blood boiled inside of her all the while. She thought of French royalty being hauled to the guillotine in death wagons.
Fine enough, gentlemen,
she seethed. The policeman would play his little game of hauling her in and of flexing his great authority. She would toy with him in his "interview" until he tired of bothering her and "allowed" her to leave. With that, his power over her would be exhausted. And at that point, he would have concluded his little fishing trip with nothing.
Then it would be time for her to demonstrate her power over him. Not the petty, niggling power of a common street bureaucrat with minimal education and excessive brawn, but that of an intelligent, college-educated, ambitious woman with access to half the people in the SFPD who ranked over him. Several were within her active social circle. Thus the more subtle but far more lethal power of her social influence was about to bear down upon this bastard sergeant, and from every direction. A plague of locusts.
Elsie rode along in the police cart enduring simultaneous levels of discomfort. The officers had snatched her away just before she was to begin her bath, and the clothes they made her put on were the soiled ones she had just discarded.
At first she was so taken aback by them that it was almost funny to her. It was unbelievable, the sight of these two officers blithely destroying their futures by treating her this way. They wouldn't even allow her to dress in private, insisting instead that they guard her in plain sight while she went from bathrobe to fully dressed and all phases in between. The officers refused to allow her to don her usual array of support garments: unmentionable straps and elastic wraps, layers of squeeze-tight underthings that supported her hourglass shape. Instead the men had barely given her time to put on her outer clothing.
With her flesh unsupported, Elsie Sullivan's naked body usually felt, to her, like a bundle of moist rubber sacks. But once shewas safely ensconced in her lifts and wraps and girdles, she transformed into a formidable warrior woman. Men were respectful and a little shy in her presence, and most women didn't even try to give her any sort of trouble.
Today, however, without the needed strength that should have been supplied by her fabric exoskeleton, she found herself arriving at the station as a glob of moist and overlapping rubbery bags. Her own odor was excruciating to her. The assault on her senses caused her backbone to shiver uncontrollably several times.
By the time they pulled into the station and escorted her inside, she was only able to maintain a ladylike composure by concentrating on her breathing and avoiding all eye contact. They have
no idea
what they are doing, she kept reminding herself.
They have no knowledge of the sort of strings that I can pull. They are servants.
She didn't take their actions personally, as compared to those of the sergeant himself. Elsie Sullivan held a complete grasp on the appropriate care and feeding of servants, and of the delight that their proper use delivers. She would be satisfied to simply have them fired. But she was convinced that something had to be wrong with this Blackbeard fellow. His clumsiness in dealing with her begged for retaliation, cried out for it so loudly that she felt a wave of pity for the foolish man—not that it lessened her craving for his violent destruction. That was a foregone conclusion.
Elsie Sullivan had never entered City Hall through the police doors before, and she was shocked at how primitive and nasty things were below the station. The inner offices looked like they had been carved out of a cave, dimly lit, clouded by fresh cigar smoke, sour with the residue of old tobacco. The two officers, who did not yet realize that their careers were dead, escorted her into a small and bare office. There was nothing more than one large wooden table in the center of the room, with two hardwood chairs. The professionally doomed men
Fine enough, gentlemen,
she seethed. The policeman would play his little game of hauling her in and of flexing his great authority. She would toy with him in his "interview" until he tired of bothering her and "allowed" her to leave. With that, his power over her would be exhausted. And at that point, he would have concluded his little fishing trip with nothing.
Then it would be time for her to demonstrate her power over him. Not the petty, niggling power of a common street bureaucrat with minimal education and excessive brawn, but that of an intelligent, college-educated, ambitious woman with access to half the people in the SFPD who ranked over him. Several were within her active social circle. Thus the more subtle but far more lethal power of her social influence was about to bear down upon this bastard sergeant, and from every direction. A plague of locusts.
Elsie rode along in the police cart enduring simultaneous levels of discomfort. The officers had snatched her away just before she was to begin her bath, and the clothes they made her put on were the soiled ones she had just discarded.
At first she was so taken aback by them that it was almost funny to her. It was unbelievable, the sight of these two officers blithely destroying their futures by treating her this way. They wouldn't even allow her to dress in private, insisting instead that they guard her in plain sight while she went from bathrobe to fully dressed and all phases in between. The officers refused to allow her to don her usual array of support garments: unmentionable straps and elastic wraps, layers of squeeze-tight underthings that supported her hourglass shape. Instead the men had barely given her time to put on her outer clothing.
With her flesh unsupported, Elsie Sullivan's naked body usually felt, to her, like a bundle of moist rubber sacks. But once shewas safely ensconced in her lifts and wraps and girdles, she transformed into a formidable warrior woman. Men were respectful and a little shy in her presence, and most women didn't even try to give her any sort of trouble.
Today, however, without the needed strength that should have been supplied by her fabric exoskeleton, she found herself arriving at the station as a glob of moist and overlapping rubbery bags. Her own odor was excruciating to her. The assault on her senses caused her backbone to shiver uncontrollably several times.
By the time they pulled into the station and escorted her inside, she was only able to maintain a ladylike composure by concentrating on her breathing and avoiding all eye contact. They have
no idea
what they are doing, she kept reminding herself.
They have no knowledge of the sort of strings that I can pull. They are servants.
She didn't take their actions personally, as compared to those of the sergeant himself. Elsie Sullivan held a complete grasp on the appropriate care and feeding of servants, and of the delight that their proper use delivers. She would be satisfied to simply have them fired. But she was convinced that something had to be wrong with this Blackbeard fellow. His clumsiness in dealing with her begged for retaliation, cried out for it so loudly that she felt a wave of pity for the foolish man—not that it lessened her craving for his violent destruction. That was a foregone conclusion.
Elsie Sullivan had never entered City Hall through the police doors before, and she was shocked at how primitive and nasty things were below the station. The inner offices looked like they had been carved out of a cave, dimly lit, clouded by fresh cigar smoke, sour with the residue of old tobacco. The two officers, who did not yet realize that their careers were dead, escorted her into a small and bare office. There was nothing more than one large wooden table in the center of the room, with two hardwood chairs. The professionally doomed men
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