Flo'S DEVILS: THE ENLIGHTENMENT BEGINS
By BOS cashley216@woh.rr.com
	


Flo awoke angry, as she had every morning for the past two months.She tore the
covers off her long, angular body, flung her naked legs onto the soft carpet
and practically stalked to the washroom.

What was bugging her was Charlie, the guy she worked with. "That stuck up son
of a bitch," she said to her image in her six-foot mirror. "Just who the fuck
does he think he is anyway, Sylvester Stallone? Shit! I'd like to see him in
some tough scene. What the Hell could he do, hit some guy with his pot belly?"

Then she examined her image in the mirror. "I mean, I know I'm not about to
frighten anybody away." She made a muscle, examining her bicep in the mirror.
The bicep was real enough, maybe as big as a lot of guys as thin as her, but
not, as she noted, very awesome.

"But, dammit, that's a good bod! Not an ounce of fat on it. It's quick and
tough, and I'd match it against that out-of-shape turd any time."

She examined her body from every angle, and she continued to be impressed. As
she went into the other room to dress, she continued to address the empty
apartment. "I mean why does he suppose a chick becomes a cop, anyway? Because
she wants to let some hunk protect her while she screams or powders her nose?"

Her anger increased as she searched out a pair of pantyhose. "Always gotta
look the lady," she said cynically. "Shit, I'd like to wrap a pair of these
around that turkey's neck and make it even redder than it is." She pondered
the image. Then she continued her previous train of thought. "You become a cop
because you're out for some action, because you know damn well you can take
care of yourself and because you want to put that ability to use, not just sit
at a desk or in the passenger seat of a car and watch the world pass by."

Her anger continued to grow as she drove to work and continued to mutter. "I
mean, it's not as if I haven't proved what I can do." She thought back to the
time she had gone undercover as a prostitute. The case concerned a group of
religious fanatics who were out to rid the

earth of prostitutes any way they could, even if that meant getting them in
their rooms and murdering them with their bare hands. The cynic in Flo
suspected these creeps were getting their kicks in the process. So she was
more than eager to take on the assignment.

If a guy turned out to be just a john, she was supposed to book him for that.
As she stood there on the street, one of her long legs sticking out through a
slit in her skirt, chewing her gum in her best hooker imitation, she knew that
it was her job to see to it that every guy who succumbed to her charms and
followed her bouncing ass up the stairs spent the night behind bars for one
reason or the other. Because there were so many women cops engaged in the same
activity at the same time, none of them could be supported by a team of male
cops. To do so would have required putting too many of the men on one case,
whereas there were many women cops to go around because -- she noted -- they
weren't doing anything important anyway.

Flo was connected to the other cops -- who were cruising the prostitution area
-- by radio only. Because her get-up was so tight and revealing and -- if the
truth be known -- because Flo always thought she had to prove something, she
used no weapon in her work. "You can out drive them and out shoot them and out
bust them," she had said, "But the bottom line is good old fashioned fighting.
If the sonsabitches don't think you can do that, they'll never accept you as
an equal." So she had jumped at the first opportunity to show them.

Flo had nothing against the regular johns. She dug men, enjoyed a good day in
the hay so much that she said she could understand why prostitutes do what
they do. So she had no great interest in putting a guy behind bars unless he
gave her a hard time. So she was not happy when her first apparent customer
turned out to be a man in a navy uniform. She doubted he was one of the nuts
she was after.

She tried to talk him out of buying her company, but he came on very strong.
"Come on, stretch," he said, "why don't you and me get it on. I wanna see how
many time those big gams of yours can wind around me." She enjoyed the image
he painted, but she tried to beg off, saying she

was busy. He took offense and got a bit nastier. She didn't want to say she
was a cop, for fear of ruining her cover. But then she found she was thinking
that for her to, without assistance or arms, bust such a big, husky young guy
as this might be a major feather in her cap. She resisted that temptation.
Soon, though, he had his arms around her and he began to kiss her on the neck.

"Better back of, buster," she said without emotion. He didn't. So she put her
hands on his chest and her bare knee behind one of his and pushed. He fell on
his ass, staring up at her, stunned. "I said no," she said, then turned and
moved away down the street. But the sight

of her tight, impudent ass angered him, and he came after her. When she
recognized his hand on her bare shoulder, she stopped short and shot an elbow
into his gut. Then, worried about attracting attention if they seemed to be
fighting, she grabbed him around the waist in what appeared

to be an affectionate gesture. However, she had one of his arms behind his
back secured, the other captured under her other own spidery arm, and two of
her knuckles digging hard into his back. He was stopped. And she, seeming to
the street people as if she were a hooker being nice to

a john, was whispering in his ear, "Your nice and cute, sailor boy, and
another time I might want to take a big ride on you. But I'm a cop, and right
now I've got some bad guys to catch." She waited as it sank in, still holding
him, in control.

But he kept fighting, his macho pride aroused. So she guided him into a dark
alley and increased the pressure of her knuckles. Slowly he sagged -- back,
pride and all -- and his back came into contact with the pavement. She got up
and said, as he was staring up at her spread thighs, "Now be good, hon, or
Flo'll have to take you in, and I don't think you want to be seen in my little
old hammerlock." She left him there rubbing his back, staring after her as she
gave him a sexy twitch of her hips that was worthy of her television namesake,
Flo the waitress.

Now, driving to work, she thought, "Shit! The guys at work never even saw that
one. I should've brought him in. Then Charlie would have to be impressed. Oh,
shit, he'd just think the guy was drunk or something. But I'd just bet that
cute gob could handle Charlie with one hand." The thought that she had subdued
somebody who would probably be too much for her insufferable chauvinistic
partner pleased her very much, lighting up her face with a grin that other
passing motorists must have noticed. She didn't care. She just sat there
enjoying the thought.

None of the other guys she had come up against on that assignment were
anywhere near as imposing as the gob. As soon as she got back to her stand,
for example, she felt a hand on her ass. She turned around but did not even
see anybody at first. Then she peered down. There

stood a creepy, dirty, odorous, short man with a leer she thought more
appropriate for Suzanne Sommers than for her. "How 'bout it, legs?" he said.
Her first instinct was to break his hand, but she confined herself to saying,
"I think I might be a bit too much for you, tiger. Why don't you find a nice
dwarf." He said, "I want you. I dig big ones. I cut 'em down to size." He had
said the magic words. This was just the attitude Flo hated most: not just the
contempt for women as anything but sex objects, but the weird egotism that
kept a guy from seeing that

size is as much of an advantage for a women in a tussle as for a man. The idea
that this twerp might think he might dominate her was to Flo preposterous and
enraging. She now wanted to get him upstairs. She turned and started up the
stairs, knowing his eyes were watching every move of her hips. As she went up
she thought, "If I beat the crap out of this twerp, I'd better not bust him or
he might scream about cop brutality. If he's not the nut, I better just have
him keep on thinking forever that I'm a hooker." But there was no way she was
going to have sex with him. No way!

When they were in her room, he came on strong, saying, "I'm gonna show you
what a real man is, baby. When I get through with you, you won't be making any
cracks about a guy being too short for you. I'm gonna stick it in every
opening you got, and I might invent some. And I'm gonna hear you beg and cry
and pant like a she wolf in heat. We're gonna see who's too much for who."

Now she was getting into this. She was convinced she might do more to change
this guy for the better by herself in one night than the courts in years. He
said, "I wanna get started, baby," coming at her with his mouth in a sneer and
his arms outstretched. She straight-armed him. Caught him smack in the
forehead and decked him. She grinned at him as he sat stunned. She turned her
back on him and sashayed into the kitchen to put on some coffee. She said to
him, "When do we start, garbage breath?"

He said, "You asked for it, you bitch," and came toward her. Again, he failed
to reach her. She caught him in the groin with her bare foot. She was
succeeding in teaching him the advantages height gives a gal. As he was
twisting and swearing on the floor, she bent over and picked him up by the
back of his pants. "You may prefer 'em big, my ugly little friend," she said,
"but I don't prefer 'em filthy." With that, she carried him into the bathroom,
threw him under the shower, turned on the water and exited, shutting the
bathroom door behind her, locked. When he started pounding on the door and
cursing, she opened it and he came out swinging, charging after her. She
ducked out of his way, grabbed him around the waist, picked him up and toted
the kicking man back into the washroom -- making a point of carrying him at
arm's length, so as to avoid the stench -- where she forced his head under the
faucet of the sink, saying, "There. That ought to take at least some of the
stink away." Then she took a towel and rubbed it on his hair, drying it.

Then she proceeded to beat the crap out of the chauvinistic man, showing him
she was stronger, faster, smarter, tougher and just much too much for him. She
dizzied him, pounded him, tortured him, humiliated him, overpowered him. It
was hard to stop. But, as she sat with her legs wrapped around his stomach as
she flipped through magazines, he was begging her. She made him kiss her ass
and her hand and her feet, and she literally kicked him out, saying, "If I
ever see you on the streets again hassling a chick, I may do this to you right
there and show everybody what a machoman you are."

"Damn!" Flo thought as she drove on to work, "another one of my better
episodes and nobody knows about it. Maybe that's what's wrong. Maybe I better
make sure that Charlie knows what I can do.".

As she thought about her more active days and compared them to the back seat
she was now taking to Charlie, her anger seethed more and more. She was so
pissed she hardly had the patience for driving through traffic, and she caused
two near accidents. She thought about the times the man had her wait in the
car. And run errands. And type reports. Her mind was seething now with
memories of past fights with men and boys. Successful fights.

One was the time she was 15 when she got in the boxing ring with the
neighborhood champ, Slugger Malone. She was so flat chested and thin that it
was easy to disguise her as a boy, what with the headgear both she and her
opponent wore. A few girls watching knew who she was -- the ex-girl friend of
a guy her opponent had just annihilated. She was out to show her ex what she
could do. It seems that he had taken offense at her suggestions at ringside on
how he might do better. "If you're so smart," he said to his tomboy friend,
"why don't you fight him?" Unbeknownst to her boy friend, she had decided to
do just that. She hated Slugger anyway, thought he was an obnoxious braggart.

The boys at ringside for the fight thought she was simply a new guy in the
neighborhood. As the first round began, her shorter-but-heavier opponent began
to crowd her. She backstepped -- eager to keep the distance between them,
because she had the better reach. Even as she moved back, though, she scored
on him, jarring him with shots to the head. His head was her best target
because he fought in a crouch. And she could hit it often. Her blows, she
knew, were not devastating; but enough of them would hurt him. At the same
time, most of his punches were to her body because he was in the Joe
Frazier-type crouch. If she stood up straight, there was no way for him to hit
her head. And she figured she could take the body punches forever, more so if
they afforded her the opportunity to hit his head. Whap! Whap! Again and
again, the shifty, speedy, backstepping chick found his face. At first he
didn't worry about it, because he prided himself on his proven knack for
taking a punch. But in the second round, it seemed to the viewers that she was
scoring just about at her ease. What's more, the second-round effects that he
expected to see on her from his body punches just weren't there. She was as
energetic and as quick-footed as ever, perhaps even better than in the first
round, now that she was warmed up and in the swing of things. Whap, whap,
whap, a left-right-left combination, each blow carrying tne same moderate
power. Flo thought she saw an eye getting puffy. The sight excited her. "Gee,
how about that," she thought, "bony me beating up the neighborhood tough guy."
Her punches became sharper as his reactions became poorer; her feet moved
faster as she got the hang of this. Between the second and third rounds, the
boy's corner worked on his eyes and informed him he'd have to start taking
fewer hits and scoring some to his opponent's head. But he just knew how to
fight from a

crouch. In the third round, Slugger found he was instinctively going into the
crouch after being caught on the head every time he stuck it up. He would also
get caught in the process of going into and out of it. He was best off just to
stay in it, his natural position, he soon realized. In the second minute of
round three, Flo saw red coming from the boy's eye. The sight excited her,
confirmed her conviction that she was beating him bad. She knew it had to have
the same effect on the judgment of the spectators, because everybody saw she
was unscarred. But she harnessed her excitement, maintained the same system,
the same pace, the pure, methodical pursuit of the boy's head. Whap, that
sharp, accurate southpaw. Whap, whap, whap, whap, whap, whap. Two consecutive
left-right-left combinations from a flat-footed stance in the center of the
ring. For the first time in the fight, one of the boxers staggered, and, as
Flo put it to herself, it wasn't the girl. Still, she didn't change anything
in her attack in an attempt to finish him off soon. Just kept pounding her
punches, dozens of shots to the boy's head. He was now just on the defensive,
his arms over his face, his body bent. The girl was upright, cool, relaxed,
unscathed, in total control. The various guys watching were wondering why the
distaff spectators now were just about frantic in their cheering for the hew
kid. The boy in the ring with her was staggering now, trying to throw an
occasional punch just so the referee might not stop the fight on a TKO. But
every such attempt was just another opportunity for his fresh-as-a-daisy
opponent to score again, perhaps with two punches to his puffy, oozing, dizzy
head. Soon she had him in the corner -- where he had been trying to get her
for three rounds -- and was pounding away to her heart's content at the
defensive and just-about-defenseless form before her. Whap. Whap. Whap. In
every combination now, incessantly, the punches came at the boy, some
connecting, some not; it didn't matter, because he wasn't fighting back now.
He was slumping to his knees before her, his arms thrown instinctively around
her legs, his head resting in her crotch. But he was saved by the bell.

When, at the gong for the fourth round, Slugger literally, and in a gesture of
respect for his opponent, threw in the towel, indicating he could not fight
anymore, that he was whipped by the better fighter, and Flo stood to the wild
cheers of the girl spectators and tore off her headgear and her T shirt,
revealing her identity and gender unmistakably to one and all, including the
shaken Slugger, it was the proudest, happiest, most exciting moment of the
young girl's life.

Remembering the experience in the car, Flo said to herself, "Shit, you put
tubby Charlie against a young stud like Slugger and he couldn't last a round.
And here he is ordering me to wait in the car!" At this point, Flo's anger had
grown and grown to such a point that she couldn't

keep it in. She put out an ear-piercing, prolonged shout. 'Sh-i-i-i-t-tt!"
Though it got everybody staring at her, it did not help. She remained beside
herself with anger at Charlie -- and at herself for putting up with him. And
now her throat hurt.

When she arrived at work, the other female cops in the dressing room saw what
a state she was in. "What's eatin' you?" asked Amber, as some of them sat down
for the daily morning coffee chat. "Or is it that no one's been doin' it?"
"Very funny." responded Flo. "Oh, it's just that turkey, Gimroy. I swear that
sonofabitch doesn't think there's a chick on earth who might defend herself
against a chipmunk. I've been sittin' on my ass so much I'm startin' to feel
like a hooker." Some of the women expressed sympathy with her; they said they
knew just what she meant and were experiencing the same thing in their own men
partners. Said Amber, "Yeah, they put you through the academy, give you the
same training as the guys -- even bare down on you extra hard 'cause you're a
chick -- then, when you prove you can take it, they treat you as if you're
some sort of China doll."

Said Flo, "well, I've had it. Finito. That's it. No more. As of today."

The other girls stared at her and at each other in confusion as to just what
she was saying. Amber said, "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna beat the shit out of that crud."

"What?!"

"You heard me. I'm gonna get the sonofabitch alone and inform him I want to
fight -- just him and me, one-on-one, today. Then I'm gonna beat on his sorry
ass till he gives up and begs me for my female mercy. I know I can do it. You
know I can do it. Shit, I've beaten tougher guys than him all my life. That's
what steams me so. Why should I have to take his shit?"

Said Beth, "Isn't that a bit drastic. It might cause trouble."

"Not for me," Flo said. "Who's he gonna inform about it? I can just see him
running to his cronies or the captain and rubbing his eye and saying, ‘Flo
beat me up.'"

The other women cops laughed. But one who had been silent -- Andrea, called
Andy by the others, a dark-haired gal with a long, long ponytail and just the
barest hint of a Mexican accent -- said, "I been thinking the same kind of
thoughts. Maybe we ought to coordinate this a bit." Asked what she meant, she
said, "It's better not to take a piecemeal approach to this. I mean just about
every guy here has the same macho attitude as Gimroy. I mean, why do you think
they became cops. Every one of 'em is out to prove what a man he is and that
his kind of man is what the world needs more of. If we just enlighten them one
at a time, it might take years to get our rights."

The women agreed, and they began throwing around ideas for what they soon came
to refer to as The Enlightenment. It was decided to keep it private, in case
the women be accused of embarrassing the Department, thus jeopardizing their
careers. In fact, it was decided the ones undertaking the Enlightenment would
be well advised to remain anonymous even within the Department. Even further,
it was decided that no man cop should know just which women cop was
enlightening him, or even that she was a cop, or that similar Enlightenments
were happening to other men cops. He need only know that it was a woman. He
could assume it was one of the woman cops.

"Wait a minute," said Flo. "I want Gimroy to know it's me beatin' the living
daylight out of him. Hell, that's what I've been dreamin' about for weeks."

"Wouldn't it be better if he changed his attitude without you and him ever
having to have it out?" asked the more diplomatic Amber. "Like, say, if one of
the rest of us -- in a disguise so as not to get in trouble -- socked it to
him? He'd be every bit as Enlightened, and there'd be no bad blood between you
and him even if he found out who did it.

"Oh, no," said Flo. "No. No. No! No! He's mine! I want his ass bad!"

"Wait," said Andrea. "How about if you just make him confused about who's
doin' him? That way, if you want to later -- if there's no improvement in his
attitude -- you can always let him know it was you."

Flo thought for a minute and said, "How the Hell am I supposed to do that?
You're looking at six feet of chick here. I'm not gonna be easy to disguise."

The girls, by now excited and caught up by their intentions, put their heads
together and came up with the following plan:

The first Enlightenment was to occur that evening, performed by Flo upon one
Charles Gimroy. It was to be at the man's house after dark. It was to be done
in very, very soft light. The distaff cops were to find a way to make a fuse
blow in Charlie's place, whereupon Flo would appear through his picture window
from his yard. She would be lit from behind -- where there were to be unseen
girl cops taking moving pictures of the evening's events with the Department's
"borrowed" see-in-the-dark cameras. He would make out a figure, see perfectly
clearly that it was a big, buxom woman. That would would be padding put in to
throw him off the identity of his guest.

"I guess I just better hope that he doesn't get to feel me up; and that the
lights don't go on," Flo said.

She'd be wearing a bikini bottom and would have a bare midriff. Besides a top
covering her shoulders and boobs, she'd have nothing else, except a mysterious
feminine mask over her eyes. She'd have streaming light hair (another
disguise) and a limp. That would also be a disguise. She would make sure that
he'd see her walking briskly that day at work and again the next day. He would
not be able to make out her facial characteristics unless he got very near in
just the right light; whether or not he would be able to do that was up to
Flo.

As things progressed, Charlie would no doubt consider the possibility that his
uninvited guest was his feminine partner; but if things worked out, he would
at least by confused.

That night, staring at the feminine -- indeed very, very sexy -- mysterious
figure in his window, the confused man asked her who she was and what she
wanted. She did not respond to his stream of questions, preferring not to let
him hear her voice.

Because she wanted him to consider the possibility that the motive for her
appearance was robbery, she, without a word, went straight to his dresser and
began rifling through it, even as he watched her.

"Hey," he shouted, "what the fuck do you think you're doin?" With that, he
stepped to the dresser and grabbed her nearest arm, her left, with his right
hand around her tricep.

"Ah," she thought, "finally! It's here! It's actually here! This is it. The
sonofabitch and me are gonna fight." Her whole body flushed with an excitement
she had to fight to keep it in hand. Then she got to work. She shot her left
elbow back into his stomach, hard. He went back several steps. Then, as if he
were nothing but a minor nuisance in her search for his money, she continued
to go through his stuff, never even looking at him. .

"Hey, you bitch," he said, grabbing her by the same arm and trying to turn her
to face him. He succeeded. But too well. As she did a 180-degree turn and
leaned to the left, her high, thin right knee came up into his gut. He folded
up over her knee, and the avenging woman brought two fingers up into his
throat, causing him to gag. Then she pushed on his shoulder, and he backed up
and fell onto the bed. She turned back to the dresser and found some cash. She
then turned back to him and made a show of tucking the money into the bottom
of her bikini, with part of the money showing. Too, she made a show of just
standing there, hands on her slim hips waiting for him to fight for his money.

She thought, "God, I love this. I love it, I love it, I love it!! Just look at
him lying there wondering what the fuck is coming off." It occurred to her
that she was having more fun being a thief than she had ever had being a cop,
though, in fact, she enjoyed both.

Charlie was getting to his feet now -- off a side of the bed where she was not
-- saying, "I don't know what your game is, sister, but if you wanna get cute,
I'm happy to teach you something." He started toward her, intent on offering a
good no-nonsense sock in the woman's jaw,

when he was a bit confused to see her long torso bending over sideways at
about a 90-degree angle. At the other end of that body, she was raising her
bare right foot. Just as it had kept the creep away in her episode as a
prostitute, so it now found its target on Charlie's face before he even got to
her, before he even knew he was in a danger zone. It hit hard and square,
jerking his head hard to his right. It caused him a lasting pain in his neck.
And it knocked the man on his ass for the second time; and again he was
deposited on his bed.

She did not move in after the attack. Instead, she resumed her hands-on-hips
position and waited. She had to fight to restrain herself. She was bursting
with energy. She wanted to jump on the guy and just beat the crap out of him.
And her hands just ached to address the stirrings in her crotch. But she just
stood there, savoring the moment as it burned itself into the man's
consciousness, never to be removed by confusion or lies by him to him. Here
was some broad -- maybe a good 60 or 70 pounds under his weight -- just
waiting for him to attack, confident that she could beat him up. He said,
referring to her kick, "Oh, one of those karate nuts, huh. Think now that you
know a few moves, you're a tough broad, huh? Can't wait to try it out, huh?
Shit. Well, let me tell you something, sister: You just blew it. You're not
bad; I guess I've got to give you that. I never thought I'd be saying this to
a chick, but if you had just caught me by surprise and then ran, you just
might -- maybe -- have had a chance of getting away. But to telegraph an
offense like that and then just stand there? Come on! You've got a bunch to
find out about fighting, sister, and you've picked the right guy to teach you.
You've got a lot to learn about picking your marks, too." He didn't tell her
he was a cop, preferring to save that tidbit pending his victory, whereupon he
would, out of generosity, grant that with just any guy off the street she
might have had a better chance.

Now, again, he got off the bed on a side away from this cocky woman
confronting him. And, giving her new respect as a competent opponent, he
approached her with caution, crouched, raised his palms and spread them and
held them open. She enjoyed observing his caution. She wondered whether, if
she stopped this confrontation right now, he might tomorrow show a bit more
respect for the combat effectiveness of the woman cop. But, no matter: She was
not going to stop now. Uh uh. "No way!?" she thought.

She must not permit him to get near, because he might catch a good view at her
face. He mistook her retreat as a sign of uncertainty in the face of his
prepared and -- he thought -- impressive combat stance. His smile broadened.
His eyes said to her that he was most concerned about her kicks. He decided
he'd better crowd her. 'That way he might be out of kicking range; and he
could overpower the thin lady. Turning her back, she bent over, reached her
arms through her spread legs, grabbed one of his knees and stood straight up,
raising the knee as hard and h1gh as she could. It reached her chest, The man
dropped hard and fast on his ass, his head jarring against the carpet. She
quickly stepped around her dazed opponent, knelt down directly behind him,
raised his head (by wrapping her right hand in his hair) so that he was
sitting up, and wrapped her thin arm under his chin, which she siezed and
pulled, making him look to the left. Then she put her head near his right ear,
in fact rested it on his shoulder, touching cheek to cheek. She had wanted to
get this near him because she had decided -- without informing the other women
-- that she'd wear a brand of perfume that she would also wear around Charlie
from time to time after that date, thus causing him to wonder where he had
smelled it before and perhaps giving him reason to wonder about Flo. She was
very eager that -- whatever might happen in the future -- Charlie never
discard the possibility that the woman who had beaten him up in his bedroom
was the same one who sat beside him in the squad car.

After that, she got even more brazen. She took his ear between her teeth. He
was more conscious and fighting now, but when she tugged hard with her hand on
his head and pressed her teeth more together, he sat without moving, trying to
think of an offense. He made an attempt to free his right arm -- which she had
pinned to his back by hooking her own right arm over his bicep, then between
his arm and torso, then out behind his back. Her front rested on his back,
thus pretty much securing both their arms between them. "Careful, lady," Flo
said to herself, "don't let him get to good a feel of those falsies." His
fight being very weak, she kept him a good minute or so, then gave a tug on
her right arm -- which hurt his arm -- a tug on her other arm -- which hurt
his neck (which had been jerked so hard in the other direction by her kick)
and a dig with her sharp chin into his shoulder -- which also hurt him -- and
let

go of him.

Though he didn't know it, her motive was just to move the action to another
part of the room, where it might be easier for the cops outside to record her
doing her performance.

The man got to his feet, rubbing his abused neck. Flo, in her mind, started
going down the list of things she wanted to be sure to do tonight: (1) Have

him get prepared for a serious fight, so he couldn't say he was taken by
surprise. (2) Give him a whiff of her perfume. (3) Present him with one
visible souvenir of the fight, something he'd have to answer about at work
tomorrow.

Two good, hard rights to the eye ought to do it, she decided. But the man was
not interested in boxing. He wanted to just get on top of her and put his
extra weight and his presumed strength advantage to use. He came rushing at
her hard, his head ducked. She changed her tactics, twisted to the side and
caught his outstretched head in what she knew from her tomboy days as a "good
old-fashioned headlock." The momentum carried both fighters onto the bed.

The woman held the headlock. The man was not unaware of the usual pleasure he
felt at the prospect of having a pretty woman in a bikini bottom on his bed.
But his first need was to get his head free. He pushed and pushed on her arms,
but she gritted her teeth and held on, remembering

how she had, as a tomboy, once won a concession from her brother in this very
position. It wasn't easy to keep it now. She soon knew her opponent tonight
was much stronger than her brother. And, she suspected, a bit more motivated.
Flo guessed that a man in his first fight against a tough

chick was kind of like a bronc in his first ride by a human. As the horse gets
a bit more used to it, his fights are not so frantic; there even seems to be a
certain defeatism about them, a sense of sort of going through the motions.
But right now Charlie was bucking as if he were a brand new bronco. So she
must hold on for all she was worth and hope that he would begin to slow.

After some time he decided to change his tactics. With both man and woman more
or less facedown on the bed, the man now got his hips above those of his
opponent and wrapped his arms around the thin woman's stomach in the hardest
bear hug he could manage. Now the man and woman were in embrace, locked in a
battle of endurance, strength and wills. "Jesus," Flo thought, "this guy may
be a slow, out-of-shape turkey, but he sure ain't too weak. Damn!" Both man
and woman worked their respective holds for all they were worth, the man using
his weight advantage to maintain the higher position. The woman thought,
"Shit! I could screw up the whole thing right here! What the Hell am I
supposed to do if he rips my mask off? If he gets the upper hand -- shit, he's
got the upper hand -- I mean if he gets his head free, the sonofabitch'll
probably kill me right here." The thought provided the lady significant
motivation. "This is it, kid," she told herself. "Right here, right now, you
sure as Hell better do it. Hold on, Flo baby!"

Charlie, meanwhile, wasthinking, "I know I can make this chick give up. I know
it!" He knew, too, though he would not really face the fact squarely even in
his thoughts, that this position was just cut out for him, that if he couldn't
beat the lady when he could put both his strength and his weight to advantage,
then there was little hope for him. Deep down, he could hardly doubt her
superiority in speed and skill and agility any more. Besides, he knew too that
he was in no position now to pursue any other attack than the bear hug. There
was nothing else he could do. He had no leverage for striking blows, and to
try any moves was to run the risk inherent in letting the woman move too,
rather than remain relatively stifled under him. Furthermore, he had given up
on prying her arms off him. That effort had only caused him more pain. So it
was the muscle gambit or nothing.

So there they were on the bed. The man would never think of that bed the same
way again. They struggled in silent, perhaps mortal, combat. They would both
attempt vicious squeezes from time to time, then have to ease off a bit. The
man was freer to ease off than the woman, because she was not a threat to
escape.

They were both weakening. After many minutes went by -- both experiencing new
respect for the other and new doubts about the outcome -- sweat was pouring
profusely from each. The straining woman began to wonder if maybe she should
shift to another tactic. But what? She was flat on her face -- on a surface
that provided no base for any kind of movement -- under a man who outweighed
her by many, many pounds. No, it was the headlock or nothing.

She thought she sensed a minor easing in the man's grip. She wasn't sure. Was
he resting? Was he suckering her? Was he weakening?

Suddenly she knew. "I've got him!" she thought, as she survived one of his
sudden contractions feeling none the worse for wear. "I've beaten him! The
sonofabitch is out of gas."

The light at the end of the tunnel gave Flo renewed strength. Gritting her
teeth, she gave three sudden, hard, mighty, all-out squeezes of 10 seconds
each with virtually no pause in between, yanking the man's head into her just
as hard as it would go, mashing his face against her pectorals, just at her
armpit, squeezing his temples.

Scaring him. Hurting him.

He held on, hoping each time she eased off that she was wearing herself out,
that she needed a rest at least. But each time his respite proved to be more a
mirage, a tease, than a fact.

On the fourth squeeze, she heard it.

"OK," he said. Nothing more.

Though a thrill ran through her, she pretended she hadn't heard him. She
squeezed viciously, now, grinding his head, twisting his neck.

"OK, OK, I said," he said louder.

It was still not enough for her. For one thing, he continued to hold his arms
around her. Still not wanting to let him hear her voice, she spoke with her
arms. She squeezed again. This time his arms came apart and he screamed, "OK,
OK! You win." He held his arms apart like a man at the point of a gun, making
sure not to anger the lady, who was the only one on the bed with a weapon
left: her strength.

His words were music to her ears. Music. She wanted everybody in the world to
know -- including, especially Charlie -- that she, Flo Zimmerman, the scrawny
kid from across the tracks, had taken everything Charlie, the tough cop, had
and had beaten him at his own game.

She wanted to taunt him with words, but she was not free to. So she jerked her
hips a bit upwards, indicating he'd better get off her.

He did, his head remaining under her armpit, under her control.

Now they were both standing. She let him go and moved a few paces away from
him -- wondering if the film being shot would show him eyeing her ass as she
did so. He sat down on the edge of the bed -- a beaten man -- rubbing his
head. She knew she could go away now with his money -- or anything else of his
she wanted, for that matter -- and he wouldn't be likely to raise a finger to
stop her.

But she still had her list. True, he had just filled number 4: Get a
concession. But she still had 3 and 5,6,7,8 and 9.

She wanted some more fight. But she knew he was hopelessly exhausted. To give
him time to recover, she went into his bathroom and busied herself, keeping an
eye on him, lest he go for a gun. The wait was driving her bananas. But she
wanted a relatively fresh man's body out there, though she knew it would be
stiff and sore all over.

As for Charlie, at first he stayed on the bed rubbing his head. Gathering a
bit more strength, he went to the mirror to examine his image. "Christ, what a
mess," he thought. His hair and clothes were in disarray and his entire head
was red. He wondered what to do when she came out. She had his money. He
couldn't just admit defeat. The very thought tore at his gut. He thought about
attacking her by surprise as she came out or using his gun, but the
humiliation of being reduced to that against a broad was just too much. As his
strength began to return, he decided to fight her again, to, in fact, beat the
shit out of her, rip that stupid mask off her face and then put it to her and
show her what a woman is for.

When she came out, her hair was combed and she was fresh and alluring. He had
taken off his sweaty clothes and replaced them with a sort of gym outfit,
including a T shirt, which he wore to cover the pot belly he was ashamed of.
She smiled at his new attire and nodded her head. Without a word, they circled
each other, both cautious. She put up her dukes, a pose not before assumed
that evening. He wondered what she was doing, but soon she was approaching
him, and there was no time for thinking. He put up his. He was not very
aggressive, though. She threw the first two punches. He stopped them. They
circled. She kept her guard up, partly to hide her face. He did not attack.
She knew that an hour before he would have come right at her. She enjoyed this
new respect, but she knew it made it harder for her, especially since she had
but one interest for the moment: his right eye, on which she was out to paint
a shiner with her knuckles. She attacked his stomach, succeeded with a few
punches to his soft gut. When he brought his guard down, she hit the eye.
Hard! It was only then that she found how different it is to box without
gloves.

His entire head was already very tender. His hand went up to his eye and found
blood. She thought maybe that one punch would be enough to cause the shiner
she wanted. But she decided to be certain. She came in. Anger and
determination crossed the man's face. She ignored it. He swung a big hard
haymaker. She ducked under it, came up into his eye again, and decked him. He
was flat on his ass. So much, she decided, for number 3.

Now for number 5, she thought. She stepped behind him, threw one long leg over
him and secured his groggy head in her thighs. She was facing the camera now,
and she posed, putting her hands behind her back in a "look-Ma-no-hands"
position even as he thrashed and wriggled at her feet, pawing up and down her
thigh and calves. Then she posed like a model, her hands behind her head and
in other positions. Even as she ignored him, she heard, "OK, OK, I give! You
win."

"Hmmm," thought Flo, "his head must be even sorer than I knew." Anyway, so
much for #5: a second concession. That was important, just to underline the
whole point.

She undid her thighs, and, just as quickly, reached down and ripped off his
shirt. "Hey," he said, "what the ..." But she was not listening. She just
pushed his head to the rug and bent over and reached for his feet, which she
raised off the floor. She tucked both of the man's feet under her right arm
and, with her other, reached for his shorts. She grabbed his shorts and his
jock strap with her left hand and she tugged. He fought with everything he had
to keep his clothes on, but she had the better position. After a minute-long
tugging match -- upright woman against upended man -- the woman won. His
clothes came under his knees and -- in the process of moving his feet from one
of her armpits to the other -- Flo whipped them off completely. She had
completed number 6.

She set out on 7. With her long arm, she reached for his cock. She began to
mess with it, even as she had both the man's feet under one of her arms. He
fought against the humiliation, but she just lifted him higher, so that his
upper back was all of him that touched the rug.

She stroked, pinched, toyed with his cock. He became hard, hard enough for the
fact of his excitement to be captured on film. Then she dropped him, mission 7
accomplished.

She picked up his clothes and stood above him with the shorts and jock
hanging, one in each hand, her hands being on her hips. He just lay there,
trying to cover himself. He thought about making a swipe for his stuff, but
she could see him deciding against it. Then he turned away

from her in search of something to cover up with. She grabbed his hair from
behind, wrenched his head to the rug and quickly sat on his face (number 8).
He fought for a long time, but then surrendered to her. He knew now that --
whatever her motivations -- she was out to humiliate him again and again, and
he knew she would not stop until she had done so.

And he knew he could not stop her. He just lay there, his entire face engulfed
by her soft underside.

She grooved on this. This was what it had all been about: him just lying
there, accepting and admitting his inferiority as a fighter to a woman. "Just
think if Charlie knew whose ass he was under," she thought. And the thought
made her wriggle in excitement. She couldn't make herself get up. She wanted
to stay this way forever. She waved to her friends outside in a motion that
suggested that they should not hang around. She would be some time.

She read magazines as she sat on her perch. She combed her hair. And she just
sat. She was there for two hours. And he fought no more.

Finally she got off him and did number 9. It was the one that Charlie would
have most reason to regret for the longest.

Flo was disappointed that Charlie didn't come into work the next day. But two
days hence he did, and the shiner was even then very, very evident. She said,
"Where'd you get that." He just grunted, "Never mind!" She prodded. "Does it
have something to do with why you haven't been around?"

"I said never mind!"

"OK, OK. Just asking. I don't know why you have to get so huffy." Somewhat
later, though, the victorious lady cop made it her business -- with some of
her female colleagues -- to be present when the chief asked about Charlie's
appearance. He responded that, on the night before, been robbed by three guys.
The explanation and Charlie's absence and appearance and subsequent behavior
raised a lot of questions in the mind's of Charlie's male colleagues and his
superiors.

They thought it strange that he hadn't reported the robbery. The chief chewed
him out for that. Charlie said he wanted to take care of it himself. Besides
that, though, the other policemen wondered, for example, why Charlie had come
to work in uniform that morning, rather than change at work like everyone
else.

All day, Flo found Charlie to be very, very quiet.

END