India Uncut
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Thursday, October 05, 2006
India Uncut Ambition 4
I want to be the Deputy Inspector General of Police in charge of the Fake Boobies Investigation department (DIG, FBI). Specifically, I want to be the policeman on this case.
"I need to examine certain glands of yours," I will say, "to ascertain that they do not have enhancements that have not been paid for by you."
They will think about it for a moment, their chin turned cutely to one side. Then they will look at my T-Shirt, on which they will read, "I write India Uncut."
"Oh, you're the famous blogger," they will gush. "Wow!"
"Tee hee," I will say, "Yes, I used to just be a blogger. But I took up this job because I had a larger duty to society. Now, if you will come with me please..."
I will take them into my police van, parked discreetly in the middle of the road. (I'll be a cop, I'll do what I want.) I will shut the door. Then I will look at them clinically, as if I have a gun in my pocket, and am non-happy to see them.
They will blush coyly, but, reassured by my clinical look, will remove their kurti. "Ah," I will remark. "Lovables. My favourite brand. I'm afraid you'll have to remove that as well, this really is not enough to go on."
They will smile, their hands will go behind them to the strap of the brassiere, in the process thrusting their chest out towards me. (I mention this only because I am a particularly meticulous policeman, and note every action of my suspects rather carefully.) They will unclasp the undergarment in question, and its straps will delicately slip off their shoulders. They will leave the brassiere on the portable bed besides them, silk on silk. (Cotton bedsheets are only good for strangling, I will have learnt in my years as a policeman.) They will look at me expectantly.
"Interesting," I will remark, my knees trembling. (I must have more calcium in my diet, I'll remind myself.) "Visually they look similar to some of the pictures of the suspects that I have with me. I must, ahem, make a tactile examination. Please lift your arms above your head."
They shall lift their arms, and I will move closer to them, and begin my examination. Yes, yes, the job is no fun, but someone's got to do it, and I shall carefully examine the organs in question for tell-tale scars. (Much as Dr Vishal Kapoor does here; NSFW.) The lady will make soft moans of pleasure to distract me, but I shall only redouble my efforts, determined not to be distracted, and suspicious that such efforts are being made.
After a close examination, I will conclude that the lady is innocent. "You are not the culprit I was looking for," I will tell her. "You may go now."
"Go?" she will say. "Did you say Go? Are you crazy? Finish what you started. Should I remove the rest of my clothes."
"No ma'am," I will say. "That is not at all necessary. I have concluded my examination, and am delighted to inform you that charges will not be brought against you. That being the case, you are no longer required to remain in this state of undress. Please do wear the garments you had earlier discarded."
As I say this, I shall pick up her brassiere from the bed and hand it over to her. And as I do so, she will grab my hand with her left hand, whip out a pair of handcuffs with her right hand, and within fractions of a moment, I shall find myself attached to the bedstead.
"What are you doing?" I will yell, before I note that the handcuff has an inscription on it that every policeman of that age will be familiar with: "Vixen Trolls: The Blog Murderers Association." I shall shiver at the name, for I will know what is coming up next.
"Ha ha ha ha," she will laugh, as her hands go below her belly and reach sensuously into her Patiala salwar. Then she will whip out a cotton bedsheet.
Previous India Uncut Ambitions: Hooch Inspector, Pothole Inspector, Female-Earlobe Piercer.
A German plastic surgeon who was cheated out of payment by several women has given pictures of their enlarged breasts to police, in the hope the photos will help trace them.I will take my job very seriously. I will stand at a street corner, and I will closely examine, just visually for now, the chest of every non-male passing by. Whenever I see a suspect, or rather a pair of suspects, I will stop the lady in question, and show her my ID card.
"I need to examine certain glands of yours," I will say, "to ascertain that they do not have enhancements that have not been paid for by you."
They will think about it for a moment, their chin turned cutely to one side. Then they will look at my T-Shirt, on which they will read, "I write India Uncut."
"Oh, you're the famous blogger," they will gush. "Wow!"
"Tee hee," I will say, "Yes, I used to just be a blogger. But I took up this job because I had a larger duty to society. Now, if you will come with me please..."
I will take them into my police van, parked discreetly in the middle of the road. (I'll be a cop, I'll do what I want.) I will shut the door. Then I will look at them clinically, as if I have a gun in my pocket, and am non-happy to see them.
They will blush coyly, but, reassured by my clinical look, will remove their kurti. "Ah," I will remark. "Lovables. My favourite brand. I'm afraid you'll have to remove that as well, this really is not enough to go on."
They will smile, their hands will go behind them to the strap of the brassiere, in the process thrusting their chest out towards me. (I mention this only because I am a particularly meticulous policeman, and note every action of my suspects rather carefully.) They will unclasp the undergarment in question, and its straps will delicately slip off their shoulders. They will leave the brassiere on the portable bed besides them, silk on silk. (Cotton bedsheets are only good for strangling, I will have learnt in my years as a policeman.) They will look at me expectantly.
"Interesting," I will remark, my knees trembling. (I must have more calcium in my diet, I'll remind myself.) "Visually they look similar to some of the pictures of the suspects that I have with me. I must, ahem, make a tactile examination. Please lift your arms above your head."
They shall lift their arms, and I will move closer to them, and begin my examination. Yes, yes, the job is no fun, but someone's got to do it, and I shall carefully examine the organs in question for tell-tale scars. (Much as Dr Vishal Kapoor does here; NSFW.) The lady will make soft moans of pleasure to distract me, but I shall only redouble my efforts, determined not to be distracted, and suspicious that such efforts are being made.
After a close examination, I will conclude that the lady is innocent. "You are not the culprit I was looking for," I will tell her. "You may go now."
"Go?" she will say. "Did you say Go? Are you crazy? Finish what you started. Should I remove the rest of my clothes."
"No ma'am," I will say. "That is not at all necessary. I have concluded my examination, and am delighted to inform you that charges will not be brought against you. That being the case, you are no longer required to remain in this state of undress. Please do wear the garments you had earlier discarded."
As I say this, I shall pick up her brassiere from the bed and hand it over to her. And as I do so, she will grab my hand with her left hand, whip out a pair of handcuffs with her right hand, and within fractions of a moment, I shall find myself attached to the bedstead.
"What are you doing?" I will yell, before I note that the handcuff has an inscription on it that every policeman of that age will be familiar with: "Vixen Trolls: The Blog Murderers Association." I shall shiver at the name, for I will know what is coming up next.
"Ha ha ha ha," she will laugh, as her hands go below her belly and reach sensuously into her Patiala salwar. Then she will whip out a cotton bedsheet.
Previous India Uncut Ambitions: Hooch Inspector, Pothole Inspector, Female-Earlobe Piercer.
