This is a story for WickedWednesday: we had to write the tale from a viewpoint of glass on a table.
How could she be so stupid?
How could she fall for one of the oldest scams in the book?
How could she be so rampantly naïve?
She kicked a metal rubbish bin in frustration, causing it the impudent smash to fill the damp alleyway with her anger; she was furious with herself, incandescent with her flatmate and blood-curdlingly enraged with “Dom.” One day, their paths would meet again, and she would be ready and waiting to reassign his bodily organs as her playground. In two hours she had become a lot more streetwise.
University was costly: especially for a party girl like Violet. Her peers obtained employment to supplement their income, but she had a less arduous method. Sure, her less than laborious employment was outside the law, but as long as she kept her head down, she didn’t think anyone would care.
That’s what she hoped; one Saturday night she found out that wasn’t the case.
A bang on her bedroom door scared her, the emerging faces of two burly men in police uniforms petrified the Grammar School rich kid. “What’s this?”
“PC Dom Flowers,” the taller, younger man replied and flashed a piece of white paper at her gaze, before stuffing it into his pocket. “We have a warrant to search this property; we believe there may be controlled substances at this address.” She gulped, glancing around her room as her heart pounded in her chest: was there anything obvious in view?
“Wh-Ho-Fu-Wh-” She stammered. “What the fuck are you talking about?” She caught sight of her flatmate, who had let them into the house, loitering behind the men moving into her bedroom. “There’s nothing here, now get out,” she demanded, but they laughed, rummaging through her personal effects as her panicked voice squeaked angry threats.
They found her marijuana in her knicker drawer; that was for “personal use.”
They found five hundred pounds amongst her T-Shirts; that was “University grant money.”
They found a miniature set of scales; that was for her biochemistry degree.
And then they found a small plastic pouch of white powder on her bedside table. She gulped as he took the handcuffs from his pocket and smirked; she denied it, she begged and she wept, but they were adamant, cuffing the young lady and leading her into the inky darkness of the street, and onto a van with long benches on both sides.
It was empty; her mind whirled as the door slammed shut. She would be expelled. She would be outcast from her respectable family. “Please,” she begged as the van moved. “I’m so sorry,” she wailed; they always were. “Can’t we just say …”
“Say what?” He asked, watching her. “Say …”
“I’ve got money,” she blurted, tears streaming from her eyes. “I can pay you … to make it disappear.”
He snorted, leaning back against the white metal of the moving vehicle; his brown eyes gleamed as streaks of lights flashed through the rumbling van, as he mentally undressed the errant student. “Attempting to bribe an officer.”
“Please, I can’t be arrested. I just can’t be. I’ll tell you who my dealer is. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?” He repeated, and banged on the wire cage between the prisoner and the driver, stopping the vehicle. They wanted sex: she had to provide.
The weeping girl pleaded, but the men were insistent; she wailed, they threatened. It was an ultimatum: either she gave them what they wanted, or they would take her to their destination.
Her tartan clothing was helped enthusiastically from her svelte frame, as tears tumbled down her cheeks. She fought them; desperate to regain control of her fears, but as the two men ogled the student, her young body glistened in the dim light of the musty van.
She shivered in her underwear: the bright red knickers swiped forcefully from her body by Dom. He pushed her to the cold, damp floor, yelling obscenities as he teased his cock from his unbuttoned fly: it swelled free, jutting prominently from his smart trousers, as he grunted. “It ain’t gonna suck itself!”
She could do nothing to prevent him impaling the reluctant girl’s mouth onto his hot, hard cock. She simpered; tears flowing freely, as his partner openly touched her cunt, running his fingers along her crack and roughly poking her.
She cried from the burning lewdness of her unwelcome violation. Dom grunted; his squeals and gasps increasing in volume, as he pushed her face away and watched as she tumbled onto the rough floor of the van.
He pulled her legs apart fiercely, sliding his cock along the crack of the nude, wailing woman, and plunged his manhood deep into her. She squealed in pain, but he barely noticed, ramming his prick deep into her to sate his own need.
She never mattered; he cared not for the drug dealer as he thrusted his hips rhythmically, hammering his cock angrily into her pussy.
She desperately put the experience from her mind; she had allowed this happen to escape a worse fate, and desperately wanted Dom to finish, her back rubbing painfully against the abrasive floor.
He panted, ramming his cock deep into her and ensuring she felt the spurt of his cum flooding into her vulnerable pussy. She scrambled free of him, only to have his colleague show her the same indignity.
Ten minutes later she was dressed and outside the van, cum leaking from her pussy as the doors to the white faded van were closed and Dom locked them. “You’re not real policemen,” she cried as she saw the lettering on the vehicle. “This isn’t the Police;” it had been dark when she had been led into the van.
“Oh … well done!” He replied sarcastically. “But thanks for the drugs. And the monkey. And the fuck.”
“Fuck you!” She screamed, as the van’s engine started. “Fuck!” She shivered in the cold.
Someone had noticed her burgeoning drug dealing empire, and they had wanted a cut. And she had been taken in by their lies.
In drugs slang, glass is the street name for methamphetamine. In my story the drug was on the table: hence, the prompt: glass on the table. 😉
I’m sorry, I had nowhere to go with this prompt; this is not one of my better stories!
Featured image from here