that mean?" Bob grinned and shook his head ruefully; then there was a shriek from inside the house and he turned on his heel and bolted back inside.
I sat watching the prisoner in the rear view mirror, wary of the free hand that Bob had helpfully left her, and with one hand resting on the can of CS gas clipped to my belt. Lola had an attractive face – not exactly pretty, but striking: shoulder length clack waved hair, huge eyes, highlighted by purple eye-shadow, high cheekbones, a long slim nose, a pointed chin and a wide mouth with thin lips and big very white teeth. She caught me studying her and stared back. Then, with a smile, she said in a London accent with a Caribbean lilt, "God, you're a pretty one aren't you. How old are you, ten?"
I willed myself not to blush at the comment, and almost succeeded. For some reason I couldn't possibly have explained at the time, I couldn't draw my eyes from hers, boring into me in the mirror, that same smile playing about her lips. Then she shuffled down a bit in the seat; the movement pulled her tiny skirt even higher up her thighs. She didn't have any underwear, and she allowed her thighs to loll apart, leaving little of her anatomy to the imagination. Bizarrely I felt myself hypnotised by the sight – I've never previously had the slightest interest in other women or their private parts. Lola must have followed my gaze, because after a moment, to my shock, she slid her free hand between her thighs and started stroking herself. I felt my mouth go dry; I knew I should say something, tell her to stop, but I couldn't find the words. I glanced back at her face and her eyes were still locked on mine, her smile wider now. In a half-whisper, she said, "Enjoyin' the show, baby fuzz? Maybe you'd like your tongue to go where my fingers are?"
