Sally West & the fallen Accountant

by Barretthunter

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© Copyright 2010 - Barretthunter - Used by permission

Storycodes: MF/f; spank; bond; bdsm; hotel; outdoors; sex; anal; reluct/nc; X

Sally West & the fallen Accountant
– A Sally West Misadventure


PC Sally West was back on her trusty bicycle, and very pleased she was too. Cycling round fitted her idea of responsive, accessible, democratic policing, though on occasion Sally had been too accessible to the wrong people. Superintendant Carver, missing those views of Sally’s magnificent bottom stuck out and straining away as she pedalled off, had reconsidered his decision to withdraw her from bicycle duty taken after that embarrassing business when Sally’s trousers had become entangled in her spokes, leading to the official car of the Cardinal of Westminster crashing into the front of a sex shop. Now Sally wore cycle clips.

It was a crisp November morning, quite chilly for the time of year and a little windy, though the tall houses Sally was passing offered some protection from that. This part of Queen’s Bush was prosperous, for only the rich could afford the astronomic house prices. However, the rich were often not at home, and did not spend a lot of time walking in the neighbourhood, so the area often seemed very quiet and rather dead. Its seclusion and the small number of pedestrians had recently encouraged something of a crime wave, including some burglaries and car thefts, but mostly robberies of some violence perpetrated on pedestrians or anyone leaving or returning to a car in the street. This was the reason for Sally’s attention.

As she turned left into a second street much like the first, Sally saw two hooded youths bending over something on the ground which they appeared to be kicking. They had not seen Sally and her approach was silent – until a cat scooted out right in front of her wheel, and in braking and swerving to avoid it, she hit the kerb and came to grief noisily. She was up quickly, but the youths had been warned and were in full flight. Sally soon realised she could not catch them, and after radioing what little she could say about them, she turned her attention to the pathetic bundle they had been kicking. It was an elderly man in an expensive winter coat. He had sat up now, his white hair dishevelled and bloody and his face in his hands: between the fingers a little blood oozed.

Sally touched his shoulder reassuringly.

“They’ve gone now, sir. You’ll be all right. I’m a police officer. Where are you hurt?” The man let his hands fall and looked up at Sally. He had a bruise on his cheek and his nose was bleeding.

“I’ll be a bit sore on the right side but I don’t think anything’s broken,” he replied in a weak but controlled voice. “Can you have a look at the cut in my scalp? Probably nothing, but cuts there bleed like billy-oh.”

Sally checked and found he was right: the cut was superficial. She soon established that his vision was unaffected. The man was obviously grateful.

“Do you live near here, sir?” she asked.

“Quite happy to answer, but I rather think I’m ready to stand up,” the old man replied. Sally helped him do that. “No, I live in Brookman’s Park in Hertfordshire. I’m in London on business,” he explained.

“Just for the day, or are you staying anywhere?”

“Quite near here. I’d just gone for a little walk. I’m at the Weiss Hotel.”

The Weiss Hotel was indeed a few minutes walk away, a small but quite select establishment. Founded in 1855 by Maximilian Weiss, a German refugee from the collapse of German liberal democracy in the wake of the 1848 revolutions, the hotel had won an enviable reputation for unostentatious high standards, and both Maximilian and his son and heir had rejected opportunities to buy other hotels on the grounds that this would dilute standards. The third Weiss, though, faced by the sudden threat of the First World War, and aware that his British passport, son in the Navy and 49 games for Sussex as a middle-order batsman might not be enough to protect his beloved hotel from anti-German sentiment, changed the name to represent the correct pronunciation in German, but English rules of spelling and pronunciation. The Vice Hotel had only one window broken; but the name change attracted a different clientele. While was raged, Herbert Weiss felt unable to change the name again, especially as many of the new patrons were in the armed forces; but in 1919, with some relief, he changed the name back. However, among the clients the hotel might not have smiled on in less difficult times, some few had been attracted whose social standing and manners made them entirely suitable. These included three small gentlemen’s clubs without premises of their own. From that time on, while the Weiss Hotel was entirely respectable, it provided a discreet specialism in a certain kind of special function. When in 1987 the seventh Weiss (soon after succeeding his brother who had died of an overdose while trying to break the world speed record) had decided an hotelier’s life was not for him and had sold up to Mr Mohammed Akram, the new owner and his family religiously respected the traditions of the hotel.

It was to this cosy and considerate hotel that PC Sally West now helped the elderly victim. On the way she explained that he would need to give a statement but was in no condition to do so now: he could do so the next day either at Queen’s Bush or at his local station. She also found out his name – Geoffrey Parslow. She was quite impressed by the old man’s calm manner which he explained succinctly – “old soldier” – and by his matter-of fact attitude to the items stolen:

“They took my wallet. Forty pounds in cash and some out-of-date credit cards I keep in it just for occasions like this. The real cards are in my body belt. Also my mobile phone – very run-of-the-mill version, and I’ll put a stop on calls as soon as I get back to the hotel. Nothing, really. Loss of cash would be a nuisance if my wife weren’t at the hotel.”

It was to the concerned but businesslike Mrs Parslow that Sally released the poor old chap a few minutes later. Mrs Parslow, who looked middle-aged but considerably younger than her husband, took charge of him and thanked Sally generously. Sally, in turn, explained that she had to return to her beat now, but would drop in later in the day to make sure her husband was all right.

Left alone with Geoffrey, Victoria fussed around him a little, decided she needed no further assistance unless he became dizzy or developed a headache, and finally commented: “When I saw you arm-in-arm with her I thought you’d brought her in for spanking.”

“Not at all a bad idea, but I’m a bit shaken up right now. Anyway, Anton’s people are due in this afternoon and that will give us plenty to do.” Victoria proceeded to examine her husband and wash the bloodied bits, before leading him down for a restorative drink before a light lunch.

The rest of Sally’s patrol was uneventful. The muggers had evidently got away. She directed an American couple to the “Subway”, having made sure they meant the Underground and not a fast food shop, and attempted to calm a furious rich Arab who was demanding that police locate and arrest a small boy who had made a rude gesture at him. It was well into the afternoon when she felt able to return to the Weiss Hotel to check up on the nice old man. There was nowhere for bicycles round the front of the hotel so she chained hers to railings round a tiny park nearby and walked.

At reception the plump, motherly lady nodded when she mentioned the name “Parslow” and directed her to room B13, saying, “They’ll be expecting you.” Presumably she was about to phone the Parslows and tell them about their visitor, Sally reasoned.

The doors of the rooms on B floor were set some distance from one another: evidently these were large rooms. She found 13 without trouble, mentally giving the hoteliers full marks for not giving way to weak superstition, and knocked twice but quite quietly. To her surprise, the door was opened – promptly – by a pretty young woman with dark, short hair and a rather intense expression.

“Name?” she asked. Not thrown by this lack of politeness, Sally replied, “Sally West.” The girl grinned infectiously and waved her in. The old man, Mr Parslow, was sitting in an armchair with one of those movable mini-tables attached, on which he had a notebook and a glass of amber spirits. He wore a comfortable dressing-gown. Sally was glad to see that no visible sign of his bad experience had survived, and he had recovered a healthy colour from his pastiness in the wake of the attack. In the next chair sat his wife, who smiled at Sally and motioned her forward. The old man, though, had neither moved nor spoken and Sally was seized with sudden doubts about his condition. She hurried forward and bent over him, relieved to see that as she approached he moved, passing the spirit glass and notebook to his wife.

Sally was totally unprepared for what happened next: the old man grabbed her with the practised expertise of a spider taking a fly and plumped her belly-down over the mini-table which had held the notebook and drink. So great was the surprise that Sally was slow to struggle. In any case, she soon found her struggles were in vain. Her hat fell off. To her amazement, Mrs Parslow came briskly round, lifted her own full skirt, and secured Sally’s head and neck between her legs. Hands – they could only be old Mr Parslow’s – began to explore every contour of her uniformed bottom with obsessional love. She had been educated enough to have an unpleasantly clear idea of what was going to follow. The exploration stopped and a little later one of the big hands landed an almighty whack on her left cheek. Sally screamed, but her cry was muffled by Mrs Parslow’s skirt. The hand landed with even greater force on the right cheek. After every part of her bottom had been punished, she felt what she had feared and yet expected – her trousers being drawn down. She knew what he would find: the skimpiest pair of pale lemon-yellow knickers, covering hardly more than a half of her bottom in normal circumstances, but with her bottom bent over, surely less than a third. When her attacker had achieved a clear view, he paused before pushing the wisp of material into the deep central crack.

“Thank you,” she heard him say. Then she felt the shock and sting on her bare big bottom not of a powerful hand, but of some sort of thin flat surface, probably wood. As she writhed and squealed, as the flat object rose and fell relentlessly, she felt Mrs Parslow change her grip. Something was making the back of Sally’s hair wet. The spanking continued, and the old man was now concentrating on her tender undercheeks. Sally’s hair was getting wetter and wetter. The man seized her knickers, pulled them out of the crack again, and with one powerful gesture, ripped them from her.

The long pause that followed did not in the least please Sally, for she knew it was caused by the old man lecherously taking in the sight of her naked bottom. And to think she had helped him so much and had felt sorry for him! It was enough to make her burst out into convulsive sobs, which unfortunately made her bottom wobble.  Eventually, without warning, he brought down the flat thing hard on her already burning left cheek and almost immediately on its suffering sister. After six more meaty whacks there was another pause. Sally heard light footsteps approaching (perhaps the girl who had let her in); then her oppressor shifted a little in the chair, there was a horribly familiar whoosh in the air and a whippy little cane cut across the very centre of her right cheek. The man did not find his position ideal for caning, but soon he handed over the cane to someone else (Mrs Parslow or the young woman?) who was evidently standing and could thrash Sally’s arse with relentless expertise.

There was nothing to do but to wail and sob. This Sally did wholeheartedly until strong hands lifted her from the mini table and placed her instead over the welcomingly soft arm of the armchair. She thought this would be the prelude to more spanking or caning, an impression strengthened when someone shifted the mini table so as to pin her down by her lower back; but instead expert, artistic fingers began to play with her secret gate and explore down the dank tunnel into her secret garden. She felt a familiar, wonderful, but in this situation shameful (she was an officer of the law and on duty) feeling rose rapidly in her. Then someone masterfully and expertly took her; and then someone else equally skilful. Then considerate hands were lifting her to her feet.

“Well done – you’re well in!” the young woman told her. “Pick up your stuff and I’ll take you into the bathroom for a clean-up. There’ll be a free drink. Percolator coffee, English Breakfast tea or pineapple juice? Oh, well, you can tell us when you’re cleaned up and dressed.”

Sally, dazed, looked around the room. She saw the young woman, of course, and Mrs Parslow and, still in the armchair (or back in it) the evil deceiver Mr Parslow. But a second man stood in the room. It was also Mr Parslow. Perhaps because she was dazed and dizzy and he was further away, he looked a little paler than the one in the armchair. He was dressed in old beige trousers and a chunky red-brown pullover and he had a sticking-plaster on his forehead. She looked back at the man in the armchair – then at the standing man. They were surely the same. She was delirious. The young woman shepherded her into the comfortable and spacious bathroom, helping her to clean up and dress. This was nearly complete when they both heard a confident rap on the main door. The nice young woman excused herself and hurried out: Sally could hear her greeting someone else, who replied cheerily in a Scouse accent. When the young woman returned, she carried a cup of tea but also a black velvet blindfold.

“Sorry about this, but it’s a matter of applicant confidentiality. We promised all applicants only the appointment team would see who they were,” she explained. “Drink your tea first, anyway. You can take the blindfold off as soon as you’re out of the room, of course. If people saw you walking down the street in policewoman kit with a blindfold, they might get all sorts of strange ideas, and you might hit a lamp-post.” Sally was too dazed by the extraordinary turn of events, and by the strange experience of seeing Mr Parslow double but differently dressed (which made her wonder if she was hallucinating) to ask any questions. In any case, the nice young woman seemed to be saying she’d be free very shortly, whereupon she could gather her thoughts and decide if she should report the incident.

As the young woman fitted the blindfold expertly, she assured Sally that she had done very well and “I’m sure we’ll see you in Bahrein.” Sally was led through the room to the door, hearing the unmistakeable sounds of another young woman being assaulted just as she had been. In the corridor, the young woman was as good as her word, removing the blindfold and smiling at her before unexpectedly pinching her bottom.

“See you!” she called as Sally made her escape as quickly as possible.

After the young woman from Liverpool and another from Japan via Wimbledon had made their entrances and exits, Anton Ionescu, Victoria Parslow, Geoffrey Parslow and Karen Harrison conferred.

“The Sally West bit, the one in the policewoman outfit, is a must, isn’t she?” asked Karen. “Arse to die for, nice tits and brilliant acting!”

“She is joint first on my list,” the great magnate Ionescu confirmed.

“Just a slight complication with her, I’m afraid,” Victoria said. “She isn’t an applicant.”

“What!” cried Ionescu. “If she was not an applicant, why did she come all ready in sexy fancy dress? Why did she accept the thrashings? Why not a word when it was over? What was her business here, if not for an interview?”

“She’s a real policewoman,” Victoria explained. “I know you like them – well, like them over your knee. The silly little chicken came in to the hotel all wreathed in smiles and good deeds having rescued my careless husband from some juvenile thugs. Geoffrey downplayed it when you asked about the sticking-plaster: best traditions of the British army officer class, ‘Spot of bother – just a little scratch’ etc. Geoffrey, poor lamb, was a bit shaken up, but I thought at the time she’d be excellent material for Anton Ionescu Enterprises. She could almost be a replacement for Julie Partridge, though her tits are a lot smaller and her arse a bit smaller. She said she’d call back later, and I thought, ‘well, if she comes when we’re interviewing, won’t that be fun?’ And she did, the silly little doggie!” Her husband coughed.

“I was out of the room when she arrived, call of nature. Came back and she was already over the table. Didn’t think it right to interrupt. In fact, I couldn’t resist following on from you after the thrashing. As for why she accepted the thrashing, I don’t think she had much choice, especially with her neck between my dear wife’s legs. I was a bit surprised she left so meekly, but maybe she’s a natural sub. Maybe she’s just a bit stupid.”

“Besides, darling,” Victoria added, “I think she saw Anton and thought he was you, so she was happy to waddle up to him to see if he was recovered!” She laughed.

“Mummy, you are amazing!” said Karen.

“So – before we rank the others, do we need to do anything about her?” Anton Ionescu asked. “She may report to other police when her senses return. I can get her picked up.”

“I don’t think so,” Victoria replied. “I found out enough. Her boss is Superintendent Carver and he’s a platinum paddle customer of yours. I can make enquiries with him about her availability if you like.”

“Thankyou, Victoria, you are indispensible. Now – the ballerina woman from Estonia…”

Confused, a little uncertain of her own state of mind, but painfully certain of her state of bottom, Sally was walking a little gingerly back to where she’d left her bicycle locked to the park railings. As the length of railings came in sight, she could see something where the bike should be, but it did not look quite right. She quickened her step, even though it made the trouser material rub most unpleasantly against her poor sore bottom no longer protected by the absent knickers. Both wheels, lights and chain had been removed from the bike, which was now a mere pathetic skeleton, still secured to the railings by padlock and chain. Sally was near to tears as she thought what a horrible day this had turned into. The bike was really the last straw. She knelt to unlock the padlock: at least that had some value and thieves would not have it. She never heard the clever, cunning feet in soft trainers approaching from behind the parked white van. The first sign of trouble was when strong hands grabbed her wrists and the back of her neck, ripping the key from her fingers. Within seconds the padlock no longer secured the remains of Sally’s bike, but instead Sally herself, chained to the bottom of the railings by her wrists crossed over the back of her neck. She was bent nearly double and had not even seen her assailants except for flashes of hand and sleeve.

“Ohmigod, partner, what have we got here?” asked a young male voice theatrically. “Looks like the sweet little piggy that interrupted us when we were doing that old man!”

“It is the same stupid porker,” another young male voice replied. “I reckon she seriously dissed us when she interfered. F*cking cow had it in for us. That old f*cker was ours. Reckon she needs a lesson teaching.”

“Watch this, then,” said the first voice; and Sally’s poor burning bottom received a vicious kick, accompanied by much laughter.

“Nah, we can do better than that,” said the second voice. To her horror, Sally felt her blouse buttons undone and her bra cut with what must have been a knife: rough hands pinched and kneaded her defenceless breasts. The next development was worse: her belt being undone and then her trousers peeled down from her waist. She knew she was humiliatingly exposed when she felt the play of cool air on her plump cheeks and a speck or two of hot ash falling from a cigarette.

“F*ck! Look at that! Someone’s given her a real going over!” said one voice. “How’d he manage that?”

“Maybe she asked for it,” the other replied. “Some girls like it. Anyway, I’m not leaving an arse like that alone, especially on a piggy c*nt!” There was a pause and a sound Sally soon recognised as one of the youths unlacing one of his trainers and taking it off. The next she knew, her poor, sore, throbbing bottom received a powerful whack from the trainer. She screamed and the youths laughed, a laugh she did not like. The next whack brought the same responses. The third was cunningly aimed at her right undercheek and produced a long, shifting wail the youths paused to savour. Then a volley of quick smacks punished her left cheek. She was sobbing now, her arse unimagineably on fire. Her punishment did not slacken for another twenty whacks or so. Then the trainer was returned to the foot and instead her tormentors began to pummel her arse cheeks with her own truncheon. She knew this was making it contort first one way, then the other, and knew all too well how the youths would enjoy this. When they finished with the punishment and decided to take her roughly from the rear, it came as almost a relief. Finally the sobbing Sally felt the truncheon pushed in to plug the gap and heard the youths running off, laughing and jeering.

She had imagined that even in that quiet corner, someone would soon arrive and either free her or call the police; but it seemed ages before the click – clop of high heels indicated she was no longer alone. The noise slowed as the person approached – and then speeded up. Whoever it was had decided not to get involved. Sally had stopped crying, but now she started again.

She was still softly blubbering like a spanked schoolgirl when something small and cooling fell on her overheated bottom, followed by others of the same sort. It was raining! Sally stopped sobbing and for a moment enjoyed the cooling relief; but as the soft shower turned to a heavy burst of rain, she realised she was getting drenched and might soon get unhealthily cold. The rain passed as rapidly and mysteriously as it had arrived, leaving Sally drenched, her remaining clothes sopping wet and her upturned bottom thoroughly wet.

Some time later she heard voices – one belonging to an upper-class woman in middle age, it seemed, and the other to a man of perhaps similar age but with some kind of foreign accent she could not identify, though it sounded vaguely familiar.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the woman, “what on earth is this thing doing? That kind of display does most dreadfully lower the tone of the neighbourhood!”

“Indeed!” the foreign man replied. “In my country any woman who so shamelessly exposed herself could count herself lucky if she got away with a bit somewhere lopped off!” They moved closer and Sally took her chance to appeal.

“Please, help, please! I got overpowered by muggers and they left me like this! Please help me get free!”

“It’s talking,” the woman said in a surprised tone. “Did you catch what it said, darling?”

“Not really, but I am sure it was of no importance,” the man replied, “no doubt some ridiculous excuse for her sluttish indecency. Good God!”

“What is it, darling?”

“You would undoubtedly say this was synchronicity, my eternal sheep, and for me it is the just will of Allah. This is the very same impertinent policewoman who refused to take action when I reported the unacceptable behaviour of that dreadful boy, and who was so foolish as to lecture me on English law. Do you remember, my pigeon, that when I recounted the events to you, you said that the pompous little hussy deserved to have her bare bottom thrashed? And now she is delivered into our hands!”

“Hmm. Looks like someone else has already done the thrashing!” the woman replied. Sally thought she sounded very close indeed. The man sounded as if he was jumping up and down with excitement.

“And here is another synchronicity, or, I prefer to think, the will of Allah revealed. Did we not within the last hour at Harrods buy a gold-plated, ebony-handled fly-swat? And is it not here in that bag you are carrying, my divine mouse?”

“Please! Please help me! I’m a police officer!” Sally interrupted.

“SILENCE, WHORE!” the man rapped, and Sally was silent.

“Yes, I’ve got the fly-swat,” the woman said, “but what…oh. What if it breaks on her, darling?”

“Then straightaway we return it to Harrods with complaint and get another that perhaps is more robust!” the man replied.

“Don’t go easy on her, darling,” the woman urged.

Sally had very little understanding of what was happening behind her. The man and the woman had neglected to release her, the man had spoken to her really very rudely, so much that she was shocked into silence, and there had been some strange conversation about the purchase of a fly-swat.

SPLAT! Now she understood. Her wet bottom stung appallingly as the special fly-swat was applied to the middle of her left cheek. She let out a shriek that was just dying away when the second swat punished her right cheek. The third and fourth were cunningly aimed, with a clever little flick of the wrist, at her sensitive undercheeks and the fifth precisely spanned her deep, dark cleft at the highest point of her twin peaks. The obviously expensive fly-swat was proving its worth as the Arab landed whack after whack with the strength of righteous vengeance. Between screams now Sally was sobbing hopelessly, which seemed to anger or excite the man to new vigour. When he finally desisted (Sally hoped) or rested (she feared), she continued crying like a defeated child.

“Darling, I want a go! Pleeeeease!” The posh woman was pleading in girly tones and the man was not minded to frustrate her. Sally’s respite was about to come to an end. With less strength but with even more malice the woman resumed the attack, soon moving from the captive policewoman’s bottom to her thighs and even her calves. “You dreadful little oik! Let that be a lesson to you!” the woman declaimed, handing the swat back to her friend. He had finished with the swat but not with the policewoman.

“There is one more matter to be dealt with. My little honeybee, you may look away,” he said.

“Oh, darling, do I have to?” she replied pleadingly.

“Of course not!” he conceded as he removed the obstruction of Sally’s truncheon and commenced a vigorous and unsubtle rogering.

With a final, proprietory pat on the haunches of the law, he and his Englishwoman were gone.

The next arrival Sally was aware of was a car. She heard it approach, heard the engine noise change as it slowed, and heard the loud beeping of the horn before it sped away. Some time later, the footsteps of a lone pedestrian approached.

Geoffrey Parslow believed in that hard counsel that if you fell off a bike (or a horse, or a rock face, or a woman) you should remount as soon as possible. Fear must not conquer. This meant going for a walk and hoping he did not get mugged again. Victoria insisted that he take her mobile phone and have it ready to key 999. As he turned into the street alongside the small park, he saw some kind of bent-up figure – a workman, perhaps, repairing the railings. No, the figure featured a large, raised, undoubtedly female naked bottom. Was it some kind of protest or performance art? Would some cackling TV personality jump out at him and tell him he had been framed? There was no obvious hiding-place for any such. The bottom was unquestionably attractive and strangely familiar. Where had he seen it before? Without doubt at the Weiss Hotel, being spanked by Anton Ionescu – and before that, pleasantly filling uniform trousers as the nice policewoman led him to safety and his wife. Since the episode at the hotel, the poor girl had obviously suffered drastic indignities. Geoffrey contemplated the situation and the bottom. He found himself prey to conflicting emotions. The policewoman had rescued him and helped him. Surely one good turn deserved another now she was the victim. Her arse was extraordinarily magnetic. He really ought to help her. He would do so.

He looked quickly and furtively around, gave her a brief but memorable screwing (up the arsehole this time for a change), composed himself and rang 999, reporting the location of a young woman, by some scraps of uniform apparently a police officer, who was trapped in some park railings and might have been assaulted. Then he walked briskly off with the warm inner glow of the righteous.

The call came through to the patrol car of Sergeant Doug Tucker. With him, for she was new and he was showing her around the patch, was Sergeant Chris Quinn.

Quinn had transferred to the Met from West Midlands, and to Queen’s Bush from Burslem wherever that was (Doug did not really want to know) because her partner had moved from being an Assistant Director of Adult Services at Birmingham City Council to being Director of Adult Services for the London Borough of Ealing. Chris Quinn had paid a visit before her move was formalised and Doug had been disappointed: she was not at all attractive, being bony, flat-chested and wiry with a rather grim, intense face. He was horrified to find out that the partner was also a woman. Sergeant Quinn was a dyke. Doug did not approve. However, he was already beginning to shift his position. Chris Quinn’s frank and earthy appraisal of some of the more screwable female officers – “Look at the arse on that!” she had said of Sally West, and of Yasmin Khan she had commented, “I’d like to see that prissy young miss taken down a peg or twelve!” – so closely agreed with his own that he began to sense some fellow-feeling. When she kneed an argumentative suspect in the groin in the back of the police van and then recorded that he had attacked her, Doug was convinced that a dyke could be a good mate and a good copper after all.

“One of our plonks got herself stuck in park railings. Has to be Bianca Van Dreiva or Sally West, unless it’s that new bird Melanie Flowers,” Doug muttered. “If it’s Banger or Sally I expect she’s lost her trousers too.”

They arrived at the scene, got out and examined the situation. Sally had not seen them.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Chris said to Doug.


You can read more Misadventures of Sally West in "East Meets West"