Officer Jill is made to believe she's a rookie

“Good girl,” the caller purred. “Now listen close. You’re not Officer Jill Turner anymore. Forget your rank. Forget your training. From this second on, you’re just a meek rookie on her very first day. Got it?”

“Yes,” Jill replied, the same lifeless tone rolling off her tongue.

Just half an hour ago she was barking orders at him, scolding him like a schoolboy for every little mistake. Now she sat stiff and empty, just… obeying.

The caller’s voice deepened, low and deliberate. “And the man sitting next to you, he’s not your partner. He’s your supervising officer. The one who decides whether you keep this shiny new job or you get fired before your first shift’s over.”

Greg’s pulse hammered in his ears. He wanted to say something, call bullshit, but all he could do was watch as the words hit her.

“You don’t need whatever policing knowledge you’ve gathered until now,” the caller continued, almost smug. “Everything I tell you is the truth. And your supervising officer? He’s here to make sure you’re doing a good job. You’ll treat him like the authority he is. Do you understand?”

Greg leaned closer, half thinking she’d snap out of it, half hoping she wouldn’t.

“Yes,” Jill said again, her voice flat and hollow, eyes glazed, staring at nothing.

Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry. Jesus Christ. She believed it.

The voice on the line turned its attention back to Greg, that same sly, entertained cadence dripping through the speaker.

“Okay, Mr. Supervisor,” the caller said, “let’s make sure your rookie here starts her new shift strong, shall we? I’m hoping you’re the one behind the wheel, since I blanked the bitch and you haven’t crashed us into a tree yet.”

Greg barked a short, surprised laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah… yeah, I’m driving.”

“Good,” the caller chuckled. “Now, I think it’s time we got her squared away properly. Pull over somewhere quiet. Secluded. We need to ensure Miss Rookie is dressed appropriately for duty, don’t we?”

Greg’s heart thudded in his chest. He could barely believe this was happening, but his hands still obeyed, guiding the cruiser off the road and down a lonely stretch, gravel crunching under the tires as the trees closed in around them.

The caller’s voice came again, not quite to Greg, not quite to Jill, spoken into the air like a commandment.

“Miss Turner,” he said smoothly, “you’re improperly dressed for your shift.”

Jill sat stiff in the passenger seat, face slack, eyes forward.

“Get out of the car,” the voice continued. “Remove your shirt, your shoes, and your pants. From this moment, your uniform is your bra and panties. That is what rookies wear. Understood?”

There was a short pause. Then, in that same flat, mechanical monotone, Jill answered:

“Yes.”

Greg’s jaw nearly unhinged as Jill opened the door and stepped out, gravel crunching under her polished shoes. The humid night air wrapped around them, and without a second’s hesitation, she reached for her belt buckle and began to obey.

Greg leaned back in the driver’s seat, unable to look away as Jill, still locked in her trance, methodically unbuckled her utility belt. She placed it carefully on the hood of the cruiser, the gesture oddly formal considering what came next. Her hands went to the buttons of her uniform shirt, those neat, regulation clothes suddenly useless as she stripped it from her shoulders and slipped it off.

She detached the badge pinned proudly over her chest, setting it beside the belt with robotic precision, before discarding the shirt itself onto the dirt with the casualness of a rag. What she revealed beneath made Greg’s mouth go dry. Instead of the plain, practical underclothes he might’ve expected from a no-nonsense cop, Jill was wearing a dark blue lace bra, the color chosen deliberately to match her uniform. The ornate fabric hugged her breasts in a way that was anything but standard issue. Greg blinked, caught between disbelief and fascination. For all the contempt he’d carried toward her earlier, he had to admit her body was something to behold. Her breasts, perfectly framed by the delicate lace, looked too good, too distracting, almost like the kind of thing you’d see in a magazine.

But Jill didn’t hesitate, didn’t acknowledge his stare. She moved on, unzipping her trousers, sliding them down over her hips, stepping out of the dark navy fabric along with her sensible police shoes. Now she stood on the roadside in nothing but her matching lace bra and panties, the harsh streetlamp glow making her look like some strange parody of authority, a cop stripped of everything but the suggestion of her role.

Following her programmed rhythm, Jill bent to retrieve the heavy utility belt, looping it back around her bare waist. The bulky, practical leather sat snug and absurd against her smooth skin. She cinched it tight, holstering her gear as if she were ready for duty. Then, with the same eerie obedience, she reached down for the badge again and clipped it directly to one strap of her bra, where it gleamed over delicate lace as though it belonged there.

Her hands went instinctively to the brim of her cap, ready to remove the last piece of her uniform, but Greg’s hand shot out, stopping her. “Leave it,” he said quickly, glancing at the phone. “She looks more ridiculous like this, the hat, the hair, the face still so professional, but the rest of her…”

His voice trailed, and he gave a half-laugh at the absurdity of the sight.

On the other end of the line, the caller burst into laughter, sharp and delighted. “You see? I knew I’d like you, bro” he said, the approval in his tone unmistakable.

The caller’s voice buzzed again, low and deliberate. “Officer Turner, step over to the driver’s side and present a proper salute to your supervisor. Once you do, your mind will be clear. You will remember everything exactly as I’ve told you it is. Do you understand?”

Jill’s eyes didn’t flicker, her tone flat, obedient. “Yes, sir.”

Greg swallowed, watching as she rounded the front of the cruiser, her long legs moving smoothly despite how hard her boots were hitting the gravel. She came to stand at his side window, bare waist cinched by the heavy belt, badge pinned like a parody of pride to her bra strap. She raised her arm sharply, palm crisp at her brow. The salute was textbook-perfect, the movement making her breasts bounce in their lace cage.

For a brief second, her pupils dilated, focus rushing back into her eyes like floodlights powering on. Her lips parted, breath catching as her expression shifted from blank to alive, only now that life burned with something unnervingly devout. She snapped her heels together.

“Rookie Jill Turner, reporting for duty, sir,” she said in her professional cadence, all business, all reverence, as if Greg had been her commanding officer all along.

Greg chuckled, almost disbelieving how quick the transformation had clicked into place. But before he could savor it, twin beams washed across the windshield. A set of headlights grew in the rearview, drawing up just behind the cruiser. The low hum of an engine idled as a dark sedan slid to a stop just behind the cruiser’s passenger door.