As I sat next to my wife Caroline on our leather settee, I closed my eyes and went back in time. As I have already written, even aged 52, her size 8 figure meant she still looked very girlie. She has good skin and looks lovely, even without make up. Her 34c breasts looked very big because of her slight build. Even though she was barely five feet tall, her legs looked as if they went on forever, made so very more slender by her high heels. I was wafted back in time, eager to hear and picture her with the man in the photographs. Listening to her still innocent little girlie voice telling me about how she was sent out to please an ex con drug dealer turned super grass, was making me hard in my pants. It was like talking dirty on the phone. I could picture it all with my eyes closed. Her words were occasionally against the background of silky rustling sounds of silk stockings against her slip, as she crossed and uncrossed her legs or topped up her gin and tonic. Otherwise there was only the sound of her voice and the dirty images she was painting in my mind. She was telling me of her days as an undercover police woman back in the early 1980s and how she had met the ugly bald headed old man in the photographs. Those photos showed her dressed up to the nines, being felt up and snogged very seriously. She told me that he was an ex army thug who had seen service. He had started smoking pot during service in Northern Ireland and the army had made him an even harder case than he had been before joining the army. The Chief Inspector warned me that he had been accused of violence against prostitutes but nothing was proven. He left the army in disgrace and turned to crime, serving time in prison, from which he had been given parole, promising to name some important names. Sex with a pretty woman had been part of the deal. He said he hated cops and wanted to fuck a police woman in uniform. Caroline had been chosen for the job of keeping him sexually satisfied during the run up to court and for the duration of the case. She promised establishment as an inspector. Investigations were still under way and the whole period was going to last for quite a few months. As she sat next to me telling me this tale, the penny dropped. Having been diagnosed with a low sperm count, the mystery of how my wife became pregnant was resolved. My hard on bulged through my trousers. With my eyes still closed, I touched my self, oblivious as to whether Caroline was looking in my direction and realising that I was getting turned on. She told me that her first meeting with this super grass was in a seedy council flat in a rough part of the city. She had been driven there by her Chief Inspector. From what she told me, this man clearly had designs on her himself and must have been getting off on the fact that he had delegated my pretty blonde young wife to have sex with a craggy, ugly bald headed criminal with a reputation for violence and an appetite for very rough sex. To cap it all, the villain- who had spent the previous nine months in jail- had insisted that Caroline wear full police woman's uniform. She was also issued with the then standard 14 inch wooden truncheon and a set of handcuffs, as requested by this nasty man. This was the early 1980s when female officers still wore skirts, jackets, white blouses and cravats. Since she had just been made up to acting Inspector, she was issued with a lady inspector's uniform a size to small because she had to look very sexy. She was also wearing black silk seamed stockings attached to a Janet Reger satin and lace suspender belt, lots of make up and four inch high heels when she turned up at the villain's council flat one early September evening. She said she had been shaking like a leaf and had been bad mouthed by people for being a copper, when she climbed the dirty stairs and went along the walkway towards the flat. Looking outward and down from that concrete dump, she said she thought it the dirtiest most vile place she had seen and wondered what sort of people could live here. All sorts of rubbish was dumped along the pathway and in and down in the square below. There was even the shell of a burnt out car. She said she realised that only animals could survive here and that was who she was going to have sex with. Shaking like a leaf, Caroline rapped the knocker on the paint flaking door with a tiny leather gloved hand. Inside she could hear much swearing. Her heart missed a beat when she made out at least three distinct male voices coming from within. She froze at the sound of someone approaching and calling back to his mates, 'This must be our striptease girl. Get ready for some fun.' When I asked Caroline what she felt when she heard this, she said she nearly wet herself. I asked her if she felt sexually aroused. She said she couldn't really remember how she felt then, but felt a bit aware of her sex- which she always kept shaven and cosseted in Janet Reger satin and lace panties. She said her stomach had butterflies. I opened my eyes to look at her. Her voice sounded very husky and emotional. She was fiddling with the hem of her pink skirt, showing off several inches of white lace and satin from her slip. Her skirt had ridden up, or maybe she had pulled it up to play with herself because her slender thighs were slightly parted. Maybe she was enjoying the memory as much as I was, but she must have been terrified by the uncertainty of it all. She was looking at her lap and did not see me glancing at her, so I shut my eyes again.. My wife went on to say that she was very frightened, waiting for the door to open. She could hear several heavy bolts being pulled back. When it did open, releasing unpleasant smells from within, her fear turned to terror because standing in front of her and looking down was the biggest black man she had ever seen. His broken nose suggested that he was also into violence, a boxer or both. In his forties, this beast smelt of fried food and sweat. He had big fat lips and a sneer on his face when he looked her up and down and called behind him: 'Hey Reg the filth have arrived. Reckon they come to take you back to the nic. Fuckin bitch inspector woman. You must done some fin really bad. Come in officer. Big boss man you want, yeh. Him in de kitchen wiv me bruvs.' Caroline said she just stood there shaking. The black man took her arm aggressively: 'You waitin' for back up. Don't see no more filth. Come in, we give you back up, back up against de wall, back up, front up, cock up. Ha, ha. Hope you brought de truncheon. We gonna make a statement OK.' Caroline said he was looking her up and down mentally undressing her as he pulled her inside the flat, slammed and rebolted the door. The big black man stepped aside, beckining her to pass him in the tiny hallway, making her brush past him and forcing his crotch against her side and grabbing a breast as she made toward the door where the voices were coming from. 'Hey bitch, you got nice firm titties' he laughed, forcing a hand inside her jacket and squeezing her left breast. Caroline said the whole place smelt of sweat, dope and fried food. The décor was tacky and shabby. She felt hands on her bottom, through the tight police woman's skirt as the black man guided her into a dirty looking living room. She was aghast to see two three other men in the rubbish strewn lounge. The three piece suite was dirty and past it and there were dirty plates and cups piled on an old table. She said the bald headed man, the super grass, was lounging back on the sofa. There were two youngish blacks, in their early twenties and a fat middle aged scruffy white guy standing close by. All were looking her up and down with hunger and vile lust. Caroline would not say whether she was aroused but admitted that she was very aware of her femininity and vulnerability in front of these crooks, as she walked into the room, her slip and stockings making rustling sounds as she click clacked across the un carpeted concrete floor. She knew her police inspector's uniform was also going to be red rag to several bulls.