By: Alejandro B.
Translated from Spanish
Ana María arrived at Precinct 1 shivering with cold. That winter morning felt like the South Pole. As soon as she crossed paths with her colleagues, she learned that the day would be hectic. The motorcycle unit had several assignments marked out for the day. At 10 a.m., they would escort the Buenos Aires City Chief of Government, Aníbal Ibarra, at the Santo Domingo Convent, where he and several ministers would pay tribute to Manuel Belgrano on the eve of Flag Day. After midday, they would head to the American Club to accompany the limousine of U.S. Ambassador James Walsh. And the main event would come in the late afternoon, when they would face students from the University of Buenos Aires during a “sit-in” planned in front of Plaza Houssay.
Grumbling, Ana María headed to the locker room to put on her uniform. She dressed slowly, as if taking a breath before the activity awaiting her in the frenetic streets of Buenos Aires. Over her tiny white thong she pulled on thick pantyhose, and over those, knee-high wool socks like soccer socks. “This way I won’t get cold in my legs,” she thought, imagining herself out on the street all day. She also put on a blue turtleneck that emphasized her firm breasts. Then she took from her locker the winter uniform of the motorcycle unit, which, as porteños know, consists of a shiny black leather jacket that reaches the waist, tight leather pants of the same color, and tall boots. Officer Campos looked gorgeous and seductive as always. The leather pants looked painted onto her legs and her round ass. Everything showed: the bulge of her crotch, the crack of her ass. Absolutely everything.
She crossed the precinct courtyard and heard a few very respectful compliments from some of her comrades. That improved her mood. Along with four other members of the motorcycle unit, she received her instructions. She adjusted her scarf and white helmet and set off on her powerful Guzzi toward Santo Domingo. They took 25 de Mayo, then Balcarce, passed in front of the Casa Rosada, and turned the wrong way onto Avenida Belgrano. At the corner of Defensa, they waited for Ibarra’s car. Ana María positioned her bike next to the Chief of Government’s window and caught his gaze. She felt more desired than ever. When the brief ceremony ended, they escorted the vehicle to City Hall and, together with another patrol from the Radio Command, ate some sandwiches at the corner of Avenida de Mayo and Perú.
Then the radio ordered them to head to the American Club. They took Avenida de Mayo to 9 de Julio and went down the wide avenue to Viamonte. In one of the small plazas, they waited for the Yankee ambassador’s limousine. When they saw it appear, they blocked traffic on Cerrito while the diplomat was escorted by two enormous Marines. They waited for the reception to end. One of the Marines stayed at the door and couldn’t take his blue eyes off the motorcycle officer’s ass. Ana María noticed and began to strut behind the bikes, chatting with her colleagues, swaying her regal ass from side to side, occasionally tugging her leather pants even tighter. It was very cold, but she felt hotter and hotter. She exchanged several looks with the big American, but soon the reception ended and Walsh left with his entourage, without that admirer being able to approach the young Buenos Aires cop.
She felt disappointed, and as she rode her bike toward the student gathering, she imagined making love with that Marine, imagined being punished, humiliated, and thoroughly fucked by that soldier of the empire. But she woke from her “erotic dream” when she heard the shouting of the Social Sciences students on Avenida Córdoba. The sit-in was beginning. Hundreds of kids packed onto the asphalt, sitting shoulder to shoulder, blocking traffic, while Federal Police motorcycles began cutting off the streets around Plaza Houssay to prevent accidents. Ana María stationed herself with her partner Matilde at the corner of Uriburu, facing the courtyard of the School of Economics.
The students began chanting insults against the President, the Minister of Education, the IMF, and British and Yankee imperialism. But Ana María drifted back into fantasies about the Marine and about Aníbal Ibarra. At one point, a small group of students from an extreme left organization began provoking the police. Insults, shouts, and even some sticks flew near patrol cars and motorcycles. Suddenly, a terrible stone struck Officer Matilde on the head. Ana María turned and saw a skinny red-haired boy throwing another rock at them. While agents from a patrol car ran to assist the injured officer, Ana María shot off like lightning to catch the attacker.
The kid bolted when he saw the leather-clad blonde coming at him. He ran through columns of students who were already dispersing, and Ana followed relentlessly, with the agility of a panther. They crossed Plaza Houssay, but no one helped the fugitive, who ducked into one of the subway entrances, bounding down the stairs. But the access gate was closed because of the student march. Trapped on the stairs, he saw Ana María appear above him and shout:
“Stay right there, you son of a bitch, you’re under arrest!”
The young man gathered his courage, cursed at the officer, and ran toward her, trying to dodge past her to escape, but a rugby-style tackle worthy of Pichot against the All Blacks stopped him cold. Ana María landed on top of him, grabbed him by the hair, and smashed his face into the floor.
“I told you you were under arrest, motherfucker. Now we’re going to talk at the precinct, punk.”
Ana María pulled out her handcuffs and roughly secured his wrists, then planted her knee on his lower back with such force that it brought tears to his eyes. She called the patrol car from Precinct 1 on her cell phone. Within ten minutes they were loading the detainee to take him to the station. Ana María followed on her motorcycle. The “conversation” was pending.
When they arrived, two dark-haired officers left the activist on the tiles of a cold cell. He was being held for assault and resisting authority. Ana María immediately went to the commissioner’s office to request authorization to “interrogate” the young man.
“Commissioner, I want to check this activist’s background to strengthen the arrest report. I want to question him.”
“Campos, you know you can’t do it yourself, but I’ll give you permission. And watch it. None of what you like to do in these cases, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ana María left with the authorization and asked the cell officer to prepare the detainee for “her” interrogation. Within minutes, the combative protester was tied to a cot in the last cell. The officer entered slowly, and the young man looked at her from his uncomfortable bed with a mix of fascination and terror. She approached and ripped the buttons off his shirt.
“I told you we were going to talk, punk. Who sent you to the sit-in? Come on, tell me.”
Ana María asked mockingly, pulled a pair of tweezers from her pants, and began ripping out the hairs from his chest with great brutality. The boy’s screams echoed through the cell block. She gagged him with a torn piece of sheet and continued tormenting him. She pulled down his torn pants and underwear and began yanking the hair from his balls. The pain was unbearable. She kept working the tweezers over his nipples and armpit hair, then back to his testicles, expertly pinched by the tool. Ana María delighted in the torture. “I’m dry-waxing him,” she thought with satisfaction.
At one point she stopped, seeing that the young man’s face was swelling more and more from the intense pain. She removed the makeshift gag and said:
“So you like sit-ins, you son of a bitch? Fine. Take this.”
She then climbed on top of him. Gripping the headboard of the cot, she placed her beautiful leather-clad black ass over the prisoner’s face and sat down squarely on it. The tight leather sealed to his face like a suction cup, suffocating him. Ana María began slowly moving her ass over the boy’s face as he struggled for air. She began to enjoy herself, moaning softly and grinding on his face. Then she paused, pressing her ass downward, trying to force his face deeper into her leather-encased rear. Unable to breathe, the young man lost consciousness. About fifteen minutes later, Ana María realized it, stopped her pleasure, and ran to alert the medical staff. The boy soon recovered and was transferred to Police Headquarters under charges of abuse, injuries, and resisting authority.
But the beautiful and cruel officer was summoned to the commissioner’s office. She entered still wearing her sensual uniform and the “body of evidence,” her super-tight black leather pants. She expected a reprimand, maybe disciplinary action, but the commissioner looked at her with a smile and said jokingly:
“Congratulations, Campos. At last a woman from the Federal Police decided to take part in a sit-in.”