The Usual Suspects

Signor Ugarte lived in one of the countless tenement buildings crowded together within the city. He was hastily shoving clothes into two suitcase in his shabby room on the second floor of the three story walk up. Hopefully his friends in the seaport of El Jadida, around sixty miles away, were still his friends and he could 'hold up' there for a week or two.

The thunderous banging on his door caused him to spin around and freeze. Only the police knock like that. Sure enough, immediately after the last bang, four cops cascaded into the small room, filling the space completely. "Signor Ugarte," the French officer in charge consulted a three by five notebook he held in his left hand, "You are to accompany us, please."

The three policemen drawn from the local Moroccan population, wearing modified French uniforms, such as a fez instead of a kepi, crowded around Ugarte. Looking up at their stoic faces, Ugarte turned his attention to the French policeman. "What is this all about, Officer?"

"You will be informed of that down at headquarters," he closed his book and headed towards the door.

"What...what about my suitcases?" he asked, glancing back over his shoulder as he was pushed along. The three policemen were not actually touching Ugarte, per se. It was as if their mere presence was exerting a **** field propelling him forward.

"M-may I at least lock my door?" his over-sized eyes pleaded with the policeman in charge. The Officer nodded and Ugarte locked the door, fumbling with his key, taking his time securing the entrance. Then he bolted. Running down the hallway towards the stairs.

The other three policemen were taller than Ugarte, with longer legs, and they had been on razor's edge anticipating, almost wanting, physical action. They caught him on the landing between the first and second floors, and after a brief scuffle, had him physically restrained.

"But I didn't do anything!" Signor Ugarte screamed as he was practically carried out of the building, still struggling futilely. "There must be some mistake, I tell you."

As they exited the run-down building, a fourth Moroccan policeman emerged from an alleyway, zipping up his pants. The French Officer saw this, but merely shook his head without comment.

For while the rest of the five-man detail were entering the building, the last in line caught site of a woman exiting that alley. When she saw the police, she turned around and retraced her steps. The policeman followed, calling out to her after a few steps. The woman halted immediately and slowly turned around to face him. He asked a few preliminary questions, but from her attire and make-up, he knew what her profession was. And she knew that he knew. And he knew that she knew that he knew.

Clasping a hand to her upper arm, we waved towards a recessed doorway. She allowed him to shove her along, and once inside she turned towards him, muttering in Arabic, "You cops and your freebies."

He grabbed her arm again, preventing her from kneeling down, and spun her around to face the wall. Her reflexes caused her to reach out with her palms to catch herself when he propelled her forward. As if she was a typical stop and frisk, the policeman lightly kicked at her heels, urging her legs further apart. With a sigh of resignation, she complied. Grabbing the material of her dress at the waist, he tugged backwards, causing her to shift away slightly from the wall, which obligated her to lean even farther forward.

Feeling him lifting the hem of her dress, she held her breath, praying that he was going for her pussy. The sound of spitting dashed those dreams. "Oh, not back," she whined when she felt his damp fingers between her butt-cheeks. "I will be walking funny for the next two days."

The sudden penetration of her backside caused her to gasp and fall against the wall, resting the side of her face against her forearm as the policeman sodomized her. For several minutes, there were just the steady sounds of her grunting with each forward thrust. This was soon followed by frenzied hunching on the man's part and a deep, masculine groan.

He did not even look at her as he left the doorway, and she merely swept her hair up off her forehead. Wiping away the tears from her eyes, she continued on her way. One of the hazards of her profession; the wrong place at the wrong time.

As Signor Ugarte was being driven to Police Headquarters, another team across town was rounding up another 'usual suspect'.