A Policewoman’s Lot

[SATISH]

For people whose experience is mainly confined to the present day, it is difficult to appreciate just how all pervasive and endemic sexism was in society and its institutions only a relatively short time ago. Organisations and the men who controlled them routinely behaved towards women in a manner that would be considered totally outrageous today. This certainly applied in the UK police force of the 1980s, when a Policewoman’s Lot was not always a happy one.

Alison Cox joined the Cambridgeshire Police Force in 1981 at the age of nineteen, at her second attempt. Her first application had been rejected the previous year on the grounds that she was still too immature to be accepted. She had not done well at the interview on that occasion, and the senior officer in charge had been quite dismissive and even contemptuous towards her. Despite this somewhat unpleasant experience, Alison had set her heart on a police career and prepared herself as well as she could prior to her second, successful application. She was delighted to be accepted and looked forward to her initial 12 week residential training course.

Alison had lived with her parents in a quiet Cambridgeshire village prior to joining the police. She would be leaving home for the first time. After leaving school at 16, she had worked locally as a receptionist at a veterinary practice, and then at a children’s nursery. She liked animals and children, but had experienced sexual harassment at the vets. The middle aged vet had tried to grope her and touch her up on more than one occasion. Other girls who had worked there had experienced similar problems, and Alison found his behaviour sufficiently unpleasant for her to leave and work at the nursery instead.

Alison was a bright and bubbly girl who enjoyed meeting people, and this was probably what attracted her to a police career. She was quite tall at 5 ft. 8, with a good figure, and striking in appearance, with long fair hair, bright blue eyes, fresh face and fleshy lips. She was possibly slightly overweight, but this was offset by a large natural 36D bust, which attracted a lot of male attention.

Alison enjoyed her residential training course, though she sometimes resented the way she and her fellow WPCs were treated by the male instructors and other male recruits, who only grudgingly accepted their presence when they were not arguing that women should not be allowed to join the police force at all. They were definitely second class citizens or a lower form of life. WPCs were routinely addressed as “Ethel” or “Doris”, whatever their actual name was, or as “Woopsies,” a corruption of WPC. Alison was mystified when some male officers called her a “plonk” until another WPC explained to her that this stood for “person of little or no knowledge,” which she thought was the worst of the four.

Alison was proud of her smart uniform, which was very much more gender specific than is the case today. In particular, WPCs wore skirts rather than trousers. Policewomen were sometimes (very rarely) allowed to wear trousers on night duty, at the discretion of their Superintendent. A WPC at Alison’s first station in the city of Cambridge made a written request to be allowed to do so, but this was refused. The standard issue skirt was just on or above knee length, without pleats, and was quite tight fitting. It tended to ride up revealingly even when getting in and out of cars, let alone climbing over a fence.

The rest of the uniform was made up of a white blouse and clip on black tie, with a quite tight fitting single breasted tunic which tended to emphasise the bust. A soft black and white cap with a chequered band was worn, with a black leather handbag and gloves, black lace up shoes and black stockings or tights. WPCs were issued with a short wooden truncheon about half the size of a male officer’s truncheon to fit inside the regulation handbag. This attracted the inevitable ribald comments about vibrators and where to insert the batteries

[SATISH]

Alison was hoping that this routine sexism would be scaled down a little when she was first posted to Cambridge, under the pressure of day to day police work. She was to be disappointed in this. In fact, in this regard the situation was far worse.

She joined one of four patrol sections working a three shift system, made up of an inspector, a patrol sergeant, a station sergeant, and 12 PCs including herself and the only other WPC, Gail Holmes, who had just completed her two year probationary period. Inspector Mick Johnson was a very pleasant, easy going and approachable 60 year old who was approaching retirement and was generally known as “Grandad.” The patrol sergeant was David Cowan and was much younger, about 30. The station sergeant was about 50, and was called James Rose. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and often absented himself from the station without warning to pay a visit to one of a number of middle aged girlfriends around the town. PS Rose showed Alison round the station on her first day, when he spent most of the time ogling her chest and making suggestive comments, which she did her best to ignore.

Alison attracted a lot of attention from the male PCs as the new Doris/ Woopsie/ Plonk. Initially she spent most of her time making the tea and doing the washing up, and helping out in the station office. Then she began to go out on mobile patrol with Don Marsh, an experienced tutor PC, who had been stationed at Cambridge for six years. He was quite friendly with a good sense of humour.

Three weeks after her arrival at Cambridge, the section was starting a night shift when PS Jim Rose said with grin that if it was quiet one night that week they would get her induction out of the way. Don Marsh and a couple of other male PCs who were present began smirking broadly. Alison didn’t know what he was talking about and asked the only other WPC, Gail Holmes. “Oh, it’s their initiation ceremony,” she said in a matter of fact way. “They stamp you on the bum with the police station rubber stamp. It’s a bit pathetic, but it doesn’t hurt. It happens to all the WPCs. It happened to me when I first got here. There’s nothing you can do about it, you just have to let them get on with it.”

Alison didn’t believe it at first, but this was confirmed by another WPC on the station. It just seemed to be normal and accepted. She felt a growing sense of apprehension as the week of night shifts progressed. It was quite busy that week and Alison thought it might have been overlooked or forgotten about with everything that had been going on. Then the final night of the shift came, a Monday night/ Tuesday morning, and it had been very quiet, something she had been dreading. Inspector Johnson was not on duty that night. Neither was PS Dave Cowan, who had to attend Court that day. There was just PS Rose and the other PCs.


PS Jim Rose and eight other male PCs gathered round Alison in the kitchen at 2 o’clock that morning after the early morning refreshment break, as she was doing the washing up. “Time for your induction now, Alison,” he said, beaming. “We’re all inked up and ready to go, Sarge,” said Don Marsh. “It’s all on the snooker table.”

[SATISH]

Alison Cox turned round apprehensively and looked up at PS Rose and the eight male PCs gathered around her in the kitchen, her mouth open and her eyes wide with fear. “But I haven’t finished the washing up yet, Sarge,”she protested weakly.

“That’s okay,” said Jim Rose. “Your induction’s overdue now and that comes first. Escort her to the snooker table, lads.” Don Marsh and another PC, Paul O’Neill, stood either side of her and held her by the upper arms, leading her towards the large snooker table in the recreation area on the top floor of the police station. The window blinds were drawn and a rubber stamp and inking pad were positioned on a small table nearby.

Alison didn’t resist or try to break free. There was no point. She knew it was going to happen, and there was nothing she could do about it. The only other policewoman on duty, Gail Holmes, was working in the station office. She hoped against hope that an emergency call came in to her rescue, a large fight or a road accident they would all have to rush out to deal with. But the radio and station tannoy were silent.

She knew that if she complained about this initiation ceremony, it was unlikely that anyone would take her seriously. It was just accepted that this happened to all new WPCs, and that was the way things were. If she did complain and was taken seriously, then that would be even worse. You just didn’t complain against other police officers. If you did, nobody would ever talk to you again and nobody would ever work with you again, even if you went to another station. Nobody would help you, and you might as well just resign from the police force. Better just to let them do what they wanted, she thought. Better just to get it over with.

Don Marsh and Paul O’Neill led her to the edge of the snooker table, with PS Jim Rose and the other half dozen male PCs in attendance. “I now have to perform your induction and formally welcome you to Cambridge Central Police Station, WPC Cox,” said Jim Rose. “Please bend over the table. Lift up your skirt and pull your knickers down.”

“Shouldn’t she take them off, Sarge?” said Paul O’Neill. “That’s what we did with Gail last time.”

“What do you think, lads?” asked PS Rose. “Down or off? It is indelible ink. Don’t want to get stains on her uniform. Not ink stains anyway.”

“Semen stains,” they guffawed in unison. “Off. Off. Get ’em off. Get ’em off, Alison.” Alison turned and looked at the assembled section, blushing scarlet with humiliation and embarrassment.

“Okay. Skirt first. Please take off your skirt, WPC Cox,” ordered Jim Rose. Alison thought she would die of shame. She felt like a stripper at a stag party. She unhooked the waist band of her uniform skirt, slowly unzipped it and pulled it down over her hips. She let it fall to the floor and stepped out of it, revealing black hold up stockings and tight black knickers, to a loud cheer from the leering section. Most policewomen wore hold up stockings, some others tights. She picked up the skirt and folded it, then placed it on the edge of the snooker table.

“Knickers next,” ordered Jim Rose.

Alison looked up nervously. “Down, or off?” she asked.

“Off!” the PCs chanted. “Off, off, off! Get ’em off!”

Alison was facing the nine male officers, all of them older than her, some like PS Rose a lot older. She didn’t know where to look. She stared at the floor to avoid their gaze, then reluctantly thumbed her knickers down over her thighs and stepped out of them, revealing her pert bottom and pussy and patch of blonde pubic hair. A raucous cheer followed from the assembled PCs. Alison covered her pussy with both hands and turned away from them.

“Please bend over the snooker table, WPC Cox,” said PS Rose. She complied and leant forward, fully exposing her bottom, dressed only in her white short sleeved blouse, black stockings and shoes. Jim Rose stepped forward and placed his hand on her left buttock, then on her right. He picked up the large police station rubber stamp from
the inking pad. Holding Alison’s left buttock firmly with his left hand, he pressed the rubber stamp firmly against the bare skin, leaving the words “Cambridgeshire Police/ Cambridge Central Police Station/ Signed …………” clearly visible in dark blue ink. The PCs cheered. He then leisurely repeated the process with the right buttock.

[SATISH]

The stamp isn’t valid unless it’s signed, Sarge,” said Don Marsh, brandishing a felt tip pen.

“Better sign WPC Cox’s bottom then, lads,” retorted Jim Rose. The section needed no second bidding. Each of the PCs stepped forward in turn, held her buttocks firmly, and added their signatures to her bottom. Alison felt like breaking down and bursting into tears, but remained bent over the table. At least it would be all over in a minute, she thought.

“Just as well she took her skirt and knickers off to avoid the stains,” said Paul O’Neill. “What about her boobs, Sarge. Are we going to do her boobs as well?”

Alison turned and looked at the leering PCs in horror. She had thought that was the end of it. But they all enthusiastically agreed to stamp her bust as well. “Okay. Please take off your blouse, WPC Cox,” he ordered.

Alison reluctantly obeyed. She slowly unbuttoned her short sleeved blouse and drew it over her shoulders, revealing a lacy white bra. She folded the blouse and placed it on top of the skirt on the edge of the snooker table. “Bra next, WPC Cox,” said PS Rose. “Or it’ll be ruined with ink stains.”

Oh my God, thought Alison. They really were going to stamp her breasts as well. She hadn’t expected this. She flushed an even deeper shade of scarlet and reached behind her to unhook her bra, freeing her large breasts. She placed the bra on top of her blouse. She was now completely naked in front of the nine men, except for her shoes and hold up stockings, her breasts, pussy and ink covered buttocks exposed to their gaze. Alison wished the ground would just open and swallow her up. She had never experienced anything as humiliating as this before in her life. They all whooped and cheered.

Don Marsh ogled her large breasts. “You don’t get many of those to the pound,” he said, to sniggers from the others. “Maybe we need a bigger rubber stamp, Sarge.”

Alison made no attempt to resist or protest as Jim Rose stepped forward, grasped each breast firmly in turn with his left hand, and pressed the rubber stamp against it, leaving it covered with the police station logo in blue ink. “Signatures required again, gents,” he said.

Each of the PCs stepped forward eagerly to grope Alison’s bust and add their signatures to her breasts. Soon her bust was covered in blue printing ink just like her bottom. She heard a loud click as PS Rose took a polaroid photo of her breasts. He then ordered her to turn round, and took a photo of her stamped buttocks.

“That completes your induction, WPC Cox,” said Jim Rose. “Congratulations, you are now a fully fledged member of Cambridge Central Police Station and its best Section, No. 4 Section. Gentlemen, three cheers for WPC Cox.” They gave her three rousing cheers. Alison’s spirits rose a little. It was the most humiliating experience of her life, but at least it was over now. And perhaps this meant she was now accepted by everyone as a member of the section.

PS Rose produced a polythene bag containing a bottle of whisky and plastic cups. He poured a strong measure into each and gave one to Alison. “Down in one, WPC Cox,” he said. “Gentlemen, a toast to our new Woopsie, WPC Cox. She’s a good sport and she delivers the goods.” They all whooped and cheered again. Alison coughed and spluttered as she gulped down the whisky. PS Rose and each of the eight PCs then stepped forward in turn, embraced the nearly naked girl, and kissed her on the cheek.


Alison had just been sexually assaulted by nine men, but she tried to rationalise this as high spirits or a practical joke, or just something they did. But at least it was over now. She gathered up her uniform from the snooker table and hurried over to take refuge in the ladies’ toilets and gather her thoughts.

[SATISH]

Following her ordeal, WPC Cox managed to retain her composure till she dashed into the ladies toilet. Then she collapsed on to a toilet seat, holding her uniform in a bundle in front of her. She was still naked apart from her shoes and stockings. She held her face in her hands, sobbing loudly. She looked at her ink covered breasts and got up to examine her stamped bust and buttocks in the mirror. At that moment, WPC Gail Holmes came in.

“Don’t cry, Ali,” she said, hugging her shoulders to comfort her. “Don’t cry. It’s okay. Did they do your boobs as well? They only did my bum when they did me. It’s okay. It’s all over now. Don’t let them upset you.”

Alison was inconsolable, and burst into floods of tears. “But they made me strip, Gail,” she said. “I felt like a stripper or a call girl. It was so humiliating.”

“Don’t upset yourself, Ali. There’s nothing you could do about it. You know Sarah Glynn, on 1 Section? She struggled and tried to get away when they did her. But they just handcuffed her hands behind her back and did it anyway. They’re just like kids really. Big kids. I hated it when they did it to me. But once you’ve let them do it, they accept you and treat you as one of them. They’ll help you and look after you. We’ll always be Woopsies and Plonks, but we’re THEIR Woopsies and THEIR Plonks now. That’s the difference. They’ll take care of you. Now let’s get you dressed.”

Gail helped Alison get dressed, and her tears gradually subsided. She wiped her face with a tissue from her handbag, and hugged her again. “Try to act like nothing’s happened,” she said. ” They’ll respect you more. It’ll all be forgotten in a few days’ time.”

WPC Holmes was right. The male PCs were still patronising towards her, but now showed concern for her welfare. Andrew Dawson, one of the younger PCs, volunteered to make the tea on the early shift to give her a break. Alison ingratiated herself with the PCs by making them bacon sandwiches when they started work at 6 a.m. as the canteen didn’t open till nine. She had difficulty with her paperwork, and they would help her with reports. Don Marsh was a good mechanic and fixed her car when it wouldn’t start. Paul O’Neill told her about a furnished flat above his brother’s fruit and veg shop that was up for rent cheap, and the section helped her move in. They let her work in the front office on night duty when the weather was bad. She got to know and like all of them, despite the snooker table episode, which had been forgiven if not forgotten. She began to feel more like one of the section.

Alison was walking the beat in Cambridge city centre one night when she had a violent encounter with some drunken youths. One of them punched her in the face and left her dazed on the ground. The rest of the Section was at the scene in less than a minute. They dealt out some instant justice to the drunk, who was taken down an alley and given the mother and father of all beatings. He never was charged with anything, they just threw him in the back of the van and dumped him outside Casualty at the local hospital with a broken jaw. Word got around that you just didn’t hit policewomen.

Alison was taken home and Don Marsh drove her car to her flat. They all called round to check on her the following day. It was like having several big brothers in a way.