Caged Sisters

Chapter One Angela sat on the sofa watching television with an empty ice cream carton between her thighs and tears running down her cheeks. Only six months earlier, Angela had been a sophomore in college. She had been in her dorm room, studying late on a cold winter night. When the phone rang, she had been expecting a call from her boy friend, Brad, making salacious suggestions that would send her to bed giggling and more than a little aroused. The call might have been from Terry, her younger sister. Terry had been moody lately, still mooning over some adolescent Lothario who had abandoned her when she refused to let him have his way with her. The sisters had always been close, and missed each other more than either would admit. Terry had been calling often; needing Angela’s hard headed practicality to temper her romantic giddiness. She didn’t recognize the man’s voice. “Angela?” “Yes.” She turned the radio down to hear him better. “This is Mr. Thatcher, your parents’ neighbor.” “He is arranging a surprise party,” was her first thought, “their twenty fifth anniversary is at the end of the month.” “There has been an accident,” he said. As he stammered out the tragic news, Angela felt her world coming apart around her. Her parents’ car had slipped on the ice and drifted into the path of a tractor-trailer. Her father had died instantly, her mother on the way to the hospital. She had packed hastily and hugged her roommate goodbye. They made empty promises to stay in touch. She called Brad, and he made equally empty promises to be there for her. She drove all night, dry eyed, still unable to believe the truth until she reached the house and opened the door. It was the sight of Terry, sobbing in Dad’s favorite chair, which finally made it real. During the dreary business of settling the estate, Angela discovered that her father had cashed in his life insurance and taken out a second mortgage to pay for her college education. Funeral expenses consumed her tuition fund. She had faced it all bravely at the time, dropping out of school, finding work, and trying to help Terry cope with their loss. Terry and Angela were very different in temperament and appearance. Angela had been the brave tomboy, the tree climber, a girl who would rather play football in the rain than dance. She was dark haired and long of limb with a quick mind and a sharp tongue. Terry was petite and feminine. A pretty blond who enjoyed male attention. Even before their parents’ death, Angela had taken it upon herself to protect her sister, defending her against playground bullies when they were children and predatory adolescents in their teens. So it was only natural that Angela assumed her late mother’s role in the household, counting pennies, holding on, and worrying. Terry behaved like a rebellious child, sleeping late, avoiding housework, and whining. In spite of Angela’s best efforts, their troubles only seemed to multiply. Unable to keep up the mortgage payments, she had been forced to sell the house, and the equity had been barely enough to pay their moving expenses when Angela received an unexpected job offer in another state. Terry had tried to do her part, finding work in a fast food place, and hiding her dismay at being forced to exchange her comfortable middle class existence, her high school, and all her friends for an uncertain future of hard work and poverty. The burden had festered in her heart, of course, the unfairness of it all, and Angela had often become the target of her resentment. On top of all that, Angela was unemployed again. The position that had excited her only a month earlier, personal assistant to the Springdale County Planner, had quickly deteriorated into the job from hell. It hadn’t taken her long to discover that the local government was corrupt to the core. When it came to anything from zoning permits to construction contracts, cronyism and graft had counted more than fairness or merit. It had been all that she could do to keep her mouth shut as she watched those around her swindle the taxpayers with a handshake and a wink. She had reproached herself for cowardice, even as she reminded herself that discretion was the better part of valor. She could tough it out, she told herself. Then the s****l harassment began. At first, it had seemed no more than innocent flirtation when Mr. Rawlings (call me Peejay!) put a hand on her shoulder to congratulate her for work well done, or held her gaze a bit too long while her gave her directions. At first, she actually found herself attracted to his country charm and roaring self-confidence. Then she became uncomfortably aware that his otherwise handsome face was twisted somehow, like the face of a schoolyard bully who has never been forced to account. His stock dropped dramatically when she found out that his second wife was the same age as his daughter. Ignoring his advances had only encouraged him. Soon, he was patting her rear and hinting that she could enjoy a bright future if she “loosened up a little”. This morning she had gone to his office steeled to confront him. She had been diplomatic, she thought, starting out by telling him how much she enjoyed her work and expressing hope that there didn’t have to be a problem here. (A gentle way of reminding him that she did have every right to bring suit.) She was careful of his fragile ego as she broke the news that anything beyond a good working relationship was neither prudent nor desired. She had hoped that he would be a big enough man to take her rejection as lightly as she gave it, but one look at his reddening face told her that she had made a terrible mistake. Watching his face during that moment of awful silence, she became aware of a sort of tic pulling at the corner of his mouth, like an angry grin. She knew a moment of fear, not just for her job, but for her physical safety. Yet under his wrath, the lust remained, transformed into something cold and dangerous. “Get out,” he said softly. His carefully controlled tone more frightening than a shout. She had fled then, back to her cubicle where she hastily typed a probably unnecessary letter of resignation and packed her few personal belongings into a paper sack while the letter was printing out. On her way out the door, she dropped a snow globe paperweight that had been a gift from her parents. It shattered on the floor. She moved to set her bag down and clean up the mess, dismissing the grief that threatened to overwhelm her as she contemplated the ruined memento. Then she remembered that she no longer worked there and stepped over the mess on her way out the door. So Terry’s eighteenth birthday party that evening had been a joyless affair. Angela decided not to mention that she was out of a job. Bad news could wait. She had been grimly determined to make the party festive, though the balloons and streamers that she splurged on only seemed to highlight the empty shabbiness of their small apartment. Angela’s voice had cracked when she sang “Happy Birthday” and brought out the cake. There was no need for her to ask Terry what she was wishing for when she blew out the candles. They both wanted the same miracle. Angela couldn’t even remember what had sparked her argument with Terry. (Odd that she should forget, she usually had a perfect recall for details. Certainly Mr. Rawlings’ hateful grimace stubbornly persisted in her memory.) She knew the root cause, of course. It was their mutual fear that they would be unable to hold on to the remnants of their life together. She remembered how the argument ended, though, with her calling Terry a ‘willful child’ and Terry calling her a ‘controlling b***h’ before slamming out. Hours later, Angela waited for the sound of the car in the drive, thinking that she no longer had any legal hold on Terry and hoping that affection and regret would be enough to bring her back. “Don’t be so hard on her,” she chided herself. “She just lost her parents.” And the voice of self-pity answered. “So have you.” As canned laughter brayed from the television screen, Angela wiped the dregs from the ice cream carton with her thumb and sucked it clean. She knew that she should get undressed and turn in, exhaustion only fed despair, and tomorrow she had to put on her best face and look for another job. She compromised by kicking off her shoes and peeling off her socks before settling into the cushions. She could wait a little longer. Terry would want something to eat when she came in. The pounding on the door woke her. Angela leaped to her feet, momentarily disoriented. “Terry,” she thought. “She’s locked herself out.” As she padded quickly to the door, words of apology and forgiveness were rising to her lips, but when she opened the door and saw two policemen, her hand flew to her mouth to hush those words. “What’s happened?” she stammered instead, remembering the way Terry burned rubber when she left. “May we come in and talk to you a moment, Ma’am?” She opened the door. “It’s Terry, isn’t it? Something has happened to her!” “Policemen are always so polite,” she thought, “so inscrutable.” The policemen pushed past her. She caught a whiff of alcohol as they crowded into the foyer. She was fairly sure that it wasn’t the smell of after-shave. “Angela Bennet?” said the older one. They both towered over her, too close. “I should put on my shoes and socks,” she thought. “I might have to go to the hospital.” In truth, she wanted her shoes because they would make her feel less vulnerable. The older cop was staring down at her with an interest that seemed more than professional. He flashed a document in front of her face. “We have a warrant to search these premises.” He nodded to his companion, who moved farther into the house. Confused, Angela turned to go with him, but the older cop took her arm. “Please stay here with me, Ma’am.” She wheeled on him. “I have to know! Has something happened to Terry?” “She has been arrested, Ma’am.” His hand remained on her arm, squeezing it a little, as though to warn her or perhaps just to enjoy the feel of her trapped flesh. He had been drinking. She was sure of it now. Looking up, she saw the alcohol flush on his face, reddening the jowls around his bristling white moustache. She had to look away from the dark things she saw in his bloodshot eyes. Looking down was no better. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable. He had an erection. “What? How? What has she done?” “Cocaine possession, Ma’am.” She didn’t like the way he said, “Ma’am”. His dialect seemed to give it an ironic twist. She was reminded of the way senators refer to the “gentlemen” on the other side of the aisle. As though on cue, the other cop reappeared, coming down the hallway with a plastic bag filled with white powder in his hand. “Look’s like we got something here. I found it under the mattress in the back bedroom.” The way he said it, avoiding her eyes, as though embarrassed by the situation, made it seem as though he were reading from a script. “That can’t be!” said Angela. “That’s my room, I would never…” she stopped then, seeing the way both policemen were looking at her, like hunters watching a trap about to spring. For a moment, she had been half convinced that Terry’s arrest might be legitimate, though she had never known her sister to use drugs of any kind. Terry’s new attitude of rebellion was that unpredictable. There was no way, however, that she would be foolish enough to hide her stash under big sister’s bed. “You have the right to remain silent,” she thought. “So shut the f**k up!” “I would like to call a lawyer,” she said. The older cop snapped open a leather pouch on his belt and produced a pair of jangling cuffs. “Turn around, please.” His professional veneer failed to disguise the fact that he relished the idea of snapping those cuffs on her slender wrists. “There is no need for that,” she murmured. “Just let me get my shoes and I will go with you.” She was already trying to grapple with the situation. She would need to get a lawyer and arrange bail. How could she possibly pay for it? His response was swift and unexpected. She cried out as her arm was twisted up between her shoulder blades and her face was slammed against the wall. “I think this one is resisting arrest, Lonnie,” he said conversationally, as he snapped the manacle around one wrist and pulled her other arm into the waiting open cuff. Lonnie- she would remember the name. She had already memorized the other one’s badge number. She consoled herself with plans for lawsuits. Lonnie knelt behind her, and she felt a similar pair of cuffs clicking shut around her bare ankles. “You don’t need shoes, darlin’,” she heard the older man chuckle. “This is a come as you are party.” For the first time, she was really afraid. She could sense the men behind her, feasting on the sight of her helplessness. There was a moment when she heard nothing from behind her except their heavy breathing and the distant murmur of the television. She had fallen asleep without turning it off. A late night talk show was on. Raucous laughter followed some smutty remark from the host. “They are admiring my ass,” she thought. Brad had always called it a “world class ass”. Brad, the sweet and useless, her fair weather lover who disappeared soon after her parents’ accident when she needed him most. If she called him now, would he even remember her name? “Turn that fuckin’ thing off,” said the older cop. His hand was firm on the back of her neck, pinning her to the wall. She heard footsteps across the room. The television became silent. “Guess we better make sure she doesn’t have any weapons,” said the older cop. She felt his cold hand slipping under her tee shirt. “No bra,” he chuckled. Her working uniform, the gray dress that she had selected from her closet this morning before her fateful confrontation with Mr. Rawlings, was still a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor, along with the confining armor of her bra. She had been desperate for a shower when she came home, wanting to wash away the memory of her day before preparing for the birthday fiasco. There had been no need to dress for the occasion with only the two of them there. A tee shirt and jeans sufficed. Now, as his icy palm cupped her breasts and his thumb and forefinger worked her n*****s painfully, she had reason to regret that choice. She bit back the sharp retorts that rose to her lips, sensing that it would not be wise to provoke these men, not while she was their bound prisoner. She promised herself that she would make their lives hell when this whole sordid business was over. He ground his pelvis against her backside as he mauled her breasts. She could feel his erection, hot and huge, lodging itself between her cheeks. Her n*****s began to erect. “Damn them!” How long had it been since she felt the touch of a man? Brad, of course, but that had been months ago. She was a healthy young woman. Even this hateful pawing was arousing. His hand drifted down across her soft belly, teasing her navel briefly before she felt him working on the button of her jeans. She squirmed, twisting her hips away, but the hand on her nape tightened to enforce her cooperation. She whined as she heard her zipper come down. His knowing hand burrowed under her panties, sliding along her fleece to find the soft folds between her legs. He kicked her ankle as she attempted to cross her legs. “Get ‘em apart!” he snarled. Breathing angrily through her nose, she opened her knees. A kick to her other ankle, harder this time, forced her legs wider until the chain between them was taut. She was up on her toes now, the hand on her pelvis partially supporting her. Fingers worked her, finding the hard button of her clit before exploring deeper. “Gettin’ wet for us, honey?” A finger found her opening and plunged deep. Angela bit back her cry, refusing him the satisfaction of knowing that he was hurting her. Another finger stabbed into her, twisting. “Remember what the Captain said, Sarge,” Lonnie admonished softly. The fingers worked her with renewed vigor for a moment, as though to defy the warning, plunging in and out like a c**k. “f**k the Captain!” the Sergeant growled, but the hand withdrew. Angela was heartened by this development. Apparently the Sergeant had molested other prisoners often enough to earn a reprimand. If she had five minutes to talk with his superiors, she might be able to use this information to gain a bit of leverage. Perhaps she could get these bogus charges dismissed. Outside, frost was settling on the ground, cold on her bare feet. It hardly mattered. Each officer held an elbow, propelling her along so powerfully that her shackled feet touched the ground only occasionally. Their car was parked in the driveway, well off the road with its lights off. She wasn’t encouraged by this sign that the officers didn’t want to advertise their presence. At this hour, her neighbors’ houses were dark. “No one will know where I have gone!” she thought. When she saw the big, gold star on the prowl car door, she understood the real explanation for her arrest. They were Sheriffs deputies, county employees. She had no doubt that the “Good Old Boy” network that infected the county government had spread to the police as well. Mr. Rawlings almost certainly had a hand in this set up. “Watch your head, please.” the younger cop said. He put a hand on Angela’s head to keep her from banging it as he put her in the back seat. She looked at him, caught his eye, and realized two things that she had overlooked until now. He was very young, a rookie probably, still young enough to believe in justice and human dignity perhaps. The second thing she realized was that he was frightened too. “Help me!” she whispered urgently, as he leaned across her to fasten her seat belt. “I’m being set up. I think you know that already. Don’t let them get away with this!” He drew the belt tight, forcing the handcuffs to dig painfully into her spine. His lips were grim. Glancing down, she saw that her fly was still open and her white panties were on display. The older cop got behind the wheel and threw a glance over his shoulder. “How we doin’ back there?” The young cop ran a finger down the line of her jaw and looked into Angela’s eyes with an expression she could only read as regret. “Just fine, Sarge,” he said. Then his eyes turned suddenly cold and his hand dropped to her n****e, twisting it hard enough to make her yelp. She saw the bright amusement in the older cop’s eyes reflected in the rear view mirror. “We’re doing just fine,” Lonnie rasped. He slammed her door and got in on the shotgun side. He picked up the radio. “Unit five,” he said, “prisoner secure. We’re en route.” “Ten four”, the radio crackled. “I believe that you gentlemen know a Mr. Rawlings?” Angela said evenly, as the prowl car moved into the street. “Peejay Rawlings? He is behind this, isn’t he?” There was silence from the front seat. She only saw the backs of their heads through the wire mesh. It was impossible for her to know the effect of her words. “What’s in it for you, though?” she mused aloud, raising her voice so that she would be harder to ignore. “What did Peejay offer you to help him railroad a couple of innocent women? Was it money or promotions, maybe s*x?” Her teeth clicked shut on the last word. s*x was a part of it, of course. The older cop had made that clear from the start. Mere confinement could be the least of her worries. She had seen enough of the county political machine to know that the most depraved conspiracy imaginable could be assembled quickly by a few well connected men. It was an easy matter of collecting on a few favors and filling out the right paperwork. Angela and Terry could simply vanish into the system. What better use could evil men make of two attractive girls who had become unpersons? “Am I under arrest?” she almost shouted. “I don’t hear anyone reading me my rights!” “You have the right to remain silent,” drawled the older cop. “If you want to stay on my good side, that’s just what you will do.” She wanted to scream and spit at him. She wanted to kick the mesh between them with her bare soles. Then she considered her situation and realized that she was quite literally in no position to argue. The Sergeant reached under his seat and came up with a flask. He put it between his knees to hold it as he steered and unscrewed the cap. Angela didn’t think that he was the sort of man who would listen to reasonable arguments. He would be more likely to make a detour on the way to the station, down some dark side road where they could have a little private time together. “What’s the best part of a woman, Lonnie?” Lonnie looked over at his partner. “Is this a riddle, Sarge?” “No! I mean what’s your favorite part? The legs, mouth, eyes? Some guys really like feet. They’re like, ya’ know, fetishists.” “OH!” Lonnie considered a moment then put his hands out as though inspecting oranges. “I guess I like…” The Sarge laughed. “He’s a tit man! You like to suck on them big mamma jammas?” He took another pull on his flask and said, “Me, I like a nice tight ass any time. Ever had a gal that way?” Lonnie threw a glance backward as though Angela’s presence embarrassed him. “Ah, no, Sarge. I can’t say that I have.” The Sarge laughed low and dirty. “Man! Ain’t nothin’ like comin’ in the old back door. Let me tell you! You do the gal doggie style so that you can look down there and watch it slidin’ in and out, just grab her pigtails and ride! You do it like that, you’ll never want it any other way.” “Giddattahere!” Lonnie was incredulous and intrigued. Angela could hear it in his voice. She could also tell that the Sergeant’s profane commentary was really meant for her ears. “It’s true,” the Sarge protested as Lonnie shook his head. “Oh, some gals make a fuss and pretend they don’t like it at first, but they do all right once you break them in. They all come to love it…” He turned his head and looked at Angela. “…Sooner or later.”