Sgt. Williams sat in the darkened evidence room, the only light coming from a recording playing on one of the precinct’s aging video monitors. He moved his hand over his cock in perfect rhythm with the thrusts of the on-screen perp, watching the victim struggle in terror.
She was so beautiful like that, reduced to nothing.
Later, when he re-interviewed the vic, he avoided her gaze; partly due to the guilt he felt over what he’d watched and enjoyed, but mostly because he couldn’t afford to be seen leaving the interrogation room with an erection. The video, he had come to suspect, was consuming his soul, but he wouldn’t let it have his career. Not with retirement so very close.
Much later, as he sat in his idling car outside her building, his fingers absently toying with a handful of flex-cuffs and a roll of duct tape, he tried to talk himself out of it. He told himself that she wasn’t special, that watching her humiliation hadn’t been a life-changing experience for him, that everything he yearned to do to her was profoundly wrong.
But somehow, he just didn’t find himself very persuasive…