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"Did this other guy, the one that attacked you, put it in your ass?"
"He didn't," I said through my teeth.
"Did he penetrate you anywhere?"
I was blinking hard, trying not to cry. I was so angry, and ashamed, and confused. I felt so helpless that I didn't know how to react. This wasn't right. None of this was right.
"I t-t-told you, he c-c-couldn't get my jeans off."
"So the jeans stayed on. What happened then?"
"He -k-k-kept . . . g-g-grinding against me.
"His bare dick against your asshole, but over your jeans."
I nodded, glaring at him. "There." I paused. "And against my thigh.
"Where on your thigh? Get up and show me?"
I shook my head, tears pouring down my face. "N-n-n-no. P-p-p-p-please. I don't want to, sir, please."
"Dear girl, if you want to catch this guy, you're going to have to do your part." His voice hardened. "Stand up now, or I'll assume you aren't serious about catching him. Did you know we've been studying a string of serial rapes over the past decade? A violent man attacking women in the woods across three cities. And a few women have even disappeared. Did you know that?"
I'd heard about one attack locally but it'd been years ago, and several more attacks, but not here, in other towns, if close ones. I'd never heard a word about the disappearances, though.
On trembling legs, I stood.
"Show me where on your thigh. Was it more toward the back? Turn around and show me."
I turned, and bent, and touched the very vulnerable spot where my groin met my thigh, deep up into my shorts.
He was a very large man with a badge and a gun. I was out of my depth. Helpless. Completely. And the way he was acting was not right.
"So he got it up that high? Damn, he was close. A few more moves and he'd have had it in."
I might've been in shock, but I went a little numb after that, my mind got a little hazy. Distant.
"But you're saying, even though he got it right there, one quick shove away from your pussy, he still couldn't figure it out, still didn't penetrate you?"
I shook my head, chin to my chest, eyes pointed down, tears falling silently. Not tears of sadness. Tears of terror.
Because I felt terrorized.
"What next?"
"He was grabbing my chest, hard, hurting me."
"Your breasts, you mean?"
"Yes."
"He bruised you up good, I heard. He really did a number on you. How are they healing up? I bet they're sensitive. Big breasts like yours usually are."
I felt exposed, mortified.
I couldn't stop trembling. The tears wouldn't stop leaking out of my eyes, and my hands went up instinctively, covering my breasts.
"They still hurt?"
