A Week in a Cop's Life
Darrell Sherburne is a cop, patrolling the area around Dolcett University. This leads to some interesting encounters, including a few hangings.
My name is Darrell Sherburne. I'm a leopard with the Dolcettville Police (DVPD) and I love my job: patrolling the Uni neighborhood. The pay is good and I get to help people. And sometimes there are other "benefits".
Each day starts with our shift meeting. Mostly the usual stuff, but I always arrive early. I get to chat with my buddies, find out what's been going on in other neighborhoods -- and of course update them about my area. And you never know: a couple months ago there was a cougar snuffing young furs without consent. Sergeant Bagley gave us the briefing, and I kept a sharp eye out. And I caught the bastard and saved the gerbil.
I got a thank-you from the Mayor and a bonus. And I was invited as an official witness to the cougar's execution. Russell Floyd got to provide us with the same excitement that he'd gotten from strangling his victims, kicking, jerking, writhing, struggling desperately for air while the noose did its work. That execution was unusual in another way: the jury had voted "special punishment," so the jail medico injected him with a drug that inhibited orgasm. He didn't even get a last cum from his hanging. But I got off even though he didn't. The beaver sitting next to me was so turned on that she reached over and rubbed me through my pants. No embarrassing stain, though. I'd learned in my first year on the force: always stuff something absorbent like a gym sock into your pants when you watch an execution.
And the really stupid part: Floyd could have gotten willing victims. He had a lot of money; he could afford as many as he wanted at a snuff brothel. Or with a little effort and dinner at a good restaurant he could have talked a coed who was in danger of flunking out of the Uni into letting him strangle her. Some furs aren't happy unless they can make somebody else miserable. I think he got exactly what he deserved. Or maybe he "deserved" worse, but nothing suitable for a civilized society would have been enough.
Okay, with that as background, let me describe an unusually busy week for me. I should emphasize that most of my weeks aren't anywhere near as interesting as this one. Usually I spend the entire week driving around, writing a few tickets, giving good advice to a few dozen people, and just keeping an eye out for anything untoward. I prevent a lot more crime than I solve, and that's the way I like it.
But this particular week was different. It started out with routine patrol Monday morning. Just cruising, talking to people, letting them know there's a cop around if they need one -- and to deal with them if they break the law. But along about 11AM I was sitting at a red light. The light changed to green and I was just taking my foot off the brake when I heard this loud engine roar. I stomped on the brakes again and saw a sky-blue Hennessey Venom roar into the intersection, going at least 50MPH, maybe more, and still accelerating. The Hyundai Tiburon next to me had started up a little quicker, and the Venom hit the front end with a horrendous crash. Both cars were wrecked.
I radioed for help and got out to see what I could do. The Venom's driver, a young-20s serval with two-tone headfur, got out and started swearing when she looked at what remained of her very expensive car. She had some lacerations on her arms, but seemed otherwise okay. I pointed at her. "You. Stay where you are," and went to check out the Tiburon, which had been pushed around so it was almost crossways to traffic.
I found only one occupant: the driver. She looked dazed; her face was all scratched up, and she had a nosebleed. It took her several seconds to notice me.
"Are you okay?" I asked when the beagle's eyes focused on me.
"I think... Owwwwww!" she screamed and tensed up.
"What's wrong, ma'am?"
"My baby... it's coming..." Then she screamed again and put her hands on her swollen belly.
"Hold on, ma'am." I patted her hand and radioed for paramedics. This was going to get messy. We get a little training in emergency delivery, but it's going to go a lot easier (and usually better) if it's done by experts.
I went back, got two-tone's name -- Lorelle Snelling -- arrested her, and put her into the back seat. Then I went back to the pregnant beagle. I did what I could to make her comfortable, jotted down her driver's license and name -- Narelle Ridge -- for my report, and held her hand while we waited for the paramedics.
They arrived a few minutes later and helped her onto a gurney, then rolled her into the ambulance. I took Snelling to the station and booked her for reckless driving causing injury, then found an empty desk and started filling out the paperwork. I was almost done when the Sergeant came in.
"They got the Hyundai driver to the hospital and did everything they could, but the baby was born dead. The seat belt crushed his head when the Hyundai was spun around."
"Oh... sh-oes!" (I remembered where I was just in time.)
"Yeah. We're going to re-book Snelling for Murder."
"No less than she deserves."
Sarge just nodded. He insisted I take the rest of the day off and get my emotions under control. "Find your center," he told me. "Then come in tomorrow morning."
Tuesday morning I felt ready to work again. I reported in as usual and was back on the street right after the briefing. A normal day, as much as any day in a cop's life is normal. But along about 6PM I spotted an Audi that was very carefully staying in the exact center of its lane. I followed it for about three blocks, keeping another car between us. When it was just a little late stopping for a red light, I waited for the light to turn green, then turned on my flashing lights. The Chevy Malibu in front of me pulled over to the right; I passed him and pulled the Audi over. The driver rolled down the window and looked at me, just a touch owlishly.
"What can I do for you, officer?" She was pronouncing the words very precisely. There was a bottle of wine on the seat next to her with the cork shoved about halfway in.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?"
"No, officer."
"License and registration, please."
She opened her purse, pulled out her license, then got the registration out of the glove box. Tara Whitaker.
I took the papers back to the squad and radioed in to check them. Nothing. I went back to the Audi. "Get out of the car, Ms. Whitaker." I had her lean against the car and frisked her for weapons. "I'm placing you under arrest for open container in vehicle," I told her.
"What?"
"You are only 19, according to your license. You have no business even having that bottle in your possession, much less driving with the bottle open."
I told her to put her hands on top of her head, then put one cuff on her right hand.
Got to give her credit for speed and accuracy: she kicked backward and got my left knee square with her spike heel. She jumped back into the car and sped off while I was trying to get the leg to work again. I limped back to my unit and took off after her. I radioed in the pursuit, and a few minutes later we had her boxed in.
Hutchinson and I went over to get her. She cooperated this time. Rolled down her window, put her hands out to be cuffed, let me put her in the back seat of my cruiser with no resistance.
I started the unit and turned around to go back to the station. A very meek voice from the back said, "I'm sorry, I kind of lost it back there."
"You sure did. Bad mistake."
"It's a hanging offense, isn't it?"
"Assault on an officer? You bet."
"My dad was a cop. I seem to remember there was an alternative. 'Informal disposal' or something?"
"Informal Disposition. Yes."
"Could we do that? I... just don't want to hang naked in front of a crowd. I'm so sorry. Please?
I pulled over, switched the radio to crypto mode, and reported that my prisoner had requested Informal.
The Lieutenant responded a few seconds later. "We'll have a room set up when you get here."
"Great." I switched back to normal mode. "You hear that?" I asked.
"Yes."
"So what are you offering?"
"Anything except anal. It hurts, and it's just icky!"
I nodded.
I parked the unit behind the station. Officer Truman was there to help, but Whitaker didn't give me any trouble. "Room 2" the desk Sergeant said. I took Whitaker to the room. It was all set up: a double bed, a couple of chairs, and equipment for minor bondage. And coffee & tea service with a couple of pastries. And Quinn Stack, who was built like a football linebacker. He was on limited duty because of a minor injury yesterday.
I offered the pastry tray to Whitaker. "No, thanks. Let's just... get on with it."
"Okay."
I held onto Whitaker while Stack came up behind and grabbed her head. He twisted, not enough to do real damage, but the rabbit doe got the message. I unlocked her cuffs. "Take off your clothes." She did. "Go use the bathroom if you need to," and I pointed to the door. She nodded and went in. I was lying naked on the bed with a silk strangling cord folded into my left hand when she came back out. "Your mouth, please."
She nodded and lay on top of me, kissing me. I kissed her back, then kissed her ears and neck, and she returned the favor. After some minutes, she reached down to feel me. A "Hmmm..." noise suggested she was satisfied with what she found. She slid down, wrapped her right hand around my cock, and slid her hot, wet lips over it.
Turned out she wasn't a very skilled fellatrix. She knew how much pressure to use, but not when to slide all the way down and when partway, or when to speed up. I grabbed her head and took control, so all she had to do was maintain suction. It took about 4 minutes for me to come in her mouth.
I let her swallow it all, then pulled her off me. I whipped the cord around her neck and pulled, hard. She gasped once, then stiffened, but didn't resist as I rolled us over, trapping her naked body under my weight. I slid down so we were face to face, then pushed my right leg in between hers. Then I started kissing her while I strangled her. Her hands grabbed the bedspread, so I pulled harder.
After some time, she let go of the coverlet and beat her fists on the bed, right... left...right...
I pulled as hard as I could. I felt her legs open to me, so I used my thigh to rub her labia. It took some time, but I think she had a last orgasm. Her legs started twitching somewhere around there, then her feet kicked several times. And eventually she relaxed. I held on until Stack tapped me on the shoulder.
"It's been a good 15 minutes."
"Check?"
He nodded, then used two fingers to check her carotid pulse. "She's done."
I nodded and let the cord go. I heard one outrush of air, but nothing more, so I got up and got dressed. It took about five minutes to fill out the paperwork and hand it to the Lieutenant. I gave myself a quick sponge bath, got back into uniform, combed my hair, and went back on patrol.
I had the afternoon shift Wednesday. The usual routine of random chats, warnings, tickets, separating people who'd gotten a little emotional after a few drinks, that sort of thing. Until about 7. I got a radio call: retail burglary at Juniper Street Galleria, suspects in custody.
Mall Security briefed me when I got there. A 26 year old bobcat with brunette headfur and her 19-year-old boyfriend had been "lifting" clothes and stuff from the stores. They were on their way back to her car when the mall cops grabbed them. What a haul! Easily $25,000 worth of fancy dresses, scarves, stuff like that. And jewelry that the store listed at well over $20,000. They were looking at some serious time.
Then the sec chief showed me the real problem: the boy had surrendered when the mall cops showed up, but the girl was a different story. When the guards tried to take the goods as evidence, she grabbed the clothes and yanked. Three of dresses got torn, including a Piccioli original.
Well. That was bad news. A serious felony.
Then I got a look at the bobcat's ID. Kate Lawson. Holy shit! The Dean's daughter. I put cuffs on her, then tied her ankle to a heavy chair, and did the same to the other perp, a DU student named Curt Attwood. I got the mall cops' names on my report, put the stuff in evidence bags, and wrote receipts for the stores. Then I took statements from the store managers and clerks and the security people. This case needed to be airtight. We all went to my unit together. I put the bobcat and the duiker in the back seat, then had the security guys watch them while I loaded the bags into the trunk.
Dean Lawson was already at the station -- with three lawyers -- when I arrived. The DA herself showed up a few minutes later, and they all started arguing. Well, let's call it "negotiating". I went back on patrol.
Thursday was pretty much normal, except that I wrote almost no tickets: it seemed like the whole neighborhood had decided to be sane for a day.
I got a private briefing from the Lieutenant when I reported in Friday morning. Lorelle Snelling had been overcome with emotion when she found out that she'd killed the beagle's baby. She overrode her lawyers and pled guilty. She'd be hanged naked in front of City Hall on Saturday.
As for Ms. Lawson, they'd spent most of Thursday negotiating, but the Dean's lawyers finally reached a deal with the DA: His daughter would be hanged naked as the law required, but in private. And the boy would be hanged in the Uni's quad after lunch.
"Why...?" I asked.
"Well, nobody told me exactly," the Sergeant said, "But I suspect the fact that the mall is so close to Dolcett University has something to do with it. Over half of their customers are Uni students. So the victims really want to stay on the University's good side."
"That makes sense."
"Yeah. Anyway, you're going to have a busy day tomorrow. I'm authorizing a day of overtime pay. Or you can take comp time off next week if you'd rather."
"I'll think about it."
"Good. Here's your list of where to show up and when."
I took the card, glanced at it, and put it in my pocket.
Saturday
My alarm woke me at 6:30AM. Kate Lawson was going to be hanged at 8. Plenty of time to make breakfast, have a shower and shave, and put on my uniform. I drove to campus and parked next to the Marley Asphyxia Building. A guard at the door checked me in and pointed me to the elevator. "Room 304," he reminded me.
The Dean was already there. Also the two mall cops who had arrested Lawson and the managers of the two stores she'd stolen from. A mink in a suit with patched elbows was standing on the raised platform.
As soon as I sat down, the connecting door opened. Lawson walked out naked, head high, followed by two campus security guards. The hangman introduced himself as Professor Piper, head of the Asphyxia Department. He asked me to identify Ms. Lawson as the she-bobcat I had arrested. I agreed.
Lawson climbed the 6 steps to the platform and stood in the center of the trap. The hangman said something to her. She looked straight at her father. "I still say it's unfair. I wanted Curt to go first, so I could give him a blowjob before the trapdoor opened, but they said no, he'd get more out of it if he wasn't satiated." She paused, looked around the room, made a "harrumph" noise, then nodded her head.
The hangman took a rope, pulled Lawson's hands back, and tied them. He put the noose around Lawson's neck, then turned to look at the clock. A few seconds later he pushed the lever and the trapdoor opened.
The bobcat managed the beginnings of a scream and I heard a couple of people moan as she fell. There was a groaning noise from the beam overhead, then she came to an abrupt stop with her head well below the platform. Her body bounced a couple of times. Her feet twitched, then her knees pulled up to her chest, and slowly relaxed. More moans.
A hartebeest in a nurse's uniform listened to Lawson's chest and nodded. The two guards escorted us to the room next door, where they had hors d'oeuvres on a buffet. I nibbled a bit of this and a bite of that and accepted a glass of beer. I tasted it: good stuff, German. I had a couple more sips, then set it down.
I signed the execution certificate as a witness, and stayed about half an hour, talking with the other witnesses. I expressed my sympathies to Dean Lawson. He looked bleak. "It had to be done. At least she went quick."
"What about her boyfriend?" one of the managers asked.
"Atwood? He'll be short-dropped."
"Sounds kind of hard on him."
"Quite the contrary. I offered him a long drop, and he rejected it, loudly. Threatened to demand a trial. Well. I asked his professors about him. He's a straight A student, a sophomore. Whenever there's a noose or a strangling cord involved, he's first to volunteer. He's lost consciousness quite a few times. His professors said he was already thinking like a grad student." The Dean drained his third glass.
I went home, drank some coffee, and watched some TV. My phone reminded me at 12:45. I made sure my uniform was still clean and drove back to campus.
One of the campus cops, a possum named Symons, was directing traffic. When he saw my uniform, he waved me over. "Hi, Sherburne. You get VIP parking." He pointed to my left. I turned and drove maybe 2 blocks, and another campus uniform pointed to a space. Less than half a block from the Quad. VIP parking indeed!
They had three rows of chairs set up in front of the gallows with standing room behind the third row. Dean Lawson waved to me and pointed to a chair in the front row, two away from his own chair at the center.
There was a good-looking weasel, maybe 30, in the next seat. "You're the arresting officer?" she asked.
I nodded.
"I'm Professor Bullock. Associate Professor, actually. I teach some of the less common forms of asphyxia -- drowning, smothering, pressing. This must be something special. Hangings in the quad are almost always at midterm or end of term. Students who flunk out and haven't 'taken care' of the matter on their own. Attwood must have found a real interesting way of getting into trouble."
"Yeah," I said. No point in giving the rumor mill any more grist than necessary.
She looked a little disappointed, but changed the subject to the latest campus gossip -- other than Attwood. I gave her some of the less volatile station gossip in return.
Professor Piper came out of the admin building dressed all in black with a hood over his head, and walked up the steps.
Bullock said "Holy cow! This is going to be one special hanging."
"I imagine so."
A side door of the building opened and Attwood walked out, completely naked, with a guard on each side. Attwood was the epitome of the reluctant hangee: his head down, his steps dragging, one of the guards holding his elbow in a beefy hand. But the hard-on he was sporting ruined the effect. This hanging is supposed to be a punishment, but he sure isn't reacting that way. Well... he's a Dolcett U student, after all.
The Duiker's feet were still dragging, but he somehow managed to avoid stumbling as he climbed the 13 steps to the platform. But when he got to the top he said something inaudible, and the guard let go his elbow. He marched proudly across the platform and stopped with his toes touching the edge of the trapdoor. Cox pulled Attwood's hands back and tied them, then opened the noose, put it around his neck, and pulled it snug.
"Any last words."
"Yes." His eyes swept the crowd gathered to watch him hang. "I'm happy that so many of my friends, teachers, and fellow students came to watch me hang. You know me, a straight-A student with a good chance to be Valedictorian and do the airdance at graduation. Well... I screwed up, and I won't get to do that. And my last performance won't be as good as it would have been after a couple more years here, but I hope everybody will enjoy it anyway. I'm sorry for the trouble I caused, and I accept full responsibility."
As if! I knew who was responsible for this crime. Attwood had been just going along with his girlfriend.
Attwood said something to Professor Cox. Even from my front-row seat I couldn't hear it.
"Yes." The hangman counted: "Ten... nine..."
When he got to "one," Attwood gave a little hop and jumped off the edge of the trapdoor a split-second before it opened. He fell about three feet and jerked to a stop, the trapdoor falling with a loud CLACK. He immediately started struggling, his hands jerking at the ropes, his feet kicking forward and back.
"Idiot!" Bullock whispered. "He's going to use up all his oxygen before he gets his final orgasm."
I whispered back, "I'm not so sure. He looks like he's trying to accomplish something."
It took less than thirty seconds for Attwood to reach the panicking stage. His knees came up to his chest and thrust downward, trying to get a bit of air. I wouldn't have thought that his erection could get any harder, but it did.
He seemed to get weaker after another minute, his feet making tiny circular motions, his eyes staring straight ahead. Then he started thrusting his hips like he was fucking a girl. Another fifteen seconds and semen shot out of his cock, landing just a few inches in front of Professor Bullock's feet. The second pulse landed in front of the Dean, and the third hit the store manager's left shoe.
Attwood went still after a couple more shots.
"He's out of it."
I wasn't so sure. My doubts turned out to be justified. Attwood hung limp for nearly 30 seconds, then started humping the air again. Then he went still with his back arched as he came again, but only one pulse, a thick glob that stuck to the end of his cock. Then his body slowly went limp.
The attending nurse put her stethoscope to his chest, but shook her head. She checked again a minute later. Another shake. The third time she nodded. "He's done."
The audience slowly dispersed. I went to the student union's eatery and got a small green salad and the empanada plate. I took my tray to an empty table. A few minutes later a gorgeous tarsier with blond headfur set her tray down next to mine.
"You're the cop who busted Curt, I mean Attwood, right?"
"No point in denying it."
"My name's Bernice. Bernice Hughes."
"Darrell Sherburne."
"That was sooo exciting! Would you like to get together someday? Here's my number." She held her phone up. I opened mine and we traded numbers.
She was still eating when I finished, but she put down her fork as I started to get up. "How about a kiss to seal the deal?"
I sat down. She grabbed me and kissed me, holding onto me for nearly a minute.
"Wow!" I panted when she let me go.
"Fer sure."
I retrieved my car from the lot, drove home, set the alarm for 4:30, and took a nap. I had a feeling I'd need my energy later.
When I got to the Town Square, a jailer came over and escorted me to the holding cell. Snelling was there. I'd never seen her naked before. Wow! Great tits, and she was shaved. The jail didn't provide that "service," so it must have been her own fashion thing.
"Are you Darrell Sherburne, the officer who arrested the criminal who recklessly caused the death of an unborn child?" Judge Gardner asked.
"Yes, I am."
"Do you identify this person as the condemned, Lorelle Snelling?"
"I do."
"Thank you. Go ahead and find a seat."
The Chief spotted me and waved me to a front-row seat, but this time I had to sit six seats away from the center. The vicissitudes of life :-)
A few minutes later, two guards marched Snelling out of the cell and up to the gallows. Her hands were already tied, but the guards held her by the arms as she walked up the steps to the gallows. Not a pro forma hold as with Attwood, an A student who did something stupid; Snelling had not earned any sort of special treatment, and she was being hanged by the city authorities, not the Uni.
Snelling reached the platform, and the guards positioned her in the center of the trap. The serval tried to speak, but no words came out. She cleared her throat and looked at the audience. Her eyes met mine, and she straightened up.
"I just want to say that I'm sorry. I was so sure of myself and my fancy sports car that I ignored not just the laws but good sense. My recklessness...." She choked up again. Then she focused on Narelle Ridge, who was sitting in the center seat, small recompense for her loss but the best we could do for her. "Ma'am, I'm sorrier than words can say for my insane driving. I killed your baby, and there's nothing I can do to make up for it. But I have made a few arrangements that might partly compensate you. And I hope you will get some enjoyment from my hanging."
She fell silent, her eyes looking over the audience. She met my eyes and acknowledged me with a tiny nod. I noticed that she was breathing fast and deep, hyperventilating. Most people who are going to be hanged want to get it over with as fast as possible. Snelling apparently had other ideas.
After a few more seconds she turned her head. 'Hangman, do your duty."
The serval had just enough time to face us again before the trapdoor fell away from under her. She dropped somewhere around a meter and a half, then came to sudden stop, swaying slowly back and forth in the air.
I heard mutterings from behind me.
"A broken neck. What a disappointment!"
The woman next to me muttered something. The part I got was something like, "Dozens of hangings. How could..."
Several people at the back started booing.
Snelling did a quick flutter-kick: left foot, then right, then stop. Apparently she didn't like being booed. About 30 seconds went by, and a few boos, and she did it again. After that, she did one every 15 seconds, which was enough to keep the audience happy.
She kept this up until she'd been hanging for nearly 3 minutes. Then the need for air caught up with her. She started kicking in earnest, feet kicking forward and back, again and again, then out to the sides. She swayed farther and faster, and also started to spin slowly to the right, back to face forward, then to the left. The audience was much happier with this. They cheered and clapped.
Snelling managed a smile in response, but her arms were straining, trying to pull her hands free of the ropes. Her knees bent until they nearly touched her bouncing tits, then thrust downward. I think she might have gotten a tiny sip of air out of that. She did it again. And again and again, until she got tired. Then she dangled there, just small circular movements of her feet, for maybe another minute, while her face slowly turned brick red, then a light magenta.
And then she started rubbing her thighs together. Slowly at first, then faster. And faster still. Her hips thrust forward and again, and she stiffened in that position, a slow smile spreading over her face. A few more hip thrusts, and she went limp. Her face gradually turned pale blue.
The hangman motioned, and a nurse in green scrubs came forward and listened to Snelling's chest. "Not yet," she said.
She tried again a minute later, then said, "She's dead."
Most of the audience got up and started milling around, talking about the hanging, about what an awful thing Snelling had done, and random politics.
Eventually two guards came out and helped the hangman lower Snelling's body into a coffin, closed the lid, and loaded it into a hearse.
There was a follow-up article in the Daily Star a few weeks later: Snelling had put half of her considerable estate into a trust, to be used for Narelle Ridge's health care, including anything relating to her having children. It would cover prenatal and well baby care, artificial insemination, IVF, and/or adoption expenses. Once Ridge had a child, it could also be used for medical care for the child or children, and education up to and including grad school if Ridge's child(ren) could manage it.
Looks like the serval's remorse was genuine.
Some years later I learned that Ridge had borne two children and adopted a third. A reasonably happy ending, I think.