The fluorescent lights of the precinct buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the cluttered desks and faded motivational posters that lined the walls. It was a slow afternoon at the station, the kind where the air conditioner hummed lazily and the scent of stale coffee lingered like an unwelcome guest. As the youngest and only female officers on the force, Shelly and I often found ourselves carving out moments of levity amid the monotony of paperwork and petty complaints. At 21, I was the rookie, still navigating the intricacies of patrol with wide-eyed determination, my slender frame clad in the crisp blue uniform that felt both empowering and constricting. My dark brown hair was pulled into a practical ponytail, framing my pale face and green eyes, which often betrayed my underlying anxiety despite my efforts to project confidence.
Shelly, at 33, was the veteran—my mentor in every sense. She exuded a commanding presence, her curvaceous figure filling out the uniform in a way that demanded respect, her 5-foot-9-inch stature accentuated by broad hips and a full bust that she carried with unapologetic poise. Her brown hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her warm brown eyes sparkled with the wisdom of years on the job. Subtle stretch marks traced her skin from motherhood, and faint cellulite dimpled her thighs, features she embraced as badges of her lived experience. We were an unlikely pair in this male-dominated environment, but our shared status as outliers had forged a bond akin to sisterhood.
Leaning against my desk, Shelly sipped her coffee, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "You know, Hannah, if I had a dollar for every time one of these desk jockeys stared at my ass during roll call, I'd have retired by now." Her voice carried a playful lilt, her full lips curving into a smirk that highlighted the natural flush of her cheeks. I laughed, feeling the tension of the day ease slightly, my own lips parting in a genuine smile.
"You're telling me," I replied, crossing my arms over my modest chest. "Last week, Sergeant Mills couldn't keep his eyes off your cleavage during the briefing. I swear, if looks could undress, you'd be standing here in nothing but your badge." We both chuckled, the sound echoing softly in the near-empty bullpen. Shelly's laughter was rich and throaty, her ample breasts rising and falling with each breath, the fabric of her shirt straining just enough to hint at the lace bra beneath. It was these moments—lighthearted and unfiltered—that made the job bearable, reminding me why I admired her so much. She was not just a colleague; she was the one who had taken me under her wing, teaching me the ropes with a blend of tough love and encouragement.
As we bantered about the latest station gossip—a rookie's botched traffic stop and the chief's infamous doughnut obsession—the radio on Shelly's belt crackled to life. The dispatcher's voice cut through the air, monotone and routine. "Unit 7, we've got a distress call from the old Harlan property out in the wilderness—mile marker 42 off Route 89. Possible domestic or vagrant issue. Caller sounded erratic, but it's likely just another false alarm from those squatters. Handle at your discretion."
Shelly's expression shifted from amusement to focus, her brown eyes narrowing as she keyed the mic. "Copy that, dispatch. I'll head out solo—sounds low priority. ETA twenty minutes." She clipped the radio back, rolling her shoulders with a sigh that accentuated the curve of her neckline. "Great, just what I needed to end the shift. Some hermit yelling about ghosts in the woods again."
"Be careful out there," I said, my voice tinged with genuine concern. The wilderness surrounding our small town was vast and unforgiving—dense forests giving way to rocky hollows where cell service vanished and shadows seemed to swallow the light. Shelly waved it off with a confident grin.
"Ah, kid, I've handled worse than a cranky old coot. You finish up that report and grab some dinner. We'll debrief tomorrow." With a wink, she adjusted her belt, the motion causing her hips to sway subtly as she strode toward the exit. I watched her go, admiring her poise, the way her uniform hugged her full figure without apology. Little did I know, that would be the last casual exchange we'd share.
An hour later, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple. I had clocked out and swung by McDonald's for a quick bite, my patrol car idling in the drive-thru lane. In the passenger seat sat my niece, Lily—eight years old and full of boundless energy—giggling as she dipped fries into her milkshake. Her laughter was infectious, a bright spot in my otherwise demanding day. "Aunt Hannah, do you ever chase bad guys like in the movies?" she asked, her eyes wide with wonder, ketchup smudged on her cheek.
I smiled, ruffling her hair. "Sometimes, but mostly it's helping people and writing tickets. Way less exciting than the films." We shared a fry, her small hand reaching for mine, the warmth of the moment a stark contrast to the encroaching night outside. The radio on my dash remained quiet, a companionable silence broken only by Lily's chatter about school and her latest drawing.
Then it shattered. The radio erupted with static, followed by Shelly's voice—distorted, breathless, laced with uncharacteristic panic. "This is Unit 7—need immediate backup at Harlan property! Multiple assailants... they're... God, hurry!" The transmission cut off abruptly, leaving only crackling silence. My heart plummeted, the fry turning to ash in my mouth. Lily's eyes widened in confusion, but I forced a calm smile. "Sweetie, Aunt Hannah has to go help a friend. Stay here—your mom will pick you up soon."
I radioed my sister en route, explaining the urgency without details, and floored the accelerator toward the wilderness. The drive blurred into a haze of twisting roads and encroaching trees, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Why hadn't dispatch responded? Why was Shelly alone out there? The property loomed ahead—a rundown shack swallowed by overgrowth, its silhouette ominous under the starlit sky.
Pulling up, I activated the patrol lights, red and blue strobes pulsing like a heartbeat across the decrepit facade. The house was deathly silent, no signs of movement, the air thick with the scent of pine and decay. Gun holstered but ready, I approached the front door, flashlight in hand, every step crunching on gravel amplifying my isolation. Then—a muffled grunt, raw and pained, followed by a sharp scream that pierced the night. Shelly.
Adrenaline surged as I kicked the door inward, splintering wood giving way with a crack. "Police! Freeze!" I shouted, gun drawn, flashlight beam slicing through the darkness. The kitchen revealed itself in stark illumination: two figures—scrawny, pale, bald men with mildly deformed features, their faces twisted in asymmetrical grimaces, protruding brows shadowing sunken eyes, and irregular teeth bared in feral snarls—restraining Shelly in an ancient wooden chair. They groaned incoherently, guttural sounds bubbling from their throats like excited animals discovering prey, devoid of language but brimming with primal lust.
Shelly's uniform shirt hung torn open, buttons scattered across the filthy floor like discarded shells, her heavy, sweat-slicked breasts fully exposed—heaving with labored breaths, nipples hardened from the chill and unwanted stimulation, rivulets of perspiration tracing erotic paths down her cleavage and pooling in the valley between. Her skin glistened under the beam, faint red welts blooming where mouths had latched, her curvaceous form bound tightly to the chair, wrists chafed raw from an hour of desperate struggle.
One assailant—his pallid, emaciated frame hunched grotesquely—suckled at her left breast with savage intensity, his malformed lips engulfing her nipple, pulling and tugging with wet, slurping sounds that echoed obscenely in the room. Saliva dribbled down her chest, mixing with sweat, as he groaned in ecstasy, his free hand kneading her flesh roughly, squeezing until milk-like beads formed at the tip, induced perhaps by the terror or prior torments. The other held her arms pinned behind the chair, his grip unyielding, hips grinding subtly against her back, his arousal evident through threadbare pants, adding a layer of impending violation to the restraint.
Shelly's eyes met mine—wide with shock, her body slumped in exhaustion, sweat matting her brown hair, unable to utter a word, her full lips parted in silent plea. The assailant behind her released her abruptly, charging at me with inhuman speed, his deformed face contorted in rage. I screamed, the sound raw and primal, and fired—two shots to the chest, dropping him in a convulsing heap, blood pooling dark and viscous on the floor.
The suckling one detached with a wet pop, his mouth smeared with her essence, and scurried into the shadows like a startled rodent, vanishing through a side door. Panting, I approached Shelly, noting the ropes binding her, the exhaustion etched in her trembling limbs—she had fought for an hour, her strength sapped, leaving her mute and shattered in the aftermath of the depraved assault.