0 comments/ 28462 views/ 0 favorites No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 01 By: TheScribe Chapter I: Trash Can Calls a Friend It all began a year ago, almost to the day. Caleb had been working late in his office; the one with the antique mahogany desk, the flags in the corners, the bookcases filled with worn law books and the green leather sofas and chairs. He was studying transcripts from a case, which he had heard a few days earlier and was jotting down his impressions on a yellow legal pad. His intercom crackled, breaking his concentration, and he heard Mildred, his secretary, announcing that Terrell Cloud was holding on the line, and that he was insisting on talking to him. "Who?" he asked impatiently. Mildred had worked for him for years and knew better than to interrupt him while he was working on a case unless it was really important. "Terrell Cloud." She repeated. "He says you were classmates school and that he urgently needs to talk to you. I wouldn't call him desperate exactly, but he said it was really important." Caleb rocked back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment trying to visualize the caller. Lord, he thought, Terrell Cloud. What's it been? Ten years at least. Where the hell did he wind up? Kansas or Arkansas, naw, further, Oklahoma, maybe. What in the world could it be that's so important he has to call me up to talk about it? Probably the ten year reunion or something else equally inane." Caleb sat up and dropped his pen in the open transcript to mark his place. He pressed the talk button on the intercom and asked Mildred to put the call through. "Hello," he said, picking up the receiver on the second ring. "Caleb?" a voice from his distant past responded uncertainly. "Yep, it's me, Trash Can. Is that really you?" Caleb replied with a chuckle, confirming the connection. The vaguely familiar voice brought back a flood of memories. They had been close in school, but like so many others, they had scattered and had become absorbed with the practice of law and making money and babies, not necessarily in that order, and had drifted apart. He smiled recalling how Terrell had acquired the nickname, "Trash Can." Exams school were a very big deal; there was only one per course, the final, so what ever you made on that one was what you got in the course. Exams made everybody up tight and nervous because so much was riding on them, but Terrell had elevated that anxiety to an art form. He would wind up and his stomach would be tied in knots, and the closer he got to exams, the worse he got, so, by the time exams day arrived, he would be a wreck. He would creep up the steps in front of the law school, white as a sheet, trembling and sweating like a death row inmate opening a letter from the Supreme Court, and, the minute he came through the front door, he would run all out for the nearest trash can to puke his guts out. He became so predictable, and proved to be such an inadequate sprinter, that the janitor started putting a trash can out by the front door just for him to throw up in, and then, somebody hung a sign with Terrell's name on the can. After that, somebody wrote "Trash Can Day" across the top of the exam schedule, which was posted on the bulletin board out in the main hall, and from then on, on exam day there would be a pretty sizeable crowd hanging around out front to cheer as Terrell went through his ritual. The rest, as they say, is history. "It's me, Caleb." Trash Can replied somewhat plaintively. "You think I'll ever get past that nickname?" "Course you will, Terrell." Caleb answered reassuringly. "Soon as you out live all your classmates." "That might be tough to do, since I'm about ten years older than the rest of you guys." "Yeah, but we're catching up with you, and, besides, we're droppin' like flies here lately. You heard about Richard Turklo, I guess?" "Yes, I did. Motorcycle accident, wasn't it?" "No, he survived that; snowboarding, hit a tree. Killed him instantly, just like Sonny Bono." "That's awful." Terrell answered mournfully. "But, I don't remember Bono, was he in our class or the year after?" "He was two years later, Trash Can." Caleb replied evenly, doing his best not to laugh. "Oh, OK, I'll look him up in the yearbook." "You do that," Caleb chuckled. Changing the subject, he continued, "Where are you nowadays, Terrell?" "Sedalia." "Sedalia?" "Yeah, Sedalia, Missouri. Bonnie and I moved out here about four years ago. Her mom got sick and Bonnie wanted to be closer, so her dad, he has a U-Haul franchise here, set me up an office in the back of his business, and I've been practicing out of there ever since." "How's business, then? Kind of hard starting over in a new place, isn't it?" "Business has been pretty good. Mostly domestic relations, divorces and custody, stuff like that. Works out pretty good too, I get them the divorce and Daddy Warton, that's Bonnie's dad, rents `em a trailer to move their stuff with when they separate." "Sounds like the perfect setup," Caleb replied agreeably, masking some growing impatience. "How about you, Caleb? You been nominated for the Supreme Court yet?" "Not yet, Trash Can, and, with my past, I don't think I could stand up to the vetting." "You haven't been neglecting the FICA taxes on your housekeeper, have you, Caleb?" he asked jokingly. "A little worse than that, Terrell," Caleb replied vaguely, "but surely you didn't call just to vet me out for the Supreme Court nomination." "No, actually I need your help, Caleb." "My help with what, Terrell?" he replied somewhat uncertainly. "There's this woman I know, here in Sedalia. She's in trouble," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper as though he feared being overheard. "Excuse me?" Caleb snapped back incredulously, "I figured you were a little beyond getting women in trouble, Terrell." "Oh, no," he gasped. "That's not it. She's not pregnant; she's in real trouble, maybe even in danger." "Sounds like a problem for the police, Terrell, why don't you call them?" "They won't lift a finger to help her, Caleb. It's a political thing. You know how it works, don't you. A person gets on the wrong side of somebody in authority and pretty soon every where they turn there're nothing but stone walls." "Oh yeah, I know exactly what you mean," Caleb replied bristling a little, "never did care much for that kind of crap." "I know you don't, Caleb," Terrell answered with a hint of admiration in his voice. "How many crooked sheriffs have you put away, now?" "Oh, I don't know; two or three," he replied modestly. "Well, what ever the number, you've acquired quite a reputation from it. You know what they're saying about you, don't you? That your methods are pretty unconventional most of the time, but that you're firm, fair and solid as a rock when you make up your mind." "Well, thanks, Terrell, but I still don't see how I can be of any help to your woman friend." "She's not a friend, Caleb, she's way too young and pretty for that. She's a client, and it's a long story. I was hoping you could give me a few minutes to fill you in and convince you to help." Caleb glanced at his watch. It was nearly five o'clock, and his day was already shot. There was no way he could get back to the transcript and accomplish anything more before suppertime. And, Terrell had presented him with some pretty good bait with that business about the police ignoring his client's problems. That was just the sort of thing to peak his interest and get his blood flowing. And, for certain, playing to his vanity with that remark about his reputation was pretty clever. And then, old Trash Can had really set the hook with that "young and pretty" comment. Maybe the old fox wasn't as dim as he acted. After all, he had "aced" every law school exam he ever took, puking first, notwithstanding. Caleb pulled his chin in contemplation for a moment, wondering if he was about to be taken for a ride, and mentally flipped a coin. Heads it was; heads always comes up on the side of friendship. "Hold on a minute, Terrell, I'll be right back," Caleb said after the pause, and he reached for the talk button on the intercom. "Mildred, you can go on home. It looks like I'm going to be here a while longer. See you tomorrow." "Good night, Judge. See you in the morning. Don't forget, you have that hearing on McPeak's Habeas Corpus petition at eight o'clock." "I'll remember, Mildred. Thanks." He switched the intercom off and returned the telephone receiver to his ear. He waited till he heard Mildred saying goodnight to the Sheriff's deputy stationed in the hallway outside his chambers and the sound of his outer office door closing, before he spoke. "OK, Terrell, you have my undivided attention, so let's hear what you've got to say." Caleb leaned back in the chair and settled in for Trash Can's long story. As it turns out, it was quite a story indeed, a sordid one with ramifications for many people, innocent and otherwise, not the least of whom would be himself. He had listened with mild interest in the beginning as Terrell filled in the background, but after the first quarter hour or so, he was sitting up and scribbling notes on his legal pad and was already three pages into the story. Her name was Anne, Terrell said, but he wouldn't reveal her last name unless and until Caleb had agreed to help her. He said it was "too dangerous for her." She was young, only a few years out of college and was a teacher. She had been orphaned as a teenager and was sent to live in an orphanage. The operators of the orphanage were a sorry pair, named Caruthers, who had a few scrapes with the law, but nothing major until now. They forced the girl to participate in what became a criminal enterprise engaged in creating and distributing child pornography. She had run away, and, with help, went to college, got a degree and had pretty well started out fresh. She had worked a couple of teaching jobs and wound up teaching at a private boys school not far away. That's where her past caught up with her a while back. The Caruthers showed up at the school where she was teaching and sold some pictures of her to the headmaster there. They weren't sure at this point how the Caruthers tracked her down, although that wouldn't have been too hard to do if they were really trying to find her. Whatever, they showed up with pictures of her to sell. They didn't make any attempt to blackmail her themselves; she didn't even know they were around till Caruthers showed up in the headmaster's office one evening. She says Caruthers got thirteen hundred dollars for a handful of photos, which was about ten times what they were worth on the street, so she figures that the idea was for the principal to use them against her and blackmail her with them. As it turns out, she was probably right, 'cause the Caruthers were fugitives at the time. The postal inspectors were after them on child pornography charges but hadn't moved quickly enough, and they got away. Terrell guessed that the Caruthers were living out of their van, on the run, and that they figured they could make some quick, easy cash from the photos by selling them to somebody who had a use for them. Wasn't much later that the inspectors showed up at Anne's school looking for her and asking questions about her involvement in the porn ring, and that's when she came to me. Caleb interrupted. "So what's the problem, Terrell? What's the danger to her?" "She's afraid that the Caruthers are after her; that they'll try to kill her, or maybe kidnap her and carry her off somewhere where she can't testify against them." "Is that realistic, or is she just a scared kid seeing bogeymen in the dark?" "She's young, Caleb, but she's no kid, and yes, I think, it's a rational fear. The inspectors made it pretty clear to everybody that she's a prime witness against the Caruthers. She was the only girl in the photos they've uncovered so far, and most of the boys have scattered to the winds, so she's really important to the government's case. The Caruthers know that, too, and they have to know that without Anne's testimony, the government's going to have a hellova time getting a conviction on them." "OK, Terrell, I can see that reasoning, I guess, but why me? Why not just go to the postal inspectors and offer her cooperation and get them to put her into the federal witness protection program? Happens all the time." "We tried that already. It was the first thing that I thought of, Caleb, but they weren't buying." "Whacha mean 'they weren't buying?'" Caleb asked incredulously. "The subject of their investigation is threatening their principal witness and they refuse to protect her?" "That's it in a nutshell, Caleb." "Well, why the hell not? What's their excuse?" "They claim they're not sure at this point whether she was forced or cooperated in making the pictures. Claim she was smiling and looking pretty excited in most of them, so they figure she wanted to do whatever it was she was doing and that makes her an accomplice. Since she's potentially an accomplice and may be charged along with the Caruthers, they claim they can't be offering her any protection at this point." "That's a crock, and they know it, Terrell, or they've forgotten all about that business with Patty Hearst and the S.L.A. Besides, how the hell are they going to charge a minor child with being an accomplice in her own statutory rape? You did say she was under age during all this, didn't you?" "Well, she was close on the age thing. Some photos before, some after, and who the hell knows when the ones the inspectors have were made. From the few she's showed me, it's anybody's guess." "That's a complication, I suppose, but I still think they're just bluffing, squeezing her into cooperating by scaring hell out of her first." "I agree with that, Caleb, but there's another angle, too." "I think I can guess what that is, Terrell, but you tell me." "She's bait. As long as she's a threat to the Caruthers, there's a chance they'll show up and try to get her out of the way, so the government's just sitting back and letting her attract their flies for them." "The inspectors know that the Caruthers have already been there to see her and know where she can be found?" "Oh yeah, her principal volunteered that much immediately, but he also denied buying anything from the Caruthers, and fired her on the spot." "So he has some photos of her, too, I guess?" "Not any more, she made him give them to her before she left." "Interesting. How'd she manage to do that?" "I'm not sure, Caleb. She wouldn't say, actually. Mentioned something about a handkerchief, was all, and said he was a spineless worm. The girl's got moxie, buddy, I promise you that." "OK, that's not important anyway. But look, I can't say as I blame her for not liking her position, Terrell, but, since they'll be looking for the Caruthers there, they'll have the place staked out, so it's not like she's unprotected and all alone." "Wish you were right, Caleb, but with all the cutbacks in personnel and funding, the Postal Service doesn't have the manpower to do the job and can't afford to pay the overtime it would take to stake out her place around the clock." "So, what are they doing?" "Drive bys." "`Drive bys?' What in hell is a 'drive by?'" "Their investigators have been told to drive by her place whenever they are in the vicinity and check for suspicious activity." "That's comforting," Caleb said sarcastically. "How often do they plan on 'driving by'?" "Well, she's pretty far off the beaten path for them and they don't have a lot of business down there, so they were guessing maybe every three or four days somebody could get over there and check on her." "Shit!" Caleb exclaimed. "How about the locals? Did the Postal Service apprise them of the situation and ask them for help?" "Yeah, they did, but the Sheriff gave them some story about being short handed himself, and flatly refused to do a thing. Later, he sent one of his deputies around to tell her that if she knew what was good for her, she would get hell out of town before sundown." "Jesus, Terrell, when was that?" "Couple of days ago; about the time she came in here looking for me." "What was that about? Have any idea?" "She's pretty vague, Caleb, but from what I can gather, she got mixed up in some sort of business at her school that involved the mayor's son, and, somehow, she got crosswise with the mayor. What ever happened, the upshot was that the sheriff said that if the Caruthers did catch up with her, she probably wouldn't get much worse than she deserved, and he didn't much give a damn what happened to her." "Well, isn't that a hell of a note." Caleb declared. "Where is she now?" "She's holed up in the motel downtown. I have her car hidden out behind the shop in one of Daddy Warton's sheds, but it's just a matter of time before they find her again." "Who's 'they,' Terrell?" "The Caruthers and the Postal Service, of course." The questions startled him a little. "And, you wanted me to help her hide from 'them'?" "Well, the Caruthers, anyway, Caleb." His response was somewhat contrite. "I'm glad we understand each other, Trash Can. I can help her hide from the Caruthers, but I can't do a thing to help her flee from prosecution or to avoid testifying against the Caruthers. You know that." "Absolutely." "Good. Now look, it's getting late and there's not much we can do tonight. I will put my people on this first thing in the morning. They'll check out what she's told you and report back to me on it. If she checks out, I'll agree to help her on the condition that you tell the Postal Service that she is in hiding, that you know where, and that she is prepared to surrender herself immediately if charges are brought against her, and, in the event the Caruthers are arrested and brought to trial, she will testify voluntarily against them on any matter the Postal Service desires of her. Consistently, of course, with her Fifth Amendment rights. Got that?" "Yes, sir, Caleb. I got it loud and clear." "Want to discuss it with her first?" "No need, Caleb. I already told her those would be your conditions and she's agreed." "Good. We have a deal then, Trash Can. You tell her to get some sleep, 'cause my boys will be there tomorrow to talk to her. They'll check with you first at the U-Haul store, and you can take them to her. That OK with you?" "Yeah, sure. Who are they?" "Just a couple of guys who've worked for me in the past. One's ex-CIA and the other's a former FBI agent. Both of them were Special Forces in the Army, way back whenever. They're good men, Trash Can, tough when they need to be, and thorough. You help them all you can. OK?" "Of course, Caleb, whatever they need, you know that, but where do you come up with guys like that?" "Oh, here and there, where's not important. Just remember, you can trust them like you trust me, and they are there to ask questions, not to answer them. Understood." "Absolutely." "Good, then. Good night, Trash Can. I'll give you my final answer within the week. Your client good to hold up that long?" "She'll have to be, Caleb. G'night." Caleb left the receiver pressed against his ear and broke the connection with his forefinger pressing on the button. He dialed from memory and listened patiently for his call to ring. A familiar voice answered on the third ring. "Hello, Judge." The voice was deep and forceful, with a hint of accent, which Caleb thought would be difficult to recognize if he did not already know the source. "Damn, Moon Dog, you spooky bastard, how did you know it was me?" `Moon Dog' was a code name from the Army days, which had stuck. It came in handy when Caleb didn't want eavesdroppers to know to whom he was talking. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 01 "Caller ID, Judge." There was the sound of a chuckle on the other end of the line. "Not exactly cutting edge technology, you know, so I wouldn't call it 'spooky,' exactly." "Well, whatever," Caleb said, recovering from his surprise, "I have a job for you. Needs immediate attention. There's a young woman over in Sedalia, who's apparently in some danger and says she needs my help. I need her story checked out before I commit myself. Are you in a position to get over there and talk to her on such short notice?" "Sure, Judge, no problem. How soon do you want a report?" "Phone in every afternoon at five; I'll tell Mildred to expect the calls and to put you through. You can follow up with a written report over the weekend. We need to wrap this up within the week. Agreed?" "I'll get right on it, Judge. You don't want me to do this alone, do you?" "No, take Hunter with you. Two of you will be faster than one, and you never know when you might need a witness." "You got it, Judge. Now, you want to fill me in on what we're looking for?" Caleb proceeded to recount the details of his phone conversation with Terrell. Moon Dog interrupted occasionally to clear up a point or obtain a better description, and Caleb kicked himself a couple of times for not being thorough enough in his questioning of Trash Can. After a few minutes, Moon Dog had a pretty good idea of the assignment and was pressing to get off the line. "I'll start with your old buddy, Trash Can, Judge and then talk to the woman, and we'll go from there. While we were talking, I checked the Internet and I can get a flight out of here at 5:00 am, so I should be there around noon, figuring a couple of hours driving down from the airport. I gotta get going; talk to you tomorrow at 5:00." "Five, it is. You be careful, Moon Dog, Caruthers sounds like he could get pretty nasty." "Don't worry about us, Judge. He's nothing Hunter and I can't handle." "I believe that." The daily reports and the dossier, which were delivered by special courier on Friday, had spelled out things pretty clearly and left little to the Judge's imagination. That's the way Moon Dog liked to work; dig out the facts, pretty or ugly, lay them out on the table in all their sordid details and let the Judge make the call. In the end, of course, he had agreed to help the girl, although not without misgivings. What proved to be the deciding factor is anybody's guess, but the decision changed his life forever. As he expected, Moon Dog and Hunter had done their jobs well; the dossier was hefty, two hundred pages or so, and read with the same excruciating detail as Ken Starr's Independent Counsel's report of the Lewinsky matter. They had obviously interviewed the girl extensively and with far better results than Trash Can had gotten, because there were some pretty significant variations in the girl's stories which Moon Dog had duly noted in his report. Caleb read the report immediately and instantly became engrossed. He read it through once, quickly, just to get the gist of the story and then he laid the report on his desk and stood to stretch for a minute before beginning a second read for substance. It was late, nearing the supper hour, but he was too preoccupied with the girl's story to notice his hunger. He glanced out the window and, in the gathering darkness he could just make out the Verhines going through their nightly ritual of closing up their jewelry shop across the street. Always the same, he laughed, Ismael would wait in the car out front, while Irene would turn out the lights and lock up for the night, and, as soon as Irene climbed into the car, Ismael would clamber out and go back to the store to check the locks. He could see Irene leaning out of the car, screaming at Ismael, and although the sounds couldn't penetrate the thick, bulletproof glass of his windows, he, like everyone else in town, knew exactly what she was saying, because it was always the same. "Ismael, come back to the car. What do you take your wife for, some schmuck that can't lock a door? Oy, it's late and I'm ravenous. Quit wasting my time and take me to dinner." Once, the story went, some forty years before, they had arrived to open the store in the morning and found the door unlocked. Nothing was missing, hell, they didn't think anybody even knew the place was unlocked but old Ismael had never let Irene forget that lapse. Caleb loosened his tie and collar and settled into his soft leather chair, before picking up Moon Dog's report again. He arranged a yellow, legal pad and a hand full of pencils on the desk, so he could take notes, and thumbed past the pages of expense statements, witness identifications and daily schedules in the front to reach the first page and began to study the report in earnest. Moon Dog's Report Anne had, indeed, grown up in Missouri, in a little town not far from Sedalia. Her parents had been decent, middle class folks, who minded their business, went to church on Wednesday nights, regular as clockwork, and never gave anybody any trouble. Her daddy had been a gentle sort of soul, a slightly built man, who tended to be a little on the timid side. He had worked as a clerk in a shoe store nearly all of his life, and he worshiped the ground her mother walked on. He would bring her presents wrapped in shiny paper and tied with gay, brightly colored ribbons for no reason at all and she would laugh happily and tear into the paper excitedly, kissing him eagerly when the gift emerged, but she always made him take them back, saying they were too expensive. Anne had been their only child, and, like other couples who begin families later in life often experience, they never seemed to be completely sure of what to make of her. Cancer had taken her mother early, while Anne was still young and in high school. There followed a really dark period. Anne's father slid into a deep depression. He shut himself in his room for days at a time, ignoring Anne, and took what solace he could from the bottle. They tried to be patient and understanding at the shoe store, but too many absences, or worse, too many drunken appearances, stretched them thin and he was let go. His decline worsened, and he drank more in a deepening cycle of pain, despair and guilt. Anne would come home and find him collapsed on the living room floor in a puddle of vomit and urine, and she would clean him up and put him to bed. Things happened to her in school, terrible things, and when she went to him for help, he would sob drunkenly and tell her to ask her mother. In a year he too was gone, and Anne was cast adrift to handle her sorrow as best she could. The State took custody of her because she was a minor and had no relatives to take her in, and she was sent to live at the Caruthers' Children's Home for Orphans. It was a horrible place, tattered and run down, and overcrowded with children of all ages. It was operated by a truly vile couple, Cletus and Nadeen Caruthers, who, after a failed attempt at pig farming, decided to try their luck at raising orphans. Their only interest, at least until Anne arrived, was collecting the monthly support payments which the State made for each orphan and spending as little of it as possible on the children. Upon her arrival at the home, the Caruthers immediately appreciated some considerable commercial opportunity in her unusual beauty and budding figure, and, being encouraged by rumors about some disgusting events at her school, they forced her to perform some unspeakably depraved and degrading acts, while they photographed and videotaped her. They kept her there, a virtual prisoner, till well past her eighteenth birthday, the point at which the State had ceased paying for her upkeep, and she only got away with the help of one of her teachers, who had encouraged her to apply for college. She did so secretively because she knew Cletus and Nadeen would block her plan if they learned of it in time. The teacher received the letter saying she had been accepted and was being awarded a full scholarship, and gave it to her in class, and that night she crawled out a window with all her belongings in a pillow case over her shoulder and turned her back on the Caruthers' Children's Home for Orphans forever. She bought a ticket and took the bus to Rolla, and she spent the next several years trying her best to put Cletus and Nadeen behind her. She graduated Cum Laude, because she was bright and energetic and passed the National Teacher's Examination easily. She had time on her hands in college because she was socially withdrawn and had few friends. She developed an interest in physical fitness and spent most of her free time working out in the school gym. She started running in the evenings, and, by the time she graduated, she was entering 10-kilometer races and regularly finishing in the top twenty-five. She took her first position teaching elementary school in a county near St. Louis, but when the local pencil factory shut down, most of the workers moved away and there were too many teachers, so her contract wasn't renewed. She struggled and searched for work, being careful not to look too close to the Caruthers, but in the end she was forced to take a job that turned out to be too close for her own good. It wasn't what she had wanted at all. It was only about forty miles from what had been home, and it was a private school, grades 7 through 12, that didn't pay nearly as well as public schools, but she was new and hadn't much experience, so she had to take what she could get. The school building was located some distance off the road. It was a solid looking, stone structure, built with massive blocks of Missouri limestone, with small windows lined up in soldierly array across the facade. The windows were placed high on the walls, which rendered them very good for letting in light but not so good for looking out and gazing at the scenery, and their placement gave the place a fortified look which was not unlike the state prison where she had gone once with Cletus and Nadeen to visit Nadeen's mother. The structure frowned down at the long drive from the road and dominated the landscape with its crenellated walls and fortified towers at either end. It had been a convent in years past, was abandoned for a while and lately had been restored to a new purpose as a boys' school. More precisely, it found new life as a school for wayward, problem boys of well to do parents; a sort of halfway house for prominent kids on the path to reform school or military service; a stopping point for errant youths requiring a third or fourth chance. She had hated the name, "Hardwick School for Young Men," from the minute she first saw it on the marquee on the highway just out of town, because she had some very unpleasant memories involving candles, and she hated it worse when she met Headmaster Rufus Justice, who was better known to the student population as "Rough Justice," on account of his penchant for using the whip, particularly in those cases where the object of his discipline lacked influential parents. Rufus was unctuous and officious, but he was not unattractive in an oily, slicked-back way, sort of like a used car salesman with a vocabulary. There were things about him which reminded her of Cletus, especially when he leered at her salaciously during her job interview, and he made her uneasy, but she put her reservations aside, because she was nearly out of money, and took the job. She spent most of her time avoiding Headmaster Justice, who had become fond of staring at her legs and bosom and patting her inappropriately. She made few friends among the faculty because they feared Rufus nearly as much as the students did, and didn't want to be seen to be interfering with whatever relationship Rufus had in mind to establish with the pretty, new teacher. At first it wasn't too bad because football season was getting underway and Rufus was pretty well occupied with explaining the intricacies of the game to the football coach and generally left her alone outside of lunchtime. A good while before Halloween, however, he realized the football season was pretty much of a lost cause for that year and found himself with a good bit of free time on his hands, and so he took to dropping by her classroom to observe her "techniques," and calling her into his office on every pretext he could manufacture. He developed a keen interest in her social life and extracurricular activities and was constantly asking her if she was lonely or needed something fun to do. She made excuses and brushed him off politely, but he was obviously becoming impatient with her and had developed an itch, which he needed to scratch in the worst way. Caleb chewed absentmindedly on the eraser of a pencil while he read through the background information that Moon Dog had provided. He caught himself anticipating the next pages, his mind racing ahead to the salacious parts of the story that he knew were coming, and he remonstrated himself for his impatience. Cool it, buddy, he thought, reminding himself that the devil's in the details and to slow down and absorb the thing. He laid the report on his desk and, standing, walked across the room to the credenza against the wall beneath the portraits of old Andrew Jackson and Alvin York. He took a small brass key from his vest pocket and unlocked the cabinet, swinging the doors open to access the two shelves of liquor bottles. He immediately poured himself two fingers of single malt scotch in a tumbler and raised the glass in his own ritualistic salute to the two famous Tennesseans. "Go Vols," he said, nodding toward the stern countenances of "Old Hickory" and Sgt. York, and took a small, judicious sip of the liquor, before returning to his desk and Moon Dog's report. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 02 The smooth liquid burned his lips and tongue. He could taste the smoky flavor of burning peat in the scotch as he swirled it in his mouth. It had a rich, earthy taste that reminded him of the sturdy stone houses and walled fields of Scotland, and never failed to infuse him with a feeling of calming warmth. This might turn into a two-scotch night, he mused, returning to the crisp, sterile white sheets of Moon Dog's report. Things had bumped along, roughly, more or less, with Anne maintaining as much distance as she could, until one afternoon, while she was working late to finish her report on a special fund raising project that Rufus had assigned to her at the last minute, he summoned her to his office over the school paging system. It was nearly evening and the building was practically deserted except for old Jackson, the custodian, who was way down at the gym mopping out the showers. On the way into Mr. Justice's office, she glanced out the windows in the front door to the school and saw an old, battered, rust-streaked van with a fender missing parked in the loading zone. She thought that odd, since tuition at Hardwick was more than enough to insure that vehicles in that condition didn't show up there very often, or, when they did, remain there for long, and she wondered what sort of business had brought the occupants of that van to the school, and if it possibly could have anything to do with her. Her heart sank like a stone when she walked to the door to Headmaster Justice's office and saw Cletus Caruthers sitting there, leaning his chair back against the wall and smoking one of Rufus' contraband Cuban cigars. He and Rufus were laughing over a pile of eight by ten glossy photographs, which had been spread out all over the Headmaster's desk. "Ah, Miss Anne," Rufus gushed triumphantly when she appeared in the doorway. "You remember Mr. Cletus Caruthers, I’m sure. He's the proprietor of that excellent home, the Caruthers' Children's Home for Orphans. I believe you are acquainted with it?" She gagged at the sight of the two of them together and sagged against the doorframe, unable to speak. Cletus glared at her malevolently; his mouth was set in a hard line, which she remembered all too well. His teeth clamped down on the stub of his cigar and a long ash was just dropping from the end onto his stained, dirty trouser leg. Headmaster Justice rubbed his hands together malignantly and gloated as the attractive teacher's composure began to disintegrate. "Mr. Caruthers and I share an appreciation for uh, hmmm, how shall I put it to be delicate, Miss Anne? Shall we say ‘artistic’ photographs? Yes, that's it, we share a fondness for artistic photographs, and Mr. Caruthers has been good enough to bring some of his very best ones for me to enjoy today, Miss Anne, and I must say they are stunning. Here, would you care to see them, my dear?" Her mind reeled in horrified terror. Her eyes darted frantically around the room. Rufus was leering at her from behind his desk, pawing through the pile of photos, the subject matter of which she had no doubt, and Cletus' narrow, pig eyes, pierced her with a look so evil and vicious, that it caused her knees to buckle in fear. Memories, haunting nightmares of memories, horrific in their details bubbled in wild tumult in her brain. She thought to scream but who would hear or care? She thought to run, but to where, how? She was caught like a rabbit in a snare, darting helplessly back and forth, and with every hop the noose tightened. She couldn't breathe, the room was becoming black and she felt herself fainting. She leaned heavily against the doorjamb and felt the hot flow of her tears on her cheeks. "Better watch her, Justice," Cletus snarled, "tha’ stupid bitch's gonna pass out on ya any minute. She used to pull that shit on me and Nadeen every time we come up with somethin’ she thought she was too good to try. You got a belt or somethin’ handy, you better lay a hand on it right quick; pain'll snap her outa hit, purty good." "Now, now, Mr. Caruthers, there'll be no need of that, will there dear? I'm sure the excitement at seeing you again after all these years is just a little overwhelming, is all. You'll be just fine, won't you?" Mr. Justice sneered at her, ignoring Cletus, because he was thoroughly enjoying the effects of his surprise. He had brought her off her high horse quickly enough, and her reaction made it perfectly obvious that he had her in the palm of his hand. Anne sobbed and clung to the wall for support. The room spun crazily, and she shook her head, fighting off the dark hood of unconsciousness. Confusion, fear, the memory of a thousand horrible experiences collided in her mind, and her chest constricted, driving the wind from her lungs in a sudden rush. "You'll be just fine, my dear," Rufus lied. His voice sounded distant and foreign. "Mr. Caruthers was just about to conclude his business and leave us, weren't you, Cletus?" "Yep, Mr. Justice, I'll be a leavin’ just as soon as you pay me for them pictures and the videos," Cletus grunted in response. "Ah, yes, Mr. Caruthers, your thirty pieces of silver, I hadn't forgotten." "I ain't sayin' you forgot our deal there, Rufus, but hit ain't no thirty dollars, neither," Cletus grumbled. He may have failed at pig farming, but he was not completely stupid and he was not to be trifled with in matters where money, particularly his money, were concerned. He was keen and shrewd as most, he figured, and, besides, Nadeen was waitin' for him out in the van, and she'd skin the hide plumb off'n him, if'n he came out without the price she'd set on them pictures. "Oh no, certainly not, Mr. Caruthers," Rufus responded condescendingly, amazed at his visitor's lack of acumen, "thirty pieces of silver, not dollars; just a figure of speech." "Thirty pieces of shit, Rufus," Cletus spat back at him, rising quickly from his chair and shaking his finger at Rufus in anger. "We got us a deal. You gonna pay me thirteen hundred dollars just like we agreed. Ten dollars each for them pictures and a hundred dollars each for them three videos, and they worth a bunch more than that cause of her bein so pretty and all and on account uh her doin' just about everthin' you can imagine and a bunch more to boot. Besides, them videos run over ninety minutes a piece, and that's a helluva lot more than whatcha get at them adult stores." Cletus was huffing and puffing; a bull in full charge and fire gleamed in his little pig eyes. Rufus put up his hands to fend him off and sputtered, "Alright, alright Cletus, relax, just a misunderstanding and it's my fault. Certainly, I intend to pay you our agreed price, because your merchandize is everything you said it would be and much, much more." Rufus quickly drew his billfold from his pocket and extracted a thick wad of currency. Cletus slowed his charge and pulled up at the edge of Rufus' desk. He watched Rufus count out thirteen one hundred dollar bills. "There you go, my good man, thirteen hundred dollars, just as agreed," Rufus said, reaching out across the photo-strewn desk to passing the crisp new bills into Cletus' outstretched hand. Cletus grunted in satisfaction and took the money with his thick, stubby, stained fingers. He rolled the bills and stuffed them into his shirt pocket and thumped the ashes off his cigar onto Headmaster Justice's prized Persian carpet, which occupied a small space on the floor just in front of his desk. Anne watched the transaction in total shame and humiliation. How often, she though miserably, does a person get to watch while their life, their hopes and dreams, their future and their happiness are bartered and sold in front of their very eyes. And for what? It really was nothing but thirty pieces of silver. Was she worth no more than thirteen hundred dollars? Did her dignity, her self-esteem, her honor come at no greater price than that? She was humiliated and embarrassed and above all terrified at the thought of what use Rufus Justice intended to make of his purchases. "Just you remember, Rufus, they's plenty more where them come from. I got lots and they's all for sale, if the price's right," Cletus said, shaking Mr. Justice's hand vigorously. He spun around, wiping his hand on his shirt as he did, and strode quickly to the doorway, where he muttered to the hapless girl as he passed, "Serves ya right, you ungrateful cunt, running out on me and Nadeen like you'ns did. We's been hopin' to hear about you, and now we did. We'll be seein' you again real soon, I expect. Have a nice day, now, ya hear?" He brushed against her brusquely and laughed when she recoiled in disgust. His laugh was coarse and hateful, and it chilled her to the marrow of her bones. A closed circuit TV screen, connected to a surveillance camera scanning the front door and walk, flickered in the corner and drew their attention. She and Rufus watched the screen silently as Cletus swaggered down the walk to his van, puffing clouds of bluish smoke and counting Headmaster Justice's money. Anne's heart was pounding in her ears and the noise of her blood rushing almost drowned out the sounds of Cletus' van starting up. She was trembling and fear ached in the pit of her stomach. She watched in terror as the van rumbled down the drive and out onto the highway. * * * Moon Dog was good, he'd give him that. He was expensive, too, but worth every penny. The report read like a first rate novel and, best of all, he knew that every fact, every tidbit of information was true and accurate, down to the tiniest detail. Caleb could almost feel the girl's horror and sense of helplessness as the story swept him along in its rapidly flowing currents. He had nearly forgotten his drink and reached for the glass, fumbling eagerly to turn to the next page. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 03 "Get over here, now." Headmaster Justice's voice shattered the stillness. She whipped her head around and saw that he was standing behind his desk, pointing to a chair he had pulled along side his. "Mr. Justice, I ah," she stammered. She didn't move immediately. Fear, uncertainty, shame had paralyzed her legs and kept her rooted by the doorway. He loomed up, towering over her even from across the room and appeared to be much larger than she realized before. He spoke. His tone was hard and sharp, like a rasp honing steel. "Does your job mean anything to you at all, Miss Anne?" She quailed at the sound of his voice. His words slammed her against the austere block wall of his office, and her hands twisted the seams of her skirt anxiously. "Mr. Justice," she began hesitantly, but her strength failed her, and the remainder of her response died on her tongue. "It is a simple question for you, girl," he spat at her impatiently. "Either you want your job or you do not. If you do not, then gather your things from your desk and leave. On the other hand, if you wish to retain your position here, you will do exactly as I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Is that clear?" She was wringing her hands desperately. Her eyes darted from the photos on the desk to Rufus and back. Her mind reeled in disgust and revulsion. They had forced her to make those photos. She had refused and threatened to go to the police, but Nadeen had slapped her face and spit on her. She had said that half the football team was still talking about her and what she liked to do with boys, so's they wuddunt no cause for her to be gettin all goody-goody with them; they knowed what she did. She had fought them anyway, at first, but they were incredibly strong and resistance was useless. Nadeen had pushed her down on the bed and held her arms over her head, and Cletus had torn off her dress and pulled down her panties. He had hurt her with his fingers, and she had cried and begged him to stop, but he paid no attention. Nadeen stretched her arms and whispered to her that hit wuddn't be no worse than what them boys had did to her on that table up at the school that time. Cletus had leered at her hungrily, staring down at the place between her legs and licking his lips. He probed her with his rough, pudgy fingers, and she screamed in pain. He slapped her to make her shut up, and Nadeen told him to get her wet first or she'd wake up everybody in the house with her screamin'. He looked kinda stupid for a minute, and then he pushed her legs apart and knelt between them. She thrashed, trying to evade him, but his mouth found her anyway, and she felt the wet ribbon of his tongue dipping into her. She cried and shut her eyes, and pretended he was gone. She fought back, willed her body to ignore his slippery probing, and for a while it had worked. She lay still and sent her mind on a journey across time and space, and he licked her ineffectually, grunting on his knees above her motionless hips. Finally, Cletus lifted his dripping face and complained to Nadeen that it wasn't working, to which she replied that she wasn't in the least surprised cause he never did show much aptitude for it anyway, but to keep trying. He called her a "cold, old bitch" and said it was "her problem" and went back to work on Anne. She fought the rising tide of her emotion, but the pressure of his lips and tongue on her was too much. She had felt the subtle stirring of sensation in her loins and she had sighed. Nadeen chortled gleefully and told Cletus that she was startin' to come around. She had moaned when Cletus's tongue entered her, and Nadeen released one of her hands so she could use it to press Cletus' head closer to her body. Her head began to toss on the pillow and Nadeen stroked her face and hair and cooed at her that it would be all right, that they only wanted to make her feel good. Her hips lifted from the mattress toward the rapture of Cletus' tongue, and she heard Nadeen pronounce her ready. She gasped when Cletus stood and removed his pants, revealing his erection to her, and shielded her eyes in embarrassment. She felt him nudging her, seeking her opening and tried to squirm away. Nadeen whispered soothingly in her ear for her to relax and enjoy it, not to fight cause she couldn't win. He pinned her hips with his massive hands, and she couldn't move. He jabbed at her and missed and jabbed again. She was small and delicate, and he was anxious and in a hurry, and it made him inept. He grunted in frustration and grumbled to Nadeen that it wasn't working. Nadeen called him an "incompetent old fool" and reached across Anne's body to take hold of him and guide him right. "Do I have to show you how to do everthing, goddammit," she had said as she guided him to the girl and held him fast against her portal. "Now shove, you fool," she snapped, and he rammed so hard that he nearly crushed Nadeen's hand against Anne's pelvis. She nearly fainted when he filled her, and her hands pushed ineffectually on his hips trying to dislodge him and diminish her pain. He overpowered her easily and plunged into her young, yielding body. "Jesus, she's a tight one," he grunted upon entering her. "Oooofff," she gasped breathlessly when he collided with her, and Nadeen warned him to take it easy and allow her time to get used to him. "Ain't like screwing one of them pigs out back, Cletus," she rebuked him. "You gotta give her a chance to loosen up a little." He paused for a minute and Nadeen reached for Anne's breasts, taking her nipples between her fingers and playing with them. "She's got some nice tits on her, big firm nipples, too," she crooned, and to Anne's horror she felt her nipples tightening in response to the fingers pulling on them. She fought her responses, but it was a futile effort. She felt her body betraying her, answering their unwanted caresses with wanton lubriciousness, and she cried, "Noooooo, noooooo," but they continued, undaunted by her words and inspired by her body's responses. He filled her, and she moved under him lewdly in spite of her revulsion, and Nadeen urged him on, saying, "Fuck her, Cletus, she loves it." And rightly so, for, to her shame, she did. It felt good; he felt good moving inside her, filling her with his hot turgid flesh, driving his spike into her again and again. Her nipples were aflame, tingling fire ran from her tits to her loins in a billowing conflagration of sensation. She opened to him, spreading her legs wantonly, arching her back, rising to meet his thrusts and gurgling with pleasure each time he filled her. She licked her lips with urgent passion and thrust her breasts at Nadeen's twisting fingers. She was horrified to hear her voice rising above the clamor of Cletus' grunting and Nadeen's hoarse encouragements, her words ringing clear and heated in the small room, "Yes, yes, do it to me, do it," and in that moment of her total capitulation to lust and the abandonment of all hope of control over her own body, she sensed that she was lost for all time. Her focus wavered, and she squinted at Cletus hovering above her. Her loins screamed for release, and she felt her orgasm welling up from deep within her. He thrust into her soft flesh ferociously and growled at her, "Cum, you slut," and she convulsed about his impaling instrument in the desperate throes of her release. She slipped from consciousness for a moment and was only vaguely aware of Nadeen snapping pictures as Cletus savaged her limp body. Dimly, she heard Nadeen warn Cletus, "Pull it out, Cletus, don't knock her up," and she felt a keen disappointment as he withdrew from her before he came, but she came to learn in the ensuing months that Nadeen had no patience at all for pregnant girls or babies either, on account of the attention and complications they bring on. She felt his hot seed pouring on her nude belly and breasts and blinked uncomprehendingly as Nadeen moved in to take close-ups of her slender, virginal fingers while they masturbated his spewing member. Thereafter, of course, she had been helpless to oppose them in any manner and there followed in the months and years to come, a litany of depraved encounters orchestrated by the Caruthers and involving Cletus, Nadeen and many of the boys and one or two of the girls at the home. Her head shook in shame as she recalled the vile and degrading orgies the Caruthers had demanded she arrange; how they made her, forced her, to invite the boys into her tiny room to seduce them, while Nadeen and Cletus watched and snapped away through peepholes strategically drilled into her walls. Sometimes only one, other times more, but always performing to the Caruthers' scripts and always engaging in acts so deplorable and degrading as to defy description. She always refused at first, stamping her feet and tossing her head in disgust; "No, he's too young," or "Never, not with three of them," but in the end, her fear of the Caruthers drove her to capitulate to their demands. She always thought she could remain aloof, do what they told her and remain detached from it, but her body invariably betrayed her, and she would succumb to her lust, becoming a willing, even eager, participant. She hated herself, at times, and the awful gnawing need in her loins that robbed her of her self-control and turned her to sexual putty in the hands of anyone who forced themselves upon her. She leaned against the wall and looked anxiously at the Headmaster. She battled the remnants of her panic and struggled to regain her breath to speak. "Be calm," her inner voice urged. "You can handle this; you've been through worse. Whatever he wants, you can survive it, endure it and go on." She shuddered, wondering which of the thousands of photos of her were there, scattered on Rufus' desk. What nasty acts do they depict her doing, she wondered, recalling the myriad filthy, degrading performances Cletus and Nadeen had devised for her. What, she pondered in that instant, with all that to choose from, did Rufus pick to purchase? How did this man's tastes run? Would he reveal himself to her in his choices? Or, perhaps, Cletus gave him no options and made the selection himself. No, she reasoned, for thirteen hundred dollars, Mr. Justice, would be doing the picking, and in spite of her revulsion, she felt the awakening chill of an unhealthy curiosity. "I need my job, Mr. Justice." She spoke softly, her tone moderated with resignation. "That's what I thought. Get over here, then, and sit down." His voice was firm, but no longer harsh. She gathered herself, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, and walked with as much dignity as she could manage to the chair, which he had indicated. It was a narrow, straight-backed chair without arms, and he had pulled it along side his. She sat down, and he immediately sat beside her. He reached across the desk and gathered the photos into a neat stack, which he placed on the desk in front of her. "Just look at these pictures, Miss Anne," he chortled huskily. "I had no idea you were so, eh, ah, photogenic." He laughed mercilessly, and she was thankful that the growing darkness in the room concealed her blush of shame. She said nothing, but, in spite of her resolve, she glanced surreptitiously at the photo on the top of the stack. Ohmygod, she gulped in shock. It showed her nude, lying across the butcher's block in the Caruthers' kitchen. Cletus was standing between her legs wearing his overalls, with his fly open and he was partly exposing himself. Her legs were upraised; her ankles rested on his shoulders, one on either side of his thick neck. The camera angle showed her whole bottom, naked and exposed, and Cletus' distended member, which he was in the act of inserting into her opening. He was holding on to her legs and appeared to be about to thrust into her. She was holding on to the side of the butcher's block with one hand to keep from being shoved off, and her head was hanging over the far side. One of the boys, Tim, she thought, was standing next to her exposing himself through his fly and she was masturbating him into her open mouth. Nadeen must have timed the shot perfectly, because the boy was caught in the act of ejaculating, and her lips and tongue were covered with his white fluid. "My, my, Miss Anne," he chortled, turning the photo in the light to better admire it. "I had hoped that you could be as accommodating as you appear to be in this photograph; if you were approached with the right inducement, of course." She felt his hand on her knee and stiffened, but made no move to remove it or protest. She looked upward toward the windows high on his office wall and tried to ignore him. The sun had set and just a faint tinge of orange remained to color the edge of the growing darkness. She squinted at the darkening sky and imagined the streetlights along the highway far down the drive coming on and illuminating the deserted street with scattered circles of clean white light. She felt the heat of his palm through her skirt, and her heart sank like the setting sun. She closed her eyes to await the fate she was sure to come. "Oh, gracious, my dear. Take a look at this one; isn't it wonderful?" He squeezed her knee for emphasis, and she peeked at the photo he was brandishing in front of her. Oh no, she thought immediately, not that one, too. She had tried to forget them; to suppress the memories and move on with her life but some continued to haunt her through college and right up to this very day. She was naked and kneeling on an ottoman. Someone, faceless and nameless now, was standing behind her with his pants down around his ankles. It was impossible to determine from the photo exactly what he was doing, but he had her hips pulled up tightly against him and was obviously enjoying her. She was leaning forward and two, stark naked, little boys were standing directly in front of her. They were standing close together, so close their hips were touching and they were both, simultaneously, thrusting their diminutive members into her open mouth. She had a hand on each's buttocks and was encouraging and directing their efforts. The expressions on their faces were a mixture of delight and amazement, and, clearly, they were both close to orgasm cause their little hands were fluttering in her hair like tiny birds caught in netting. Anne trembled and a soft sigh escaped her lips. She remembered that photo so well, so clearly, it was like yesterday that she had knelt there to take those children into her mouth, stroking their juvenile flesh with her heated tongue, coaxing them, encouraging them with her hands to give up their essence. She shut her eyes and sensed the taste of them lingering on her tongue. She remembered their heat, their excitement, and the featherlike beat of their pulses against her lips as they shuddered into their manhood. She licked her lips subconsciously, and Mr. Justice caught her out of the corner of his eye. He caressed the top of her thigh with his sweaty palm, and thought that her tension had subsided. "Oh my, look at this one, young lady. I do think you were enjoying yourself with this one." Anne tugged at her collar. It was becoming warm in the small office. She squirmed in her seat uncomfortably and her movement, involuntary though it was, had the undesirable effect of sliding Mr. Justice's hand several inches up her thigh. She looked down and was startled to see his hand poised on her leg near the junction of her thighs. He had pushed her skirt up, exposing her thighs and the tops of her hose. She started to move his hand and straighten her skirt but thought better of it. Her eyes lifted to the photo and she blushed again. The heat in the room increased measurably. His hand weighed heavily on her leg and felt hot on her flesh. The pressure of his hand pulled her attention from the picture and she felt a sickening tightening in her loins. Ohmygod, she gulped recognizing the signs and wrenched her focus toward the photo. It was a frontal picture of her reclining in Cletus' naughahide recliner. She was naked, of course, and had spread her legs as wide as she could and they were hanging over the arms of the chair. Her belly and bottom were completely open and exposed. Her hair down there was wet and matted, and the insides of her thighs were shining with her wetness. She was obviously aroused; her fleshy parts were distended and engorged and flashes of bright pink tissue peaked through her wet curls. She was smiling at the camera and had two fingers inserted into her mouth suggestively. A large rubber dildo protruded from between her legs, and she was holding it in position with two fingers pressing on its base. It, too, was slippery looking and was coated with her moisture all the way to its base, giving the impression that she had just withdrawn the majority of it from her body. Her shoulders jerked spasmodically as she stared blankly at her image. Cletus had made her buy it. Waited outside in his pickup while she went in alone, scared half out of her wits, into that adult bookstore across the tracks and behind the old railroad station. Told her to pick out "a bigun" and gave her twenty dollars. It had cost thirty, but she had unbuttoned her blouse a little and smiled at the clerk when she handed him the twenty and he got so distracted he gave her ten dollars back in change. "You liked that pretty good, didn't you, my dear?" Rufus' voice called her back from the past. She could almost feel herself inserting the thing, feel it stretching her resilient softness to the point of tearing, then breaking through and sliding into her depths unimpeded. She nodded absently, still hovering near the margin of her memory, and Rufus' fingers brushed her panty-covered mound. His touch startled her. She jerked her head toward him, eyes wide, searching, questioning, appealing for mercy. His caress upon her was like the touch of a welder's rod to metal, a hissing arc of light and a shower of hot sparks, and her loins melted at the heat of his touch. Rufus returned her gaze unabashedly, and felt the hot flash of her response on his fingers. She fought herself and him in her mind, conflicting purposes and desires entwining like opposing vines, twisting and contorting into trackless shapes. Her lips parted to voice a protest, but fear, or something akin to it, hushed her. He stared at her. The photo dropped from his fingers and fluttered to the desk. He picked up her hand. She was trembling but did not resist. He placed her hand on his thigh and held it there. She was surprised at the tension in his muscles, and held her hand still, scarcely chancing to breathe. His hand pressed hers, and he forced her to caress his thigh in a small circular movement. Her fingers slid easily over the smooth fabric of his pants as he guided her hand. She glanced down in abject fascination as he directed her limp hand over the expanse of his thigh. He studied her closely as he brought her hand to the inside of his thigh, just above the knee. She stiffened slightly but didn't fight him. Her eyes were downcast, watching helplessly the progress of her fingers. He drew her hand higher toward his crotch, and she brushed against the firm bulge of his erection. Her shoulders sagged in defeat as she allowed him to place her hand directly upon him. Her head dropped slightly and she sighed in resignation. This was not new to her, this feeling of helplessness. She had been there before. You give them what they want and stay within yourself and they will go away and leave you alone. He held her tightly against him, and she felt the surge of his need throbbing under her fingertips. He was hot and hard; pulse beating, thumping, making her fingers jump with the beat of his heart. He lengthened under her touch and swelled like a bodybuilder throwing out his chest and flexing his muscles for an admirer. Thoughts tumbled in her mind like lingerie in a clothes dryer as she tried to dodge the onslaught of her emotion. She had forgotten his hand on her leg, focusing only on his bulging erection and had ignored the bright streamers of pleasure his gentle stroking was producing. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 03 He removed his hand from hers, tentatively, much like a falconer releasing his hunter for the first time, uncertain if it will fly away or return, and grunted with satisfaction when she made no move to take her hand away. He shifted slightly, spreading his legs to make room for her hand. She held him lightly, feeling him through his trousers, and wetted her lips indecisively. His knuckles scraped against her panties and her pulse quickened. He pressed lightly and she felt herself open and knew he could feel the heat of her growing desire. She was frozen in time; afraid to stop and afraid to proceed. She was caught astraddle the fence, a helpless captive of his burgeoning need and her own feckless resistance. His fingers brushed her again, more insistently; heavy pressure forcing the tissue-thin fabric into her, pressing against her blossoming wetness and she bit her lip. Fingers of desire tightened their grip on her loins and she shivered. Her hand moved on him. Just a flutter, the single beat of a butterfly wing, and, at that moment, she became his. Her resolve crumbled, dissolving into the mists of her irresistible sexuality, and she leaned toward him. Her fingers curled and the sharp points of her nails traced the length of him under his pants. She felt him and measured the heft of him with her fingers. She followed the ridges and contours of his being with deft, skilled fingers and smiled seductively when he groaned for her. She followed him to his end and closed her hand about him. He gasped, and she rocked with the turmoil of her conflicts; one voice screaming in her head to stop, another telling her to make him feel good. Judgment and control shattered against the jagged rocks of her excitement, as she reacted to the throbbing under her fingers. "Ohhhhhh," she sighed heavily when she felt him jerk excitedly. He stood suddenly and pushed her back roughly for his need was great and insistent. She had denied him too readily, and he had longed for this moment for months. His urgency could tolerate no kindness, no consideration of her needs or desires. She looked up, into his face, questioningly, and he yanked his zipper down in her face. "There, Miss Anne, I think you know what to do," he said. His voice was a harsh growl from deep in his throat. His voice was husky with desire for her, and his hands trembled with his excitement as he pulled his pockets and made his fly gape open. He stood still, right in her face, and she could smell the animal scent of his desire rising from the opening in his pants. His bulge rose stiffly within his pant leg and lifted the cloth into a low tent. She glimpsed a tiny stain spreading from the tip, and recognized it as proof of his need for her. She bit her lip and stared at the gap in his pants. Her hands quivered in midair, suspended on the threads of her conflicting uncertainties. "Well, Miss Anne, either you want the job or you do not." Harshness flowed onto her like lava, and she cowered from the thunder of his voice. She shrank from her desire for an instant, while his words rolled past, then lifted her shoulders and closed her hands into fists. She put her fists on her thighs and breathed deeply, collecting herself. She shut her eyes, thinking, balancing, rationalizing and, then, blinking first, looked straight at him and tentatively reached toward his pants. * * * "Holy shit," Caleb muttered. He squirmed in his chair uncomfortably. The maintenance crew had shut off the heating system for the night, and his office had become unbearably stuffy. He had stripped off his tie ten pages into the story, and his vest, unbuttoned, hung loosely from his shoulders. His forehead was damp with perspiration. She was a hot one, this Anne whatever-your-name-is, he acknowledged in amazement, and, of course, he was deeply hooked, fascinated by her sensuality and vulnerability. He glanced toward the empty glass on his desk and wondered briefly where the contents had gone, because he had no recollection of finishing the drink. He toyed with the idea of pouring another, but his mind had become restless and pulled him back to the text before him. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 04 Rufus watched the progress of her hand toward him and his heart raced. This beautiful, desirable woman, the object of his desire, the subject of his every waking thought for the past months, was slipping her extended fingers into the fly of his pants. Her touch was light and cool as she reached inside his shorts and delved through his pubic hair, searching, groping for him. She muttered something and twisted in the chair; it was awkward trying to reach him from her seated position. She persisted, and he felt her touch on his heated flesh. He wriggled to help her complete the contact and grunted in momentary satisfaction when her fingers encircled him. He placed his hands on his hips and watched her struggle with the angles and his desire for her complete touch. She massaged him gently, but the tight stricture of his fly restricted her movements. He grew frustrated and loosened his belt. He unfastened the clasp of the waistband and his pants fell away to his knees. She clung to him through the opening in his shorts; less constricted, freer. "Well?" he said, and she led him out through the opening, and the fresh, youthful, pink of her nails contrasted starkly with the angry mahogany of his pubescence. She held him lightly, fingers circling and marveled once more, just as she had done a thousand times before at times like this, at the perfection of God's plan for procreation and the propagation of the species. He was long and thick, heavy with desire for her, and throbbed within her fingers like a stallion pawing dirt. He was perfect, exquisite in each detail, and he was pointing directly into her soul like Uncle Sam in one of those "I Want You" recruiting posters. Oh God, how smooth and delicate, she thought dreamily, holding him still for her examination. How beautiful he was with lines and veins tracing his length, bulging with the force of his need, and his head, dark with hunger, weeping for her. She stroked him wantonly as she had done countless times for others before him, and the hunger for the taste of him, for the sensation of that smooth, thick flesh on her lips and tongue overcame her. She leaned to take him into her mouth. She gripped him, directing him toward her oval lips and sucked him into the wet cavern of her mouth. Boys, squealing, squeaking, covering her willing lips with hot dew cavorted in her brain as his hardness plunged into her throat. She tasted him and felt his heat. She thrilled to the touch of him as he filled her mouth with his throbbing need. The texture of him was indescribably smooth, soft, yet hard and unyielding to the pressure of her tongue. She accepted him eagerly and swept his length wetly and felt him shudder. His hands clasped her head, fingers entwining in her loose hair to hold her fast, and he thrust into her open mouth. She held him lightly with her fingertips and sucked, hollowing her cheeks and she felt the tense ball of his hunger for her fill her mouth. She glanced up and their eyes met. His face was contorted with lust, and he stared at the stretched oval of her mouth where he entered her. She moved her mouth upon him and sensed the quaking in his knees. At that moment, as she felt the beginning tremors of his discharge, she knew she had been born to this servitude. She was molded in the womb to be the perfect, willing receptacle for the torrent that was about to come. He throbbed on the thick, wet slab of her tongue, and the voice of an inner self, deep and throaty, cried out in her mind, “yes, yes, take me, use me, fuck my mouth with your cock, Mr. Justice, let me feel you, taste you, cum for me.” He gripped her head heatedly and jerked her toward him, and she felt the full power of the man in her throat. Yes, she gurgled silently around his filling flesh, when he began to pulse, and the taste of his seed flooded her senses. He tilted her head back roughly to see her better and withdrew till just the head remained lodged within her lips. She held him there feeling him throb against her tongue and the liquid proof of his passion poured into her. She raised her eyes to his in complete submission to his desire, and hungrily coaxed his flow with wanton strokes of her tongue. He filled her, and she gulped to swallow the gift of his passion, and he filled her again. She watched the play of emotions across his face, tension, anxiety, joy and relief, all moved like clouds across a mottled landscape, and the certain knowledge that she owned him at that moment in time filled her with satisfaction. He danced for her in the throes of his completion, his feet shuffling reflexively, as the intensity of the feelings sweeping his body rendered immobility impossible. Loose change jingled in his pants pockets as she sucked the remnants from the reservoir of his lust, and she held him tightly in place. “Yes, yes,” the inner voice screamed at her, “take him all, give yourself to him, give him what he wants, suck his cock dry for him,” and she opened her throat to him and pulled him in. She allowed him to go deeply, feeling him fill her mouth and throat till her stretched lips were pressed into the hair of his belly, and the force of his manhood poured into her stomach like a storm-swollen stream. He shook in her embrace and they rocked together, joined at the face and loin as his passion ran its course and began to subside. He was aghast, trembling with astonished excitement, throbbing with ecstasy as her lips and tongue worked their final, eager magic on him. Never, in his wildest fantasies had he imagined her to be like this. She clung to him with her lips as though loathe to release him, and nursed him with her tongue through his diminishment. She felt his grip on her head relax, and his hands dropped weakly to his sides. He slipped from her lips and fell back into his chair, exhausted and depleted. His wet member dangled limply from the fly of his shorts, but he was too stunned to cover himself. He stared at her blankly, his eyes dazed, and gulped for air. She could not return his look and cast her eyes down, toward the floor. She placed her hands in her lap, disregarding the disarray of her skirt that was pushed up revealing her panties. A heavy silence enveloped the room, and only the sound of Mr. Justice's labored breathing and the faint hiss of the TV screen competed with the voices in her head. “Oh you bad girl,” her good voice admonished. “He fucked you pretty good, didn't he; and you, naughty, naughty, you actually enjoyed it, too. Liked the feel of his dick in your mouth, sliding in and out, his fingers in your ears holding you there. He used you didn't he, baby? Used your mouth like a urinal in some public toilet, only it was cum instead of piss he was squirting and you couldn't stop him, could you? You just let him cum and, when he started, you helped him, you slut, you helped him cum and let him go right down your… God, what a slut, you are, letting him and enjoying it like that. Aren't you...” "Take your clothes off." Rufus’ voice shattered the silence, and the deprecating ranting of her inner voice. Startled, she looked up and saw him watching her intently. His face was red, but he was breathing more easily, and he had loosened his tie at the collar. He still had made no move to cover himself and was blatantly looking at her crotch. She shifted uncomfortably and pressed her thighs together. Silly, she thought, to be suddenly modest in a situation like this, after what she had done, but she felt strangely exposed and vulnerable. "I said, take your clothes off. Now!" He snapped at her harshly. Had he no gratitude, she wondered miserably, or was he like most of the rest and only nice when they're sticking themselves into you. A soft sob racked her shoulders. She had known it would be like this; it always was. Give them what they want, let them use you, abuse you any way they want and they don't go away, oh no, they just want more and more and more and keep coming back at you again and again and again. She wanted to beg, to plead with him; she even thought to offer to give him her mouth again and her hand made a feeble jerk toward that end, before she realized he was still small and unready and abandoned that hope. That would be too easy, she thought, disheartened. Too neat and clean, too uninvolved and uncommitted just to kneel at their feet and allow them to spend themselves into your mouth. A few licks and a suck, and they are hopping from foot to foot and shaking while their love and devotion trickles down your throat. So easy and so meaningless just to open up and let them in.... "Anne!!!" His voice was strident, commanding and impatient. His fingers were drumming angrily on the armrests. "Yes, yes, all right, Mr. Justice," she whispered in a tone of hushed submission. Her hands lifted to begin unbuttoning her blouse. "Stand up." She looked at him uncertainly, her fingers hesitating. "Get up and stand over there, in front of the map." He gestured toward a wall map of Western Europe hanging a few feet from the desk. She moved, unwillingly, to comply; standing, then walking slowly like a condemned man taking his place at the killing wall, then, finally, turning to face him in desolate resignation. "Strip," he said gruffly. She was amazed at the lack of emotion in his voice. Again, she moved to begin unbuttoning her blouse. "Shoes. Take your shoes off first." She shrugged. Whatever, she thought, it's your show, and bent, reaching for her foot. She lifted a foot, crossing her legs at the knee and wobbled for an instant as she fought to retain her balance. She slipped her shoe off easily and dropped it to the floor. She switched feet and quickly removed the remaining shoe. The hard, quarried floor tiles felt cold under her stockinged feet, and she wished wistfully that he had told her to stand on his Persian rug. She wriggled her toes uneasily and waited for his next instruction. The photos remained in a stack on his desk, but he ignored them. She prayed that he had forgotten them completely. "Take off your stockings." She bent to lift the hem of her skirt. He followed the movements of her hands with intense interest. She wished for an instant that she had picked something less provocative than a garter belt and hose that morning, but her last pair of panty hose had developed a run when she tried to put them on, so it was this or nothing and nothing would have been much worse. She fished under her skirt, revealing little but a flash of bronzed thigh, and released the clasps of her garters. She rolled the hose down her shapely legs, right to the tips of her toes and stooped to carefully insert the tight, nylon donuts into her shoes. Oh no, she thought obstinately, as she stuffed the hose into the toes of her shoes, he's calling the shots here. No boom, boom music or stretching my stocking back and forth over my head like a stripper for his enjoyment, not unless he says so. She straightened and he pointed toward her and said, "Skirt." She hooked her thumbs into the stretch waistband of her skirt and began pushing it off her hips. She wriggled as she worked her clothes over the rounded curves of her hips and buttocks, and a slight smile creased the corners of Mr. Justice's mouth. She didn't know whether to be pleased or disheartened by his reaction, but he gave her no time to ponder the question. Immediately, just as her skirt fell to the floor, and she moved to step out of it, he snapped another instruction at her. "Panties." His voice had an edgy quality, and she glanced to see if he was becoming aroused again, but he was still small, pale and flaccid. What is the point, she wondered as she reached under the tails of her blouse. He was watching carefully as the wisp of bright fabric slid down her thighs and into view. He licked his lips in anticipation, and passed the back of his hand across his forehead. She moved slowly, taking her time, and bent to lower the garment below her knee. She stretched the fabric to enlarge one leg opening and lifted her foot through the hole. She swung the empty leg around to her opposite side before letting go and allowing her panties to drop to the floor. They floated gently, like a silk parachute, down the sculptured column of her leg and settled on the arch of her foot. She raised her foot, catching her panties with her toes, and lifted them to her waiting hand. She caught a glimpse of him through the corner of her eye, as she took her panties from her foot, and, grasping them by the waistband, snapped them in front of her to shake out the wrinkles, before folding them neatly and laying them on top of her skirt on the floor. “What in the hell are you up to now, girl, her good voice chided her again. Are you trying to be provocative? Did you like that, what he did before? Did you? Yessssssss, Ohmygod, you complete slut, you liked it, and now you want to get him up again, don't you? That's what this business is about with the panties. Why, you little whore, you're trying to make his cock hard and ready for you again, aren't you?”She bit her lip to quiet the voice; sometimes, it told her things she did not wish to hear, made her see things she did not wish to acknowledge. Mr. Justice shifted in his chair restlessly. His tongue swept across his lips again, and he looked feverish. Color tinged his cheeks and tiny drops of perspiration dotted his forehead. She glanced at his lap and appreciated a subtle stirring; color was beginning to return there as well. She felt a renewed quickening in her loins at the sight of him, and her bad voice whispered seductively, “Oh baby, look at him, he likes what he's seeing, he's getting hard again, isn't he, watching you, seeing you move, looking at your body and getting hard all over again just for you. Be bad, baby, be bad as you want to be and make him all stiff and hard for you. Make him big and fat and thick for you to suck some more, baby.” His lips moved to speak, but her hands, anticipating him, had moved to the buttons on her blouse. She flicked them open with practiced fingers and in mere seconds her blouse hung open from her throat to her belly. She unbuttoned the cuffs and shook her hands to free her wrists from the material gathered there. Her blouse swayed with the movement of her hands, and the tails parted to reveal her belly and the dark triangle of hair below. Mr. Justice leaned forward for a closer look and his hands gripped the armrests of his chair tightly. “Ah, baby, here he comes for you,” her naughty voice giggled, and she struggled to conceal a smile when she saw his need beginning to reassert itself. She shrugged her shoulders and her blouse slithered down her back and arms. She let it float noiselessly to the floor. Then, she reached behind her and released the clasp of her brassiere. He stared at her cleavage, and she rolled the straps off her shoulders and let her breasts fall free of the cups. Her nipples were taut, distended with her own renewed excitement, and one tip reached out tensely and snagged the lacy edge of her bra. It dangled precariously for a second, hanging from her nipple like a climber on a rope, and she waggled her shoulders, shaking it free and it dropped to the floor in front of her. The light was poor and she was standing just beyond the circle of light from his desk lamp. She was partly cloaked in shadow, and her form seemed to float in the dimness like a hovering angel. He gasped and the beat of his heart quickened in his chest. My God, she was beautiful, perfect, a statue of exquisite perfection shimmering in the gloaming at the fringe of his sanity. His mouth watered for her and his tongue wallowed helplessly in its watery bed, so smitten was he with her beauty. She leaned back against the map and raised her arms above her head. Her breasts lifted, stretching, and the hardened ruby points lifted proudly toward the ceiling. She turned her hips and demurely crossed her legs covering herself, posing for him, and he gurgled for her. “He is yours, love,” she thought, her naughty voice returning. “Look at his prick reaching for you, lifting its fat head and blinking its eye at you. He had grown for her, lengthened in his hunger for her and was hard again. "Come here," he said. He pointed to a place on the floor between his legs and kicked the chair where she had been sitting earlier, sending it away clattering noisily to make room for her. She smiled confidently, sure of herself and stepped to the place he indicated. Her legs brushed his as she positioned herself between his knees. He protruded stiffly from the gap in his underpants and hung heavily, bobbing slightly as Rufus breathed. Her mind raced ahead and naughty spoke, “Take him, isn't he beautiful, soft and sweet, delicious to suck,” and she reached to put her hand on him. "No," he said, and caught her hand with his. "Be still." She froze and let her hand drop to her side. His eyes roved her lush curves rapturously, flashing, gleaming, sparkling with desire for her and he feasted on her beauty. His hands twisted the armrests of his chair, and he leaned forward to feel her heat on his cheeks. He pressed the side of his face to her belly and breathed deeply and the scent of her filled his senses. She felt the rasp of his beard stubble against her soft skin and wanted to press him to her body, but did not. He sat up, lifting his chin, and touched his tightly closed lips to her nipples, one after the other, like a Count would kiss the gloved hand of a great Lady, and she longed to thrust those hard points into the hot wetness of his mouth, to be sucked and tickled with his tongue, but she restrained herself. He leaned back in his chair, panting, his eyes hot slits which flicked across her treasures like anxious bees seeking nectar, and his strength arched up achingly from his shorts and throbbed for her touch. His tongue danced feverishly across his lip and he pulled out one of the drawers beside his knee. "Put your foot there," he instructed, scooting back to make room. She complied, lifting a foot to the drawer and resting it there. Her knee was higher than his desktop, her thigh formed a right angle with her hip and her legs were spread, exposing her to him. He rolled his chair closer and positioned himself with his legs straddling her standing leg. His hardness nudged her knee on his approach, but he ignored it and focused his attention on her womanhood. His fingers stroked her thighs, first the one between his knees, then the other angling out from her hip toward his shoulder. His fingertips trailed sweet fire over the tender skin of her inner thighs and she shivered. She put a knuckle between her teeth and bit to restrain her hands from snatching his and thrusting his fingers into her. His fingers climbed her baby soft skin with agonizing slowness, pausing to press and test the resilience of her taut muscles, measuring her strength, and her naughty voice exhorted her. “Grab his hair with your hands, yank his face into your crotch and make the bastard tongue fuck your pussy, make him lick your clit and suck your juice.” She bit her knuckle harder and tried to ignore the voice. His fingers reached the limits of her thigh and traced the margins of her hairy triangle. His touch was light, tantalizing, like the tickling of a feather, and when his fingers reached the inverted point at the top of that triangle and dallied there while her heat built, she fought a titanic struggle within her mind to quell the urge to scream "Fuck me" at him. His feather drug across her fleshy lips and her heart leapt into her throat. Sensation, tingling fire raced in her loins, and the fine hairs along the tops of her thighs stood in trembling need. "Ohhhhhh," the sigh whistled past her knuckle. He leaned closer and touched her with the tips of his fingers. "Ohhhhh," she gasped again. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 04 He spread her lips, and she rolled her hips toward him invitingly, lifting herself toward his face. He spread her wider and brought his face to within inches of her. He breathed her in, and she shook in eager expectation of his next caress. She saw his tongue emerge to wet his hot lips, and breathed a hopeful "Yessssss," when she thought she knew his desire. He looked and stared, and his eyes sought out the finest details of her womanhood. He opened her and marveled at the miraculous structure, the soft tissues and the flood of lubricating moisture gathered in gleaming droplets along the inner edges of her lips. His eyes caressed what his fingers refused to touch, and he drove her nearly insane with his restraint. "Pleaseeeee," she whispered hotly when his fingers spread her wider in furtherance of his inspection, but he ignored her and fixed his gaze on the hooded appurtenance cloaked within her folds. It quivered moistly, hungering for his touch, the caress of his tongue, but he denied himself despite the insistent urging of his strengthening need. She heard him muttering, "Beautiful, sooo sweet and soft," as he studied her, and she urged him to kiss it, but he did not. She was becoming desperate for some release from the gnawing need in her loins. Frustration writhed with lust in her brain as he pursued his examination with endless patience. She pressed her loins forward, seeking to enjoin his lips, but he demurred, and drew back. She shivered on the verge of collapse, until, finally, he relented and let her lips slip from his fingers. She groaned in disappointment, and his fingers strummed the hard points of her nipples. He was slick with her, and his fingers slid easily over her rubbery flesh. Instantly, her loins clutched at the emptiness within her in a spastic reaction to his caresses. "Ugh," she gasped in the exquisite pain of her longing, and looked into his face imploringly. He ignored her need and abandoned her breasts. "Turn around, and bend over," he commanded, and she spun away from him instantly and presented her buttocks to him. She leaned and put her hands on her knees, thrusting her hips back toward him. His eyes swept the gleaming globes of her haunches, his hot glances caressing her from her narrow waist to the shaking columns of her thighs. She moved her knees, causing her cheeks to wobble enticingly in hopes of inducing him to mount her, but he did not. His eyes scaled the tiny crevasse between her full globes and slid the wild ride back down to the shadowy junction of her thighs. He licked his lips again, and his fingers spread her open to his gaze. He moved toward her, and she felt his hot breath on her skin. She pushed back, taunting him, daring him to touch her there, and felt his hot eyes on her puckered flesh. His cheek brushed against her as he moved closer, and she tensed in hopeful anticipation. His skin was hot against her. Her pulse pounded in her loins in an angry, insistent throbbing. Her need was overpowering. She looked between her legs and saw him. He was dark, rigid with excitement, and thrust upward toward her moistness. She reached down to seize him, to take his hose in her hand and direct it's flow to quench the terrible fire in her loins, but he was beyond her reach. His lips touched her crease lightly and she wanted to drop to her knees and beg him to fuck her. Suddenly, he pushed her away and sighed heavily. "Enough of that," he said, "sit down," and she spun around to face him in astonished dismay and frustration. * * * "Good God," Caleb breathed hotly and he raked his forehead with his arm, moping perspiration with the sleeve of his shirt. He shifted in the chair and tugged at his trousers, repositioning the growing length there. "Moon Dog, you crafty son-of-a-bitch," he said, thinking aloud, "how the hell do you come up with this stuff? It's like you were right inside her head the whole time." He had abandoned even the pretext of note taking and surrendered himself completely to the eroticism of the story. He half-heartedly made a mental note to try to pin Moon Dog down and make him admit to concocting most of the details next time they met, but he knew that getting Moon Dog to admit to anything was like making the Pope confess to fornication, and that wasn't about to happen. He picked up the manila envelope that had contained the report when it was delivered that afternoon, and shook an eight by ten glossy photograph onto his desk. He picked the photo up and studied it carefully in the light of his desk lamp. Terrell had been right; she was a stunner. It was a head shot that showed only her face and the tops of her shoulders, and Caleb felt a pang of disappointment, when further shaking of the envelope failed to dislodge any of the more revealing photos which Moon Dog described in his report. He turned the picture to flatten the light reflecting off its surface and stared at the fine lines of the young woman's attractive features. Her blue eyes stared back at him, unblinking, and held him in their inanimate gaze. Deep pools of indigo blue innocently masked the turmoil he knew must dwell in her mind and revealed nothing of the depraved salaciousness of her experiences. The face of an angel newly risen from the depths of Hell, reborn and untouched by experience looked up at him and stirred his heart. His eyes caressed her features, the expectant arch of her eyebrows, the thick curl of her eyelashes, the subtly chiseled line of her nose and the sensuous sweep of her lips, and his penis lurched heavily when he thought of her kneeling, begging silently for the pleasure of sucking her tormentor's cock. He struggled for focus and his hand squeezed his member tightly to defer his growing excitement. She looks like someone familiar, he thought, but he was too absorbed in the story to put a name to the memory, and he returned to the report with excited anticipation. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 05 "What?" Anne asked, stunned by the abrupt course reversal of Rufus' passion. "You heard me," he snorted disdainfully. "Sit down." Bemused and frustrated, she settled into a nearby chair. He was shuffling the photos, evidently selecting certain ones with particular care and placing them on the top of the stack. She became uncomfortably aware of her nudity and of her very obvious arousal. She thought to cover herself, but he interrupted by handing her the stack of photos. "Look at these," he said as he handed them to her. His erection pointed at her as he leaned forward. She glanced down at the photo on the top. It was a picture of her, nude, of course, lying on the kitchen table on her back with her legs spread apart. Cletus was standing between her legs holding a long slender object with a large, orange bulb on the end. Six boys, dressed only in their underpants, were standing in a half circle around the table watching with clear interest. "What is that?" "What?" "That thing in his hand?" "A turkey baster." "What did he do with that?" "He put it up me." "Why'd he do that?" "To show them how, I guess." "What's going on there?" "Sex education class," she answered softly. "Cletus and Nadeen had it two or three times a week. They taught the boys things they wanted them to know; how to do things for the cameras." "I see," he replied darkly, and she could see that his interest in the matter was keen. "And the next one? What's that?" She slipped the previous photo to the bottom of the stack and looked at the next one. It was the same room and table with the same boys standing around it. In this one, she was kneeling on the table with her buttocks in the air. She was leaning on her elbows and her face, with a sultry smile, was turned toward the camera. Cletus was standing behind her and Nadeen was next to him. They each had a hand on her buttocks and were pulling them apart, exposing her bottom to the camera. Nadeen was holding a jar of Vaseline petroleum jelly in her free hand, up high and obvious, so the camera could get a good shot of the label. Cletus was holding his hand, palm up, with the first two fingers extended and a big blob of that jelly was sitting on the tips of his fingers. He was pointing his fingers right at her anus, which was about an inch away. The boys were standing on tiptoe and looking over her haunches at Cletus' fingers, and their eyes were round with eager delight. She could tell that a couple of them were pretty excited, because their underpants were sticking out in front of them. "More sex class," she replied matter of factly. She was too far into the game to be reluctant now. "What's the subject of the class, this time?" he asked. She shot a glance toward him over the photo. His voice had cracked. He was holding himself, his fingers were closed in a tight ring around himself, and he grimaced like he was struggling for self-control. "Lubrication?" she answered imprecisely. "Go on," he said, but it sounded like he was choking on the words. "Cletus was showing the boys how to use the Vaseline to get me ready." "For what?" His voice was a whisper, which she could barely hear over the rush of her own blood. She looked over at him in mild concern; he sounded weak. He was masturbating. His eyes were closed, and his hand was moving openly. God, she thought, has the man any shame? But his arousal and hers conspired against her, and she continued. "He was showing them how to get me ready for butt-fucking, Rufus. He put his fingers in my ass and got me all slippery with that Vaseline. Then he showed them how to fingerfuck my ass and stretch it so it wouldn't hurt when they put their pricks up my ass." Her words slammed into him like blows from a sledgehammer, and she suppressed the urge to giggle. His hand moved feverishly, and his arm banged noisily against the armrest of his chair. "What, uh, else," he gasped between strokes. His eyes were closed; he was visualizing the photo, trying to make it come to life in his mind, to join the class and participate in the learning experience. "After he had me ready, you know, Rufus, all stretched and open for him, he asked me if I was ready for him and if I wanted him to do it to me." "Yessssssssss." "Well, I told him ‘Yes,’ Rufus. I said ‘Shove your big, hard cock up my ass.’ And so, he pulled his dick out of his pants and shoved it into me so deep I thought I would split." "Ughhhhhhhh." Rufus was nearly incoherent. His hand jerked spasmodically, and she could tell he was close. "I reached back and squeezed his balls while he was ramming his cock up my asshole and I begged him to shoot his cum in my ass. And, you know what, Rufus?" "Huh." His feet jerked spastically at the sound of his name. His knuckles were turning white, and he strained to climax. Her naughty voice chimed in encouragingly, “You are amazing girl. Got him going, hotter that a half-fucked fox in a forest fire, and he's already cummed a quart not fifteen minutes ago. He's going to shoot again any second, but I guess it's a little harder this time, what with you taking the edge off him earlier.” She sensed the challenge of her naughty voice and continued, "He shot his hot cum up my ass and filled me so full it ran out when he pulled out, and Nadeen had to get the mop and make him clean it up before class could continue. And then, Rufus, you know what happened then?" She watched him with nearly detached interest. Her desire had cooled from lack of attention, and she focused on Rufus instead. This was becoming fun she thought as she continued without waiting for the response he was obviously incapable of giving. "Why those boys lined up behind me and took turns, that's what. Every one of them. Let's see, there were, one, two, three, four, five, and, hum, oh yes, there's Larry, too, I thought I remembered him being there that time. I'll check if you want me to, Rufus; they're all in my journal, you know, names, hometowns, dates, what we did, everything you would ever want to know, Rufus. Larry makes six. Every one of them fucked me in the ass that afternoon, cumming like crazy and filling me so full you could hear it sloshing when I walked for days afterward. They would cum and holler like they were dying, and it felt so good to feel them squirting up my ass like that, I nearly fainted each time they did it, and I came too, Rufus, I came like crazy. I came so many times that afternoon, Rufus, I nearly passed out, but I didn't, and Nadeen said afterwards that she hadn't ever seen anything the equal of it, and I knew she had seen just about everything there was to see in the world, so I knew it must have been something. And, you know what else, Rufus? For graduation that afternoon, Nadeen gave every one of those boys his own jar of Vaseline to use any time he wanted, and we sure had a time after that, I'll tell you." She had become caught up in the story herself, remembering events like they were yesterday and nearly missed Rufus' ejaculation. "Get over here," he grunted, and she looked toward him. He was half standing, leaning with one hand on his desk for support, and he was gripping himself tightly with the other hand. His face was deep red and droplets of perspiration had run from his forehead to his cheeks and were dripping onto his starched shirt. His eyes were wild and wide but lacked focus, and his tongue protruded from between his teeth like he was in the throes of a seizure. "Now," he snapped, when she didn't move immediately. She scrambled out of the chair, dropping the photos to the floor in the process, and stepped uncertainly toward the Headmaster. She cocked her head to the side and smiled bemusedly, as if to ask "What now?" because he seemed to be doing pretty well all by himself, and she was uncertain as to the role he wished her to play. His labored breathing was audible to her as she approached him. He nodded toward a spot on the floor, indicating where he wanted her to be, and she obeyed. She was close, almost touching him, and he could feel her heat. Her taut nipples were inches from his chest; her face barely the length of an eyelash away from his. She felt the hot exhaust of his excitement as his breath washed over her. He held himself, pointing toward her damp triangle. His hand was stilled; his fingers were locked around his flesh like a vise, constricting to obstruct the onrushing fulfillment of his passion. "Kneel," he whispered conspiratorially, as though fearful the sound of his own voice might overpower him. She dropped to her knees and reached for him, seeking to take him in her hand, and smiled understandingly, "You want me to suck you again, is that it, Rufus?" "Don't, don't touch me," he hissed. She glanced upward, toward his face and blanched. Hatred and malice raged in his eyes, replacing the glassy look of his mounting desire. She blinked uncomprehendingly and gulped. "Open your mouth, slut." He spat the words at her upturned face, and his voice was hard and cruel. His words struck her like fists and staggered her. She reached for the corner of his desk to steady herself and struggled to obey. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth, parting her lips slightly, and she eyed the swollen tip of his member hovering inches from her face. She anticipated the touch of that tip and licked her lips to ready herself. "Open wide, and look up at me; I want to see your face." Compliantly, she tilted her face upward, opening her mouth widely to receive him. Her wetted, oval lips shimmered invitingly in the light from his desk. She was kneeling in front of him, a supplicant before the altar of his depraved lust awaiting her anointment. His eyes blazed with the righteous fervor of his demented desire, and his hand jerked on his body. She caught the flicker of movement and instantly knew his intent. Ohmygod, she gagged, nearly retching in disgust, I am a urinal to him, nothing more than a place to deposit his relief. His hand moved again, drawing her eyes to his organ. It was dark and thick with his urgency and the tip rose and fell in front of her with the motion of his hand. She shuddered, unable to prevent the inevitable, and waited passively for him to finish. "Look at me," he snapped, and her eyes leapt toward his face again. "Yes," he grunted, "yes." The tip of his member brushed her cheek accidentally as his hand traversed its length in spastic jerks. "Ughhhh," she heard him groan, and he arched his back and thrust himself toward her. He masturbated himself in her face, and she caught the flash of gold on his finger as his hand flew under her nose. Her jaws ached with the effort of holding herself open for him to finish. The unyielding cold stone of the floor sent waves of stabbing pain through her knees, and she waited miserably for him to satisfy himself. "Ughhhhhh," he screamed at last, and bent nearly double. She felt the wet spray of his passion on her cheeks and lips and shut her eyes in shame. His aim was erratic and his sticky discharge spewed randomly onto her delicate features, some in her mouth and some on her face and hair. She held her mouth open and felt his hot drops splattering on her tongue and fought the urge to spit his seed in his face. Drops of his semen showered her eyelids, nose and lips. They coalesced and dripped onto her breasts and thighs, and she clenched her fists and resisted the image of a dog lifting his leg to a fire hydrant. The shower passed, of course, but sunshine did not follow. "Get up," he grunted, when his lust had run its course. She staggered to her feet and tried to blink, but her eyelids were glued together and refused to open. He thrust his handkerchief into her hand, and said, gruffly, "There, cumslut, clean yourself up with this." She turned away in humiliation, and sobs racked her body as she dabbed angrily at the viscid substance covering her face. His venomously triumphant words followed her and slashed at her back. "You didn't really think you could get away with it, did you, my dear?" Her shoulders shook; she didn't respond. He continued. "Did you actually think you could prance around here in those tight, low cut blouses and short skirts, flaunting yourself like some hooker on the street, and not attract attention?" She mopped her face and her shoulders sagged. She shook her head, aghast at his words, but couldn't muster the strength to respond. Her mind recoiled from the image his words invoked. She had tried her best not to be provocative, to always be professional. She hadn't known what to wear or how to dress. She had never had many clothes, and at the orphanage, the less she wore, the better they liked it. Nobody had ever taken her shopping for clothes, but she had done the best she could. The sales clerks hadn't helped much either; they would tell her that with the body she had, she'd be crazy to cover it up, and they would bring her the skimpiest, most revealing clothes on the rack. She had sent those back and tried to stick with more conservative things, even to the point of being matronly at times, she thought. The chemistry teacher, Mr. Bilbrey, must have agreed, because he had chided her for being too proper and started calling her the "school marm." "And, in the lunchroom, you slut, all those times you sat there alone at the table pretending to be preoccupied, writing in that book of yours, with your skirt hiked up nearly to your waist, crossing and uncrossing your bare legs and flashing everybody. You knew every eye in the room was looking at you, trying to look up your skirt and you loved it, didn't you. Sometimes, you didn't even wear panties and gave everybody a real good look, didn't you." Nooooo, she cried silently. It had been hot and her classroom wasn't air-conditioned. She hadn't meant anything by it; it was just too uncomfortable to wear hose and pumps and long, heavy skirts. She turned to confront him, to explain how some skirts accentuated her panty lines and made her look fat, but he continued ranting at her without giving her a chance. "Oh yeah, and all those times you would sit there with your legs crossed and swing your foot, while your sandal dangled from your toes. You knew how sexy it was to dangle your shoe like that, and you were doing it deliberately, weren't you?" She shook her head in denial. Nooooo, she thought, it hadn't been like that at all, not really. Of course, she knew it was sexy sometimes, that it turned guys on to do it, but she hadn't done it like that in the lunchroom. It had just been a reflex, something subconscious; it wasn't aimed at anybody at all. He was wrong about that, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he slammed the door to her rebuttal and continued. "And what about that cheerleading stunt at the last football game. Jesus H. Christ, you and those players' mothers all dolled up in cheerleader outfits and jumping around shaking your tits and asses at everybody. That was your idea, wasn't it, and you weren't even wearing a bra, so your tits and nipples stuck out plain as day. Imogene wanted me to fire you on the spot, and I would have, too, if the mayor's wife hadn't been right beside you in the front row, and she was nearer to being naked than you were." "Mr. Justice," she wailed, "you put me in charge of the Pep Squad. You said we were losing cause nobody cheered, and we needed to put a little life into the crowd." "I sure as hell didn't mean for you to organize a cheerleading squad with a bunch of football moms and do a striptease at halftime." "But, but, this is a boy's school; there aren't any girls here to be cheerleaders, and, besides, it was Mrs. Farber's idea, not mine." "Mrs. Farber? The mayor's wife!" He was incredulous. "Yes sir, it was Mrs. Farber. She thought it would be great fun to surprise everybody in the stands and said it would bring a little school spirit back to the crowd. She's the one who had the cheerleader outfits made up, but it was such short notice they could only make them in one size, and they sort of used an average. Not all of them fit too well, I guess." "That was Imogene's observation as well, but it fails to explain the lewd dancing, or why you weren't wearing a bra." "It wasn't lewd dancing, Mr. Justice. Those were cheerleading routines Nancy, I mean, Mrs. Farber, taught us. She's the only one who was a real cheerleader, so she taught the rest of us what to do. And, as for the bras, I can explain that. Somebody found out about the surprise and snuck into the ladies dressing room during the first quarter and stole all our underwear, bras, panties, the works. When we discovered they were gone just before half time, it was too late to do anything about it. Nancy, I mean, Mrs. Farber, said we had to be troopers, that the show must go on, and told us not to worry about it. She told us to look on the bright side, that since we weren't going to be wearing underwear, the fans probably wouldn't notice how bad we were at cheerleading." "I expect she was largely correct in that assessment." Mr. Justice's tone was more conciliatory. Perhaps, he acknowledged to himself, his desire had colored his perception of her behavior. Certainly, he had no idea that the mayor's wife was behind "the spectacle on the gridiron" as Imogene insisted upon describing the ladies’ half-time performance. Maybe, when she learns that "the spectacle" was all Nancy Farber's doing, she'll shut up about it. Imogene had been angling for an invitation to play bridge with Mrs. Farber's Wednesday afternoon bridge club since she first set foot in town. She said that would be her entrée into the upper crust of local society, so she wouldn't dare to imperil that advancement of her social standing by letting her opinion of "the spectacle on the gridiron" become public knowledge. Anne's ire subsided immediately upon his change in tone. The accusation was not entirely misdirected, for she did enjoy the admiration of men, and boys, she added. It was her reward for all those hours spent sweating in the gym, all the lonely miles on the track. It pleased her secretly, what Rufus had said about the lunchroom, to think of all those eyes turned on her, watching her as she ignored them and caressed her memories on to the blank pages of her journal, and to imagine those watching boys thinking wistfully of holding her, caressing her. She could imagine the sensual effects of the display of her shapely curves and the arousal she had caused. She could remember feeling their eyes following her, looking at her legs and the expanse of smooth, tanned thigh she exposed to them. She blushed, slightly, remembering how she had turned in her chair to rise and allowed her knees to part revealing her nakedness to a group of boys at a nearby table, who had been so taken with watching her that their faces were nearly lying in their food trays. "Oh my," he muttered glancing up at the clock above the door, "it's getting late, my dear, and I must be getting home. Imogene will be waiting with supper, and I mustn't keep her waiting or she'll be cross." She dropped his soggy handkerchief to the floor and bent to retrieve her panties. Her brain was spinning. Shame, humiliation, remorse, anger roiled like boiling water in her mind, and above all that simmered there rose a thick column of rising frustration. He had used her, abused her, threatened her and accused her, and all her struggles to resist him had done nothing but thrust her deeper and deeper into the cesspool of her own depravity. Like quicksand, her degenerate desires were sucking her under, pulling her remorselessly into the fathomless depths of her desire. "Not so fast, young lady, you haven't finished looking at those." Mr. Justice was pointing to the stack of photos on the floor. "You just look through them and tell me if I missed any of the really good ones," he chuckled. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 05 She thumbed through the pictures, while the Headmaster tucked his hamster back in it's cage and pulled up his pants. He took his time buttoning and fastening, being careful that no lapses in attention to detail were left to betray him to Imogene, and, when he had dressed, he stepped into the private bathroom adjoining his office to adjust his necktie and comb his hair. She heard only vaguely the faint trickling of water as he relieved himself and the swooshing of the commode when he flushed. The sounds reminded her of the nights when she lay in her bed in her tiny room next door to the bath she shared with the boys on the third floor, and listened to their water draining and tried to identify them by the volume of their flows. He was humming to himself in the bathroom, while she examined the pictures. She remembered them all, or at least the events, though the conclusions were a bit hazy to her. She reached the bottom of the stack before he returned, and, so, by the time he had finished restoring himself, she had a pretty clear idea of what worked best to crank ole Rufus Justice's tractor. Knowledge is power, she thought, and she smiled smugly to herself. The pictures had warmed her in spite of herself, and her frustration gnawed at her loins. He stepped into the room, still humming, just as she was returning the photos to his desk. She leaned into the light and he stopped to admire her. Her breasts were full, filled with her longing and her nipples were distended. A blush of color darkened the light, untanned skin at her bikini line and rose up her throat to her cheeks. Her hand trembled as she put the pictures down. She looked at him uncertainly again, and their eyes met across the expanse of his desk, and he read her mind. He read her mind as surely and certainly as if she had reached for his hands and placed them on her breasts and begged him to help her. "I have neglected you, haven't I?" "Yes," she whispered abashedly. "Your needs." He spoke matter of factly. She nodded, too embarrassed to give voice to her feelings. "Come here," he said gently. She nearly raced around his desk, and he stepped back to allow her to position herself between him and the edge of his desk. She panted like an eager puppy. He brushed her nipples with the backs of his fingers, and she threw her shoulders back offering herself to him. He caressed her nipples, and she chewed her lips with desire. She longed to kiss him, to pull his lips to hers and thrust her tongue into his mouth but feared to lose him and did not. He twisted her nipples and pulled them up, away from her body and she rose on tiptoes to follow. Pain and pleasure commingled in her breasts and flowed like molten metal in a river of fire to her loins. Her eyes swept his features restlessly, and she found him disturbingly attractive. She desperately wanted to reach out and fondle him and glanced hopefully at his fly but found no encouragement there. Her hands rose and she cupped her breasts and held them out to his caresses, captive doves in the palms of her hands, cooing for the gentle stroking of his fingers. Bright flames of desire licked at her loins, and her fingers tightened on her flesh. He pushed her gently and said, "Sit," as her buttocks bumped the edge of his desk. She wiggled her fanny and squirmed up onto the cool, hard surface. Her legs spread wantonly as she waited for him. He released her nipples and pulled his chair closer. He sat and rolled between her knees. She thought of stirrups and her last gynecological examination, but he told her to put her feet on the armrests of his chair and that was nearly as effective. She leaned back, supporting herself with her elbows, and looked across the heaving mounds of her breasts and the smooth expanse of her belly at his face poised above the junction of her widespread thighs. For the second time that night, she opened to his examination, and, this time, she was prepared, eager, in fact, and her moisture flowed from her. He rolled closer, and she felt his eyes touching her there. Her toes curled and gripped the arms of his chair, and she tried to pull him still closer. She prayed for the touch of his tongue, shutting her eyes and willing with all her might for him to lick her. He blew softly, through pursed lips, and her thick hair parted and lay back. She moaned at the gentle pressure of his wind, and imagined the soft, curled petals of her wet flower opening to receive his touch. He said, "Hold yourself open for me," and her fingers flew to her mound. She laid back. Her head dropped to his desk top, knocking over the lamp, which clattered noisily beside her. They ignored it, oblivious to the sounds, and the ceiling spun crazily above her as her fingers clawed at her opening. She spread herself, fingers pulling apart thickened folds of soft flesh like generous slices of sweet peach, and revealed her delicious splendor to him. "Touch yourself," he said, and her finger extended to lightly tap the taut core of her desire. Her touch, the answer to her yearning, flooded her with warmth and she sighed, "Ohhhhh." He leaned to put his lips on her, but hesitated, reconsidering, and she sighed again hoping to invigorate his desire. Still he hesitated, and she felt him opening the drawer beneath her buttocks. She heard him rummaging in the drawer, and groaned in frustration. Her finger pressed against her throbbing button, and passion clicked on like floodlights in her brain. "There we are," he said, and withdrew a pencil with an oversized rubber eraser on the end. She lifted her head and squinted to see what he had found. It was a fat, red eraser, wedge shaped, tapering to a broad point at the tip, and it appeared to be unused. "Move your finger," he instructed, and, holding the pencil like a scalpel, he returned his attention to her loins. She floated breathlessly on the desk aching for his touch. Her head hung limply off the far edge, and the world turned upside down. Vague images from across the room spun dizzily in front of her, but she ignored her disequilibrium. She looked up and there was Cletus' cigar ash marring the perfection of Imogene's Persian rug. She looked down and the clock under the doorway told her it was twelve thirty. She batted her eyes and recognized the inverted image of Ronald Reagan smiling insincerely at her from the opposite wall. She recoiled in disgust, and, in that instant, the eraser touched her flesh. "Yesss," she hissed, and the noxious image washed from her mind on a wave of erotic delight. He rubbed her softly, caressing her with the flat sides of the eraser, and she widened herself to him. He slipped the edge along the side of her button, around the bottom and up the opposite side, and she gasped with pleasure. He brushed the tip back and forth across her sensitive flesh causing the muscles in her buttocks to flex with tension. He pressed the tip against her and rubbed in short digging strokes, like he was erasing a particularly stubborn spot, and her legs jerked reflexively. "Oh God, yes," she burbled as the friction of the hard rubber abraded her tender flesh and fanned the hot flames of her lust. Anything, anything at all to relieve the terrible, quick yearning of her need, and she remembered the wicked assortment of implements that she had used to console her loneliness in college. "Oh, yes, like that," she urged, when he lightly flicked her tense flesh with the stiff rubber edge. Her hips bounced lewdly on the desk causing the eraser to wander off course, and she moaned her disappointment. "Be still," he urged gently. "I can't,” she panted excitedly. He pressed his hand against her belly and stilled her wild jerking. The eraser settled in her slot and resumed its slippery caresses. She gurgled in wanton delight as he erased her modesty and brought the lofty dome of her composure down about her shoulders in a crumbled ruin. "Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted as he masturbated her to orgasm. "Yes, like that," she urged and lifted her hips to increase the pressure of the eraser on her body. "Yes," she screamed at the zenith of her pleasure, and she writhed in her completion. Her cries subsided, and the unrestrained jerking of her limbs diminished. He stared into her in wonder and felt the heat of her on his face and hands. It occurred to him that she might have melted the rubber off his pencil, but a quick examination of the tip proved him wrong. He whistled softly in astonished admiration for her uninhibited responses, and regretted, in passing, his earlier rejection of her invitations. Ample time for that in the future, he reassured himself, and dropped the pencil into the drawer. Her fingers still held her open, her flesh was inflamed and streaked with red, where the eraser had dug too deeply, and he bent to kiss her swollen lips. She sighed again and moved, and he felt her wetness sliding under his lips. She filled his nostrils with her heavy animal scent, and his tongue shot out to lick the length of her. "Ooooooooooo," she squealed at the slithery touch of his tongue and melted against him. "Pleaseeeeeeeee," she begged. "Sorry, baby," he said, pushing away from her reluctantly and standing up, "no can do." The scent of her followed him, and he fished in his pocket for a piece of Dentyne to mask his breath. “Don't want Imogene sniffing me out like a goddamn Beagle when I get home,” he chortled to himself. He patted her open mons consolingly and said, "Tomorrow, baby." He reached across her body and picked up the photos and slipped them into his bottom desk drawer. "Don't even think about taking the pictures, darling. I have the videos right here with me and that's all I'll need, if you give me any trouble," and, with that, he turned and walked out of the building into the night. She lay on the desk breathing heavily, one half relieved, the other half anxious, and she groped for answers to a million questions. Why did this have to happen? Where's the fault? What'll happen next? What will he do to me now? And, she remembered his selection of photos and the clear direction they pointed and knew the answer to that question. She was lost in her thoughts for a while and didn't hear the squeaking of the wheels on old Jackson's mop bucket till it was nearly too late. She scampered to the little pile of her clothes and yanked them on in a rush. She stuffed her underwear under her arm, and hurriedly restored Mr. Justice's office to its usual condition, except for one small, wet triangular stain on the edge of his blotter, which she couldn't remove. She tiptoed to the door and looked down the dark hall to assure herself that Jackson, the janitor, wasn't looking. Satisfied that the gentle old man was occupied elsewhere, she slipped through the hall to the main entrance and raced down the walk to her car. * * * "Hot Goddamn," Caleb whistled softly, when he reached the end of the page. He was startled to find loose bits of rubber floating around in his mouth, and, realizing he had been unconsciously chewing as he read, he threw his pencil with its well-gnawed eraser onto his desk with a grunt of disgust. His penis was screaming at him from the tight enclosure of his pants, and he felt a nearly overwhelming desire to relieve himself on the spot. Get a grip, he chided himself, and he stood to walk off his urgency. He passed the credenza and paused to pour a finger of scotch into his empty glass. He drained the drink in a quick gulp and poured himself another before walking to the windows behind his desk. Night had fallen and the street circling the courthouse square was deserted. Not rolled up and put away for the night just yet, but close, he mused, remembering the lament of every teenager, including himself, who ever grew up in a one horse town. Moon Dog's report lay, inert and innocuous, on the desk behind him, and he undertook to put the steamy images from his mind by concentrating upon the smoky flash of the scotch in his throat, but the pages held him like heroin holds an addict, and he kept turning his head to look at the report and the photo lying beside it. He carried his drink to his desk and stood looking down at the girl in the picture. His fingers stole toward his groin and groped for the throbbing need in his pants. She looked so sweet and virginal with those innocent eyes and her frank gaze, but he couldn't shake the image of her laying on her back with her legs lifted, opening herself wantonly to any depraved demand, and his prick jerked spasmodically. His fingers toyed with his zipper, and he took another sip of scotch in the vain hope of a diversion. It wouldn't be the first time, he rationalized; not the first time events had so stimulated him that he had masturbated in his office. He remembered the trial of little Lisa Marmady's uncle, whom he had tried on seven counts of statutory rape of the child when she was only fifteen. She was eighteen when the case came up, and, to protect her from embarrassment, he had taken the extraordinary step of allowing her to give her testimony in his chambers with no one present but the two of them and Shawna, the court reporter. She had been reluctant at first, and terse, but he explained that she couldn't gloss over the details without losing her credibility, so, after a few faltering starts and some encouragement, she forgot all about the court reporter in the corner behind her and opened up. Pretty soon, she was leaning toward him, confiding her experiences and describing the details of her sexual encounters in a husky, excited voice that clearly betrayed her eager acceptance of her uncle's attentions. He had heard her out, struggling to maintain a semblance of judiciousness for the reporter's sake, if not the witness', and long before she finished, she had him on the sexual ropes of intense longing, and, worse, she knew it. She wound up weaving her story with much the same relish as Moon Dog was exhibiting in his, and, somewhere around the middle, she had abandoned decorum and began using vulgar, vernacular terms like "prick" and "cunt" and "cock" and "fucking" to describe the things her uncle had done to her and which she had, reciprocally, done to him. She had left nothing to the imagination and in the process left the indelible impression that she bore greater responsibility than did her mother's brother for their transgressions. He struggled to maintain the poise his office demanded, but she teased him and stroked his desires wickedly with her sultry glances and earthy words, and, under his robes, he was seething, hot and quick, for her. When she finished, or, as he later recognized, tired of the game and relented, he returned to the courtroom and dismissed the charges against her uncle on account of a lack of evidence and immediately adjourned to his chambers with the tape recording of the girl's testimony, where, in the dark solitude of his office, as her tantalizing words recalled again her sordid pleasures, he fantasized himself in her uncle's place and masturbated till his cum shot in heavy, thick streaks across the polished surface of his desk. Not again, he groaned, recalling the god-awful mess he had made of his desk and the knowing grins Shawna kept tossing toward him for weeks afterward, when his disinclination to return the tape recording had become apparent. The reporter had become so emboldened by the intimacy of her knowledge, that, one afternoon not long afterward, while he was in chambers during a recess, she had leaned over his shoulder on the pretext of finding for him a line of questioning in a transcript, and she had rubbed herself conspicuously against his back. When he looked up at her, she had smiled a conspiratorial sort of smile and confided that Lisa Marmady's testimony had turned her on every bit as much as it did him, and that confession was the precursor to any number of intra-office ejaculations, none of which, fortunately, had soiled his desk quite as badly as the first. He sought diversion from the tension in his loins and tried to focus on the photo on his desk. His hand trembled as he reached to position the picture under the light. He studied the face in the photo and took a sip of scotch. Sweetness and innocence radiated from her eyes and the slightly curving smile on her thin, sensuous lips and the openness with which she returned the camera's gaze. Inconceivable, he thought, that one so angelic in appearance could have been caught up, willing or not, in the devilish things Moon Dog was describing, and a vision of Rufus Justice's cum defiling that pretty countenance materialized in his awareness to scold him for making a judgment on such flimsy grounds. Moon Dog, he acknowledged to himself, didn't make things up, and he wouldn't report events unless he was certain they actually had occurred. He was just closing his eyes to the image of cum streaming down that lovely face, when suddenly, the light of the bright dawn of recognition hit him. "Gweneth Paltrow, of course," he nearly shouted in exclamation. He had recently rented "Shakespeare in Love," and had been so taken with the young actress' beauty, that he had gone out immediately afterward and endured that horribly dreary movie, "The Talented Mr. Ripley." He found his lust for the attractive woman not in the least diminished by his distaste for the second movie, and her attractiveness, particularly the pertly upturned smallish breasts that she had casually revealed in "Shakespeare" had haunted him for months. "They could be twins," he murmured in a half-whisper as he leaned for a better examination, and the thermometer of his passion soared toward the boiling point. "Well, nearly," he argued with himself, retreating just slightly on closer inspection of the picture in the new light of revelation. His friends always said he was a poor observer of the female form, accurately accusing him of being inherently guilty of transferring the pleasing attributes of one woman onto the person of another in order to dupe himself into infatuation. Sort of a variation on the theme, "if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with," those who knew better had laughed, when he had described his court reporter, Shawna, as being the spitting image of Zena, the Warrior Princess. Let them laugh, he thought studying the photo intently, he was right this time, the resemblance is uncanny, and he drifted into a fantasy of Gweneth reclining on his desk, opening herself to the wet homage of his tongue, and he knew, then and there, that there was no power on earth that was going to keep him from going to Missouri to meet the girl or from bringing her back to Tennessee with him. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 06 Anne spent the next several days in a shocked stupor, just perfunctorily going through the motions of performing her job. In class she forgot the answers to the most basic of questions and neglected to collect assignments for three days running, which surely would have occasioned complaints except for the fact that she forgot to make them as well. She had lost her concentration and struggled to focus on the simplest of tasks. She told her students to study during class periods, and while they buzzed in the background, she stared absently through the clerestory windows at cloud formations assembling and dispersing on the far horizon. She daydreamed of Cletus and Nadeen and the boys and waited for Rufus to summons her, and, from time to time, when she thought no one was watching her, she would brush a tear of shame, or indignation, or hopelessness from her cheek. She was strong and resilient, qualities that were unwittingly instilled in abundance at the Caruthers' Children's Home for Orphans, and she maintained her facade, but within, on the inside, all was turmoil and tumult, and she was buffeted by compulsions over which she had no control. The days passed in a frantic blur of sex, and she was unable to sort her actions out in her mind. Her memory failed, and she had difficulty recalling events that had happened the day before. She was looking through a glass darkly and everything was out of focus, slightly out of kilter, and she waited for Rufus to reach out for her. She trudged through the days with Rufus' specter hovering over her, and the constant knowledge of the photographs locked in his desk drawer haunted her every waking moment. At night, when she got home, and it would be late because he had detained her, she would collapse into bed exhausted and fall instantly to sleep, and she would dream horrible, cruel dreams of bondage and torture, and Rufus would loom over her in the darkness to torment her with steely knives and ropes and chains, and when she cried or begged him for mercy, he would sneer and show her the pictures again, and the ropes and chains would tighten on her wrists and ankles. He would summons her in the mornings, during her class' recess periods, or during the lunch period, or in the afternoon, after school had dismissed and the halls were empty and quiet. Sometimes it was all three in the same day, and when she finally was allowed to leave at night, she would barely have the strength remaining to turn the key in her car's ignition. He was insatiable, but she was determined to satisfy his every need, to yield to his every whim. She could deny him nothing, and made no effort to resist him in anything. At first, she had yielded to his blackmail and threats, but quickly enough she had succumbed to her own desires and the restless quaking in her loins. And so, those tears of shame that coursed her cheeks were born of her inability to resist herself and the sweet, hot compulsion of her depravity, and, thus, when she waited lost in thought, detached and absent, she thought of him and of her desire, and when, at last, he called for her, she would rush to him down the long dark corridors and throw herself into his arms with ardent recklessness. She gave herself over to him to be used as he saw fit and gloried in the excesses of his creativity. And, in her submission to him, she was not passive, but read his moods and learned his traits, his strengths and weaknesses, and she played to them willingly to bind him to her. Rufus loved the photographs of her and he loved to have her look at them with him. It became their routine to meet in his office and sit together, side by side, behind his desk. He showed her the pictures while she stroked him and described all the details the photo failed to disclose. She would identify the participants and describe the activities, but most of all, she told him how she had responded, what felt good and what did not, and with each word his excitement would expand and grow, until at last overcome with need he would take her in some manner. One afternoon, when she judged him ready, she passed him a note and asked him to meet her after school in the infirmary. Nurse Hazel, she knew, was on extended absence, so the infirmary would be deserted. She slipped in early, while the students were clearing out after last period, and locked the door. She quickly undressed and listened while the racket of departing students diminished. When all was quiet, she unlocked the door and lay down on the examining table in Nurse Hazel's examination room, like one of Titan's recumbent nudes. She lay on her side supporting her head with her hand and plucked at her nipples to make them tight and hard. She knew she was beautiful, stretched out there on the table like a feline huntress on a limb, and she was confident in her appeal. She heard the click of the door latch, and Rufus appeared. He gasped at the sight of her, and rushed to the table. His hands moved over her undulating curves, and she rolled onto her back to facilitate his caresses. "Why here?" he questioned, looking around skeptically at the sterile surroundings. "Are you tired of my office?" "Not at all, darling," she cooed. It pleased him when she used terms of endearment like that when addressing him, and he smiled at her warmly. "I have something to give you that I think you'll like, and this is the best place I could think of to give it to you." "You do?" He was intrigued by the notion of a gift, but puzzled a little as well, and his hands paused in their exploration of her familiar nooks and crannies. "What on earth could that be?" He rose on his toes and stretched to look behind her as if he thought she was hiding something there. "You can't have it yet, silly; you have to get undressed first." Rufus scrambled to strip off his clothes, and in short order he was down to his shorts and tee shirt. She watched him undress and giggled, when, in his haste, he flung his shirt and tie past her head. He peeled off his socks, and said, "How's that?" "Just fine," she said tacitly acknowledging his modesty and pushing aside the nagging questions about why he always kept his shorts on. She crooked her finger at him, and he stepped to her side. She reached for him and slipped her hand into his shorts. He was hard, ready for her, and she drew him into the light. "My, my, just look at you, Rufus," she said softly with just enough suggestion of admiration to make him feel proud. "You've been looking at my pictures again haven't you, baby?" She held him as she spoke, and he grinned sheepishly when he answered her. "Yes." "Which ones were you looking at, Rufus? You must have some favorites." She was being coy; she knew perfectly well which were his favorites, because he invariably choked up and started trembling whenever they rotated to the top as they went through his collection. His shyness and embarrassment endeared him to her and softened her heart towards him, but, even more than that, she knew that a man's fantasies held the keys to his soul; understand his secret desires and you can unlock his mind and possess him completely. "Oh, well, ah, uh," he stammered nonplussed in response, and blushed. "It's alright, Rufus. You can't tell me, I understand." Her voice was gentle, reassuring like a mother comforting a child, and her fingers cradled him tenderly. The keys to the catacombs of his depravity were jangling loosely on the key ring in her hand, but he had neither the sense nor the wit to hear. He looked at her expectantly and tried to speak, "I, uh..." "Shhh," she hushed him softly, "I know what you want, Rufus. I know what you like best." She smiled suggestively as she spoke and increased the pressure of her hand on him to assure him of her meaning. A key, long and slender, hand-forged from ancient iron slipped into a lock in the dim, cobwebbed corridors of his mind and began to slowly turn. He looked at her inquiringly, dumbfounded, and, she pointedly glanced at an emesis basin that was sitting on a neatly folded towel atop a small table against the wall. She had placed the basin there earlier while preparing for his arrival. His eyes followed hers to the table and to the basin and seeing nothing of erotic interest there returned to her face. His eyebrows rose in bewilderment. "It's your gift, Rufus; it's there on the table." She continued to hold him as he reached for the basin and picked it up. Lying within the kidney shaped bowl was a tube of KY jelly that she had found among Nurse Hazel's supplies. He jerked when he recognized the well-known substance, and the implications of her gift began taking shape in his mind. The ancient key, notches and teeth filed and honed to perfection, smoothly rolled the tumblers of the lock and the long untested mechanism released. He held the tube of lubricant in his hand uncertainly, and she stroked him suggestively. "That's what you want, isn't it, Rufus?" Her voice was husky and seductive, and her hand burned him like fire. Far away and deep in the passageway of his most secret longing, beyond the raging fires of Hell and damnation, beyond memory, hope and desire, an ancient, black oak door began to open on creaking hinges. His face was red, his hands were shaking and he could not look her in the eye, but he croaked out, "Yes," in spite of himself. The door opened a crack, emitting a shaft of white-hot light, illumination from the blast furnace of his lust roaring just beyond the threshold. He held the tube with both hands high up near his heart, a precious gift to be treasured above all else, and she gently tugged him closer. "You know what to do, then, don't you, darling?" Her words were soft and gently soothing to his ear and they calmed him. "Yes," he whispered, and his eyes gleamed with excited anticipation. The old door swung wider; unoiled hinges shrieked. "Like the pictures, Rufus, just like the pictures of me you like so much. You know the ones, don't you, darling?" "Yes, yes." His head bobbed as he answered. The door swung wider, and he was bathed in hot light, squinting, shaking, mouth dry as desert sand, and he peered irreverently, like Lot's wife, into the flame and his pillar turned to hot stone. "Do it then, Rufus. Do whatever you want to do, anything, anything you want. Do you understand?" "Yes," he grunted. Perspiration was shining on his lip. His palms were moist, and his hands trembled. He stepped past the protesting door and into the conflagration of his darkest desires, sucked like a moth into the flame by her clever manipulation of his cravings. "Anything," she said again and released him from her grip. She pushed him back a step and rolled off the side of the examination table. The paper cover crackled under her as she moved. She stood in front of him, then turned around and with her back to him, she bent over, and laid herself across the middle of the table. The paper crackled again as she placed her face and breasts on the flat, cushioned surface. She reached out to the opposing ends of the table and gripped the rounded edges with her hands. She waited for him, bending before him like a supplicant and offered herself to the fulfillment of his desire. He stood behind her, shaking with excitement, astonished at the extent of her understanding of his needs and her willingness to accommodate them. Her full, rounded buttocks rose before him enticingly. Her powerful legs were spread in invitation, and the dark cleavage of her haunches pulled at him with the irresistible primal force of a rising tide. He clutched the tube and twisted the cap with anxious, trembling fingers. He primed her first, and then himself, and she whispered encouragements to him to sustain his courage. "Oh, yes, baby, touch me there," she moaned when his timid fingers teased her crevice. She wiggled her butt for him, and he spread her cheeks so he could find her better. She heard the heavy panting of his breathing as he crouched behind her fumbling amateurishly with the tube of lubricant, and she waited for him with burning impatience while he oiled his fingers. "Come on, Rufus, please, baby, I want you so bad, I can't stand it much longer," she coaxed breathlessly. "Anne, I...," he stammered, his voice choked with excitement. She felt his fingertips tentatively probing her crease. "Yes, yes, baby, that's it. Use two fingers like Cletus did in the picture. You remember how Cletus used two fingers to grease up my asshole, don't you, baby?" "Oh, God yes, Anne," he groaned excitedly, and he leaned against her. She felt his hard cock pressing against her leg, and his fingers probed the deep cleft of her ass cheeks seeking the puckered opening she offered to him. She undulated her hips like he was already inside her, and, when his fingers brushed across her tight, quivering hole and paused, she stilled her hips and moaned, "Yes, baby, there, there, do it. He pushed and his greasy fingers slid easily into her hot channel. She pressed her cheek into the crackling paper and chewed her lip to conceal her ecstasy, while he probed her depths with his fingers. He pressed his face against her haunches and watched her puckered rose suck his fingers into her ass, and his hot breath seared her flesh. Her breasts dangled freely and were swinging as she lurched backward to meet the tentative thrusts of his fingers. Her nipples were hard and ached with her longing. She tried to rub herself against the edge of the table and mouthed encouragement to him, "Deeper, honey, do it deeper." He pushed into her and rotated his hand so his fingers could coat her opening with the jelly. She moaned and widened for him and his tongue licked the satiny smooth skin of her crease. "Oooooo, yes, baby," she squealed as she felt the penetration of his fingers and the sweeping, wet caress of his tongue on her sensitive flesh. "Yes, yes, fuck my ass with your fingers," she begged him wantonly, when he increased the tempo of his probing. "Oh, God, yes, oh, oh, oh," she gurgled heatedly to his cadence, and, then, as the exquisite friction grew nearly unbearable, she turned her head to him and cried out, "Do my nipples too, baby, pinch `em while you put your fingers up my asshole." He reached for her with his free hand and caught both of her dangling nipples between his fingers. He squeezed them tightly and pulled downward, stretching her breasts toward the floor with a milking, kneading motion. He tugged and twisted her screaming flesh, and his tongue lapped at the musky dark crease of her ass, while his slippery fingers probed and stretched her puckered opening. White-hot bolts of sexual energy flashed from her nipples and loins and collided in her belly in an explosion of passion. "Oh, baby, baby," she mouthed into the paper sheeting, "give it to me. I want it. I'm ready for it. I want to feel you inside me, baby. I want to feel your cock in my ass." She was panting breathlessly and quivering with desire when, at last, he moved close behind her and mounted her. She felt him probing blindly and stilled the motion of her hips, waiting patiently with her heart fluttering in her throat, for him to find his way, and then, he took her. She felt his presence filling her, and it was as it had been when the pictures were made, only sweeter, more tender, for she was freely giving of herself something that she knew he longed for but would never have requested. She clung to the table, arms outstretched, a sacrificial lamb for him to slaughter, and he clung to her shoulders, then the narrow span of her waist, then to the wide flare of her hips, and even to the muscular columns of her thighs, and he claimed her sacrifice with the thundering lance of his need. He was giddy with excitement and passion, and the room was spinning crazily as he thrust himself between her cheeks and filled her there with his rigid, aching cock. "Oh yes, baby," she hissed, when she felt the throbbing climactic urgency his lust filling her, "fuck my ass with your big, hard cock." And, the blast furnace of his desire blazed brighter than ever and spewed thick hot smoke from its towering smokestack, and the ground below shuddered and quaked as the flames soared. Later, when he was spent and exhausted, he collapsed and lay on her back letting the softness of her curves cradle him as he recovered himself. She milked him with her secret muscles as he dwindled within her, and whispered to him that he was wonderful, the best, and that never before had it felt so good. When he was finished and released her, she washed him and knelt to kiss his staff, and cried because he had not been the first to have her there. She was lying, of course, appealing only to his vanity, but he didn't know that, and puffed up with pride and self-satisfaction and imagined himself to be a man among men. She smiled sweetly and tucked the ring of keys away in a place of safekeeping. * * * Caleb's chair squeaked as he rocked back and kicked away from his desk. He dropped Moon Dog's report on his desk like a hot rock. His pulse was racing, and he was sweating as if he was standing in the heat from the same fires that had so inflamed Rufus Justice. He blinked and wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve. His vest was lying on the floor beside his chair, but he had no recollection of removing it. He rubbed the bulge between his legs and imagined the girl handing him a jar of Vaseline and imploring him to fuck her in the ass. His fingers tugged at his zipper tab, and he was just reaching to switch off the desk lamp when the phone rang. Startled, he lunged for the receiver and succeeded only in knocking it off the cradle and sending it clattering across his desk. "Hello," he croaked in a throaty, hoarse whisper when, finally, he corralled the receiver. He coughed to clear his throat and repeated the greeting, "Hello?" "I must have caught you reading one of the good parts, Judge," Moon Dog chuckled, without bothering to identify himself. "You sure as Hell did, Moon Dog," Caleb replied a little sheepishly. The guy had an uncanny ability to know exactly what was going on no matter how far away he was at the moment, Caleb thought. Self-consciously, he zipped up his pants and repositioned his penis in the hope of attenuating his arousal. "You're coming, then?" "Whaaaa?" he gasped, and he jerked his hand off his crotch as if he had just spotted Moon Dog watching him through binoculars from the rooftops across the street. "Oops," Moon Dog snorted, "bad choice of words, Judge. You're going to help the little lady out, then, is what I meant." "Well, yes, I believe I probably will," Caleb sputtered in an effort to regain some of his lost dignity. "If you're not sure, Judge, I'll have to call you back tomorrow, cause we can't stay here too much longer." "I'm sure. I'll be there. What do you mean, 'you can't stay there much longer?'" "She's too hot, Judge." "You're tellin' me," Caleb whistled in agreement. "Right," Moon Dog chuckled conspiratorially, "but, in more ways than just what you're thinking. What I'm saying is that they've been looking for her; asking questions and showing her picture all around. It's just a matter of time before somebody fingers her." "You can say that again," Caleb sighed euphorically. He flexed his fingers and images of thick, fleshy, slippery lips enveloping his digits played with his imagination. "I meant..." "I know what you meant, Moon Dog," Caleb interrupted, quickly shaking the ribald visions from his mind and getting down to business. "Where is she now? Still in Sedalia?" "Naw, we pulled out of there yesterday. The desk clerk warned us that somebody, who sounded a lot like Caruthers, had been asking about her and showing her picture." "That was accommodating of him. The clerk I mean." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 06 "Not really, Judge. You paid him a hundred dollars to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut." "I did?" "Yeah. I did it for you. It'll show up on our expense account." "Oh, great. A hundred dollars sounds like a lot, Moon Dog." "Don't go cheap on me, Judge. Caruthers offered fifty to a cashier at the Mapco on the edge of town to call him if she saw her. I had to beat that offer just to stay ahead of him." "How the hell did you find out about that?" "We stopped there for gas the other day. Had your girl in the back seat, and, when I went in to pay, the cashier had her nose pressed against the window and was digging in her purse for Caruthers's phone number. She took a little convincing, but she finally told me she had recognized the girl and was making the call like she was supposed to. Cost you another hundred, but she gave me a description that fit Caruthers to a "tee," and promised to forget having seen the woman. I took the matchbook he had written his number on, so she couldn't change her mind, and we went straight over to the motel and checked out. Moved her across town to another motel, which is where we think they found us yesterday. "Where are you now?" "Cedar City." "Where?" "Cedar City. It's just north of Jefferson City on US 54. We're at the Acock Motel. She got a laugh outa that, too, I'll tell you. She said the name was perfect for her, but that with a name like 'Acock' on the sign out front, it would probably be the first place that Cletus and Nadine would look for her. I thought she was kidding, but she was serious as a heart attack, and it was weird, like she was always finding some sort of sexual connotation to everything, and she claimed that she and Caruthers had a kind of psychic connection that made them think just alike about stuff like that. I asked her if she wanted to find another motel, and she just shrugged her shoulders and said it wouldn't matter much if we did, and, then she laughed and told me to ask the desk clerk if the name 'Acock' meant that she couldn't have but one when she got to the room." "You've got to be kidding." "That's what she said, boss, I swear to God. Ole Hunter nearly fell out of the car when she said it, cause she was lookin right at him while she was talking to me." "Where is she now?" "In her little room at the Acock, boss." "Where are you?" "In the car. I'm parked about fifty feet from her door, where I can watch her and the lobby, too." "Seen anything suspicious?" "Nothing so far; it's been quiet. We bought up all the rooms, weren't but eight of them, and had the clerk put up a sign sayin' they were closed, so nobody would be coming into the front desk looking for a room." "Jesus, Moon Dog, eight rooms? What'd that cost?" "They gave us a deal. Hadn't sold out a single night since the legislature was in town last spring and a Jaguar full of whores drove over from St. Louis and set up shop for a week." "How much?" Caleb groaned. "Forty a room." "Goddamn, Moon Dog, that's nearly three hundred dollars." "Closer to three fifty with the tax, Judge, but you said to keep her safe, and we figured that's the best way to do it." "Safe, yeah, but three hundred and fifty dollars for the night?" "Pussy don't come cheap, Judge, you know that. Especially, pussy that looks and acts as good as this girl." "She does look good, Moon Dog," he muttered more to himself than to the spook on the other end of the line. His fingers nudged the photo into the circle of light on his desk, so he could see the image better. "She looks just like Gweneth Paltrow," he continued with a tinge of awe to his voice. "Who boss?" "Gweneth, Gweneth Paltrow, you know, the movie star." She stared up at him innocently, and his mind churned with the possibilities of what she might be doing with multiple cocks in her little room at the 'Acock.' "What are you looking at, Judge?" "The picture of her you sent me, of course. It's right here in the package with your report. Don't tell me the super spook forgot he sent me her picture." "Oh hell, Judge, that isn't a picture of your girl; that IS Gweneth Paltrow. Didn't you see the postit note I stuck on it? I told you she just sorta looked like the picture I was sending. Hunter spotted that picture in a frame at the drug store the other day. He was walking past the rack and said, 'Damn, that looks kinda like Anne,' and I agreed, so we bought the frame and pulled out the picture to send to you with the report so you would have some idea of what she looked like." "Oh," Caleb answered feeling like a complete fool. He flipped the photo over and on the back, near the bottom, in tiny letters, he read the legend: "Gweneth Paltrow, Universal Studios, Copyrighted 1999, All Rights Reserved." "Uh, well, I don't see any postit note here, Moon Dog," he continued peevishly. "It must have fallen off, then, 'cause I put it there myself. "Where's Hunter?" Caleb asked to change the subject. The possibility that Hunter might be supplying the cock at the 'Acock' even as he was talking to Moon Dog had occurred to him despite both men's professionalism and their reputations for never mixing business with pleasure, and that possibility, remote though it was, concerned him more than the confusion about Ms. Paltrow's photo. "He's checking out some things back at the Hardwick School. He took his tools to do a little reconnoitering to see if he could come up with anything. Should be back here in a couple of hours or so." "What is he expecting to find that's not already in your report?" "I don't want to speculate on that, Judge; let's see what he comes up with over there. But, you're reading the report, aren't you? If you can get past the sex in there, it's pretty obvious that your girl's story has more twists and turns and gray areas than the Kennedy assassination. You wanted to know what you might be getting into, so we're trying to tie up some of those loose ends before we pull outa here tomorrow." "Do you think she has any culpability in any of it?" "No, I don't, but I sure think she's had some terrible luck along the way and has run into some really nasty characters." "I hear you, Moon Dog, but her luck is about to take a major turn for the better." "I figured that, boss." "You know me too well, don't you?" It was an acknowledgement of the obvious rather than a question. "Well enough; what time will you be here?" "No later than two o'clock tomorrow afternoon." "Cedar City exit. Turn left, Acock's on the left about a mile east of the exit. See you at two." Moon Dog broke the connection and the line went dead. Caleb scribbled the directions on his note pad and glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight, and he had a lot to do to get ready to leave in the morning. First things first, he thought, and picked up Moon Dog's report. He was relieved to see that relatively few pages remained, so he settled back in his chair and quickly found his place. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 07 A few days after their tryst in the infirmary, Rufus called Anne into his office just before the final bell. She had only been with him once or twice since the afternoon they borrowed Nurse Hazel's infirmary, and she was feeling slightly nervous and somewhat neglected. His attentions may not have been entirely welcome, but, nevertheless, when they were diverted elsewhere, she became anxious. Rufus was seated behind his desk, wearing his suit coat. A handkerchief, which someone had carefully folded and creased, stood pompously out of his breast pocket. His necktie, which matched the handkerchief and was obviously part of a boxed set, was snugged up under his chin, and he looked like he was determined to be nothing but business. She wiggled into the office, and smiled, "Hi, honey, I've been wondering when you were going to call me again. I've been lonesome." "I have an assignment for you," he began without preamble, ignoring her opening gambit. Hints of his former punctiliousness tinged his pronunciation of the words. "Alright," she answered with some reservation. She glanced around, looking for the stack of photos, but saw none. She was puzzled by the departure from their routine, but let it pass. "I want you to go watch Archibald Farber swim this evening." His hands were folded together on top of his desk, and his manner was cool and formal. "Do what?" she yelped, startled at the oddity of his request and by his demeanor. "Look, relax. It is not a big deal," he said reassuringly. "He needs to practice tonight. The big meet is next week, and he has to get ready. He'll just be doing some laps, butterfly's his specialty." "What's that got to do with me?" she protested. She was disappointed. She had hoped he called her in for something more intimate, something a lot more interesting than going off to watch Archibald Farber, an obnoxious, self-absorbed jerk if ever there was one, practice swimming. "There has to be a faculty member at the pool any time there's a student in the water; it's an insurance requirement." "Well, I don't know anything about swimming." "You can swim, can't you? Your resume says you can." "Well, sure I can swim." "That's all you need. He knows everything he needs to know about swimming, so you won't need to worry about teaching him anything about that." "What am I supposed to do, then?" "Just keep an eye on him. Be there in case anything happens and pull him out if it does." "He's twice my size, Rufus." "Well, hell, let him drown then, we'd all probably be better off for it. Insurance just says somebody has to be there. It doesn't say how big they are supposed to be, or that you actually have to save him. You just need to be there. He drowns and the insurance pays. Mommie and Daddy Farber collect a cool million, and he's outa our hair for good. I could get used to that idea." "Rufus!" "Relax. Just a thought. The kid's trouble. Has been from the day he arrived. What is he, anyway, twenty? He's doing his second year of postgraduate work in high school for Pete's sake. Have you ever heard of such a thing?" "No, actually, I haven't. It is kind of odd." "`Odd's' way too generous. It's downright weird. I can't understand for the life of me why Nancy doesn't just pack him off to college somewhere and let him drive somebody else nuts for a while. Hell, he's just wasting his time here; we ran out of courses for him to take last year, so all he does is hang around and pick on the little guys and brag to the older ones about all his sexual conquests. I bet I get three calls a day from parents complaining about something that kid has done to one of their children." "Maybe his folks are trying to get his grades up so he can get accepted somewhere." "Oh pullleassse," Rufus moaned in disbelief. "That dumbass could stay here for five years with you taking every test for him, and it wouldn't do him any good. You think I haven't doctored his transcript for him? Hell, girl, I doctored it so much it's about to overdose on `A's' and `B's,' but it didn't help; his problem is he can't pop better than an 8 on the ACT, so most colleges won't touch him with a ten foot pole." "So what is his mother hoping to accomplish by keeping him here?" "You tell me. Ask him, maybe he'll tell you. I told her a hundred times, there's nothing more we can do here to improve his chances, but she just laughs and tells me to keep trying." "I think he's the one who stole our underwear." Rufus leaned back and looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "That wouldn't surprise me in the least." "And, I think she put him up to it." Rufus looked at her a little closer. "Now, why on earth would she do a thing like that?" "Ask her." "I just might do that, but you tell me first, before I run off half cocked and put my foot in it." "Alright, Rufus. Remember those pictures you like so much? The ones with the Vaseline, and the boys standing around me in a circle?" "Yeah, yeah." Rufus blushed at her reference to the Vaseline. "What's that got to do with Nancy Farber?" "Not much, really. Just that one of those boys standing there was Cletus' and Nadeen's son." Rufus' jaw dropped perceptibly when the implications of that revelation settled on him. He jerked back in his chair and gasped, "That's ridiculous, Anne, we're talking about Nancy Farber, here, the mayor's wife, for God's sake." "I'm sure you're right, Rufus. Just my imagination working overtime," she replied insincerely. "You're damn right, I'm right about that," he replied self-assuredly. "Speaking of overtime, though, you need to get out of here and down to the pool. He'll be waiting for you, by now." She turned to leave, but he called her back. "Say, do you have a swim suit?" "Well, yeah, I guess so. I have the suit I wear to the tanning salon. It's out in my car. Why? You don't expect me to get in the water with him, do you?" "I guess you better put it on when you go down there. Insurance policy says the person standing by has to be dressed in quote, `proper life-saving attire.' The lawyer says that means a swim suit." "Rufus?" She began nervously. "Do you think that's such a good idea?" "It's a better one than him drowning down there with you standing around in pants and high heels, and the insurance refusing to pay the claim just cause you weren't dressed properly." "Alright, Rufus, but I think I'm going to regret this." "Quit worrying and get down there. Last time coach was late, Archie called his mother, and she bitched me out for a week." "Coach!" she shot back, realizing she had forgotten about the swim coach. "Why isn't the coach watching him, instead of me?" "Outa town. All week. Coaching seminar. Now go, dammit." * * * She was right, naturally. She had experience, and her instincts were good; she did come to regret that she accepted the assignment. She wound her way down to the lower level of the sports annex, that three million dollar monstrosity the Parents' Club had funded and built behind the main school building. The annex housed, among many other sports facilities, an Olympic sized pool, which was located in the lowest level of the building. The pool was enclosed closely on all sides by low windowless walls. It was divided into swimming lanes by ropes, and there were ladders on either side at both ends. There was no diving board, and there were no seats for spectators. It was strictly for training swimmers, and it was immediately apparent to even the most casual observer that the driving force on the Parents' Club didn't have the interests of more than one or two of the students in mind when the pool was designed. Anne slipped into the women's bathroom to change, more than a little annoyed at the lack of women's dressing facilities. She hung her clothes over the wall of the toilet stall, and put on her suit. She smoothed her hair with her fingers and turned to check herself in the mirror. At least they put mirrors in the ladies room, she thought. She frowned at her reflection. Darn, if only Rufus had given her some warning, she would have brought something more appropriate, less revealing. Her swimsuit didn't cover much; it was made for tanning, not swimming, and tanning in a private tanning booth, at that. She tugged at the cups of her top in a futile attempt to cover more of her breasts, but there was just so much fabric available, and in the end, she had to be content with the fact that at least her nipples were covered. She glanced down and shook her head woefully. Curly pubic hairs were exposed on both sides of the tiny triangle covering her down there. Shoulda shaved, she thought absently, then giggled, remembering that she never had shaved herself. Oh well, we'll just have to manage as best we can, she thought, and reached to tuck the stray hairs back where they belonged. She pirouetted, assessing her figure in the mirror and patted her tummy smugly. Not too shabby, she thought at the sight of her wide flaring hips and full bust, her sensuous, lithe curves, turning gracefully in the glass. She stooped and picked up her purse, extracting a tube of lipstick. She uncapped the tube and swept a bright line of red across her upper lip, then, pressing her lips together, transferred some color to her lower lip. She dabbed a spot of lipstick on each cheek and spread it around with the heel of her hand to bring out a little blush, and then, quickly for she was late and hurrying, freshened the dark line of her eyeliner. Taking one last look, she tugged selfconsciously at the waistband of her suit and stepped through the door. She pushed through the heavy metal, double doors separating the pool enclosure from the main hall and was nearly knocked back by the heat and humidity. Jeez, she thought, waving her hand back and forth in front of her face like a windshield wiper, it's like a steam bath in here. It was also poorly lit, because someone had turned off all but a single row of overhead lights and the lone green indicator light on the lap counter across the pool, which showed the lane being used and the swimmer's splits. Economy, she grumbled, Rufus would replace all the light bulbs with candles, if he thought he could save a buck or two on the electric. She heard splashing and spotted movement at the far end of the pool. She walked toward the noise being careful to avoid the edge. The walkway between the pool and the wall was narrow, and several folding chairs were lined up along the wall and were nearly blocking her way. She squinted in the gloom and could just see Archie making his turn at the end of the lap. She sat down on one of the folding chairs and immediately recoiled. Ugh, she thought, the damn thing's wet. She looked at the others, and they too were wet with standing water in the seats. She hadn't realized she was about to sit in a puddle. The condensate was cold and uncomfortable, and her suit soaked it up like a wick. Archie churned past, about fifteen feet out, in the third swim lane, without acknowledging her arrival. Darn, she thought, glancing down at her swimsuit bottom. The thin fabric had soaked through and was clinging to her curves. She felt an instant kinship to a contestant in a wet tee shirt contest, when she realized, in dismay, that her suit bottom had become nearly transparent, and she plucked selfconsciously at the fabric to detach it. It was tight, however, and elastic, and merely snapped back exposing her again just as soon as she released it. She gave up in disgust and crossed her legs to conceal herself. The clock on the lap counter across the pool told her it was nearly five. She fidgeted on the hard metal seat. He had been beating the water for twenty minutes without a break, and she was becoming restless. She wished she had brought a book, or papers to grade, or something to break the monotony. She had quickly tired of watching Archie practice his backstroke technique. Inexperienced though she was, it was pretty obvious to her that the kid was going to need a lot more practice if he was going to do any good at the meet next week. His arms were beating the water like a couple of out of sync propellers running amuck, and he wandered erratically from side to side, sometimes crossing two or three lanes in just the length of the pool. She made a mental note to ask him how long he had been competing in backstroke competitions, cause he was swimming tonight like this was his first time in the water. He swam a few minutes longer and seemed to tire. His pace, though never particularly fast, slowed perceptibly, and, when he reached the end of the last lap, he was barely moving in the water. Anne leaned toward the pool, slightly concerned that he might go under, and readied herself to leap in after him. He made it, in spite of appearances, and threw his arms up on the ledge running around the perimeter of the pool. He hung from the side, resting his weight on his forearms, regaining his breath for a minute or two. He was fifty or sixty feet away, and she probably would have been unable to see him at all were it not for the bright, florescent red swim cap he was wearing, which beamed through the mists like a beacon on a buoy. She glanced at the clock and thought, good, maybe I'll make it home by six after all, and, almost on cue, Archie slipped off the side and swam to the ladder in the corner. He climbed out of the water with his back to her and walked to a chair against the wall, where some towels were lying. He picked up a towel, a large, white one, shook it out, and threw it over his shoulders without bothering to dry himself. He picked up another towel, brown or beige, she couldn't tell for sure, and tucked it under his arm, then turned and started walking around the pool toward her. He was nearly to the double doors, where she had entered, before she could see him clearly. He was a big boy, she thought. More than six feet tall, and lean, somewhere around 180 pounds, she guessed. He hadn't removed the swimming cap, and his swimming goggles were perched on his forehead, held in place by an elastic band. Water was still streaming off him, and he was leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him. She glanced at his chest and belly and was mildly surprised at the definition of his abdominal muscles. Maybe he did more swimming than she had given him credit for, she thought casually, and her eyes dropped to his trunks. They were black, Lycra Speedo's, the kind Olympic swimmers wear, the kind that look like second skin and fit so tight that you could read heads or tails on a dime in the pocket if there was one. He walked toward her casually, almost arrogantly, materializing out of the hazy gloom like an image in a slowly focusing camera lens. He was twenty feet from her when she noticed the bulge in his trunks, and turned away pretending to look at the clock. He was fifteen feet away when she looked at him again. The bulge was larger, more prominent, and she forced her eyes downward toward the floor. He was ten feet away and entering the circle of her peripheral vision; she snuck a peak out of the corner of her eye. My God, she thought, he's huge. His wet trunks sagged under his weight; the dark material hung down below his crotch like a sock full of rocks. The weight of him pulled the elastic leg bands away exposing flashes of groin and pubic hair. He was closing quickly, pushing the intervening chairs out of his way and approaching her purposefully. She was nearly staring at him in her amazement. No wonder he couldn't swim fast, she smirked, what with having to drag that anchor up and down the pool. He was just a few feet away, about to stop in front of her, and she could not take her eyes off of him. She gaped and thought, astonishing, and took the measure of him through his wet trunks. Her eyes gauged the breadth of him, and she marveled. He stopped when he was close and stood with his hands on his hips, displaying himself to her with no wisp of self-consciousness, saying nothing. She looked at him, mentally measuring, weighing, sizing him up with her eyes, and knew she was taking too long to finish, but she was powerless to look away. She was the rabbit, and there was her snake. She was paralyzed, unable to move or flee, and the snake slithered closer and prepared to strike. His size was clearly apparent even under the wet cloth of his suit, and he was bulging out at her obscenely. She struggled to turn her attention elsewhere. She had seen similar men, even had one or two, but none were anything like this boy. Cletus had been big, sure, and proud of it, and Johnny, too, he was even bigger than Cletus, but they didn't have what Archie was packing. There had been big ones in the videos Nadeen showed the boys to get them excited, and some of them had been huge for sure, but, still, and just to be certain she looked closely at Archie and at the bulbous knob of dark fabric that delineated the head of his coiled snake, they didn't look like this, she acknowledged in awe. "You want some of that, teacher?" The sound of his voice was like the slap of a cold washrag across her face, and she snapped her head up toward the source. Her eyes sparkled with indignation. She didn't like this boy at all. She had heard things about him and none of them were complimentary. Her students feared him because he bullied them, and they hated him for ridiculing them mercilessly. She threw her shoulders back and stiffened her spine. Her chin jutted out pugnaciously, and she snapped, "I beg your pardon, young man." As soon as she said it, she felt a little foolish because there were only a few years between them, but, still, she had to establish control of the situation. "You didn't hear me, teacher? I asked if you wanted some of what you were looking at." His manner was cool and calculating, and repulsed her, and she thought it was appropriate that he looked like a prick too, standing there with that silly cap on his head. "Archibald Farber!" She was shrill in her fury and clipped the syllables of his name. "You better mind how you speak to me." "Or, you'll do what, teacher?" He was taunting her, and she knew it. "Or, I'll march you up to the Headmaster's office, and you'll find out what happens to impudent, disrespectful children in this school." She was seething and made no attempt to conceal her displeasure. "What for, teacher, just cause I caught you staring at my cock?" She wanted more than anything in the world to reach out and slap the smirk off his insolent face, but she controlled the urge and replied in measured, flat tones that were, at the edges, rife with her disdain, "No, Archibald, because you are a disrespectful, disagreeable little prick." The words had no sooner than left her lips than she regretted them; what an unfortunate choice of terms she thought. He smiled triumphantly, and she crumbled slightly. "It ain't no `little prick,' now is it, teacher?" While speaking, he dipped his hand into his trunks and pushed them aside, unfurling the standard of his masculinity. It was dark and thick, and it hung from his hand like a fire hose waiting to fill with water from the hydrant. He shook it, and it swung heavily between his legs and drooped nearly to his knees. She jerked back, and the metal feet of her chair screeched against the concrete apron of the pool. Shocked at his brazenness, she gasped, and struggled desperately to regain control of the situation, but the sheer size of him overpowered her thoughts. My God, look at that thing; it was her nasty voice dogpaddling toward her through the murky waters of her subconscious. She tore her eyes away from the appendage swinging in front of her, and shook her finger at his face, "Archibald Farber, you put that thing away right this minute." Her nasty voice followed in a singsong, schoolyard, chanting taunt, you didn't call it a `nasty' thing, and she blushed for having missed the opportunity. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 07 "Oh I'm gonna put it away, Miss Anne, I'm gonna put away right up that sweet little pussy of yours." He was staring openly at the soggy patch of transparent fabric that was plastered to her womanhood. She felt horribly naked and exposed, and instinctively covered herself with her hand. "You get out of here right now, or I'll see to it that you are expelled from this school first thing tomorrow morning." Her face was flushed with anger, and she was breathing hard. She rued the decision to leave her blouse in the bathroom with the rest of her clothes, because her breasts were rising and falling with the rapid motion of her chest and were working themselves free of her top. He sneered at her and reached down to seize the nozzle end of his hose, which he lifted and pointed straight at the little triangle of her suit. "Now, just who around here do you think's got the balls to expel me, Miss Anne?" "Mr. Justice, that's who, buster; now stand out of my way and let me by." She jumped to her feet, but he was standing between her and the only exit, and there wasn't enough room for her to pass. She started to go around him, but thought better of it, fearing that getting too close might cause her to brush against him, or worse. She froze, waiting for him to move. "Rufus?" He snorted derisively at her. "That spineless cocksucker couldn't expel a fart in a hurricane, much less the mayor's only son. Get real, lady." "He will, when I report your conduct tonight to him, and I'll press charges against you myself, if you so much as lay a finger on me, you creep." "You're gonna have to do better than that." He took a step closer, menacingly, and stretched himself toward her. "Here, wanna pet it?" "Get away from me!" She shrank back from him as he came closer. He nearly touched her, and she jerked away. "Alright, Archibald, you've gone too far this time; Mr. Justice's will hear about this." "Oh yeah, lady, like I'm worried about what Rufus' gonna say when he hears I fucked his girlfriend like he told me to. He's gonna be real upset about that, ain't he?" His features were hard and cruel, and he enjoyed watching his words slash her confidence. "What?" She was stunned and reached back to steady herself with the back of a chair. The sudden motion caused one of her breasts to slip free of it's cup. She blushed in horror, but was afraid to cover herself lest she draw his attention. "You heard me. You may be dumb, but you ain't deaf. I said, `he told me to fuck you when you came down here tonight.'" "You're a liar, you bastard. Rufus wouldn't do such a thing." She shook her head in denial. "Girlfriend." He had called her Rufus' "girlfriend." The implications rocked her back on her heels. "Sure he would, if he had a good enough reason, and I gave him a real good one, teacher." "Liar, liar, he wouldn't." Her head was spinning in confusion and horror. Why would he? How could he? He was cold tonight, distant and not himself, as if he was worried about something. Her stomach tightened sickeningly at the possibility of betrayal. "Sure he would, teacher, if he saw these and wanted to keep his job." He reached for the brown towel under his arm and slipped his hand inside the folds. He withdrew two sheets of paper and thrust them at her. "Here you take a look for yourself." She looked at the papers in his outstretched hand apprehensively. What could be there that would cause Rufus to betray her? What could be such a big deal? She argued the case in her mind, screwing up the courage to reach for them. "Here," he said impatiently, shaking the papers at her. An elephant was sitting on her chest, crushing the breath out of her. Her anger dissipated, and dread rushed in to fill the void. She looked at his hand woefully and took the papers from him. Her heart pounded like rolling thunder as she turned the paper toward the light. She bent to look closer. Her exposed breast jiggled as she moved, and he openly stared at it. The picture was poor, fuzzy and indistinct. It had started out as a Polaroid, and somebody had blown it up and copied it on a copier. It was poor quality photography, but she could make it out plain enough, and her heart sank again just like it did when she had seen Cletus just a couple of weeks before. The picture was of her and Rufus, in his office. She was lying on his desk, on her back with her dress up around her waist, and Rufus was standing between her legs with his thing in her. Her blouse was open, and her bra had been pushed up around her neck, leaving her breasts bare. The picture had been made from somewhere high above the desk near the ceiling. She flipped the page and looked at the second paper. It too had been taken from the same vantage point and showed Rufus seated in his chair with Anne completely naked riding his lap. She blanched and crumpled the papers with both hands and threw the wadded ball into the pool in disgust. "Won't do you any good, teacher," Archie laughed smugly, watching the ball of paper saturate and begin to sink. "I can make more easy." "Where did you get those pictures?" Her heart had sunk with the photos, and she fought through her loathing to speak. "I took them." He smirked at her, gloating in her confusion and discomfort. "How? When?" She stammered. Questions, doubts about Rufus's intentions jostled in her brain. "From a ladder Jackson lent me during lunch the other day, that's how. Through the window in his office. It was easy; y’all were too busy to notice anything." He was right about that; it had been too easy. They had been stupid and careless to keep meeting in Rufus' office. "How did you find out about us?" Acknowledgment of her unmasking drained some of the defiance from her tone, and she blushed at the prospect of having to share so intimate a secret with the boy. "Like I said, teacher, you're dumb. I watched you going into his office all the time, three of four times a day and watched you when you came out. The seventh graders in your class could have figured it out if they wanted to. You'd go in all prim and proper like, and, when you came out, your lipstick would be all over your face and your hair would be coming down. Hell, teacher, a couple of times your shirt wasn't even buttoned all the way to the top, and you forgot to put your stockings back on. You must have thought we were pretty stupid, huh?" She staggered back, knocking over the chair behind her as she retreated. He used the term "we," she thought, recoiling. Her mind was racing, calculating the odds stacked against her. Were there more? Could there be a gang of them waiting in the boys’ locker room? A whole group of his buddies just waiting for his signal to rush in and rape her? She turned the possibilities over in her mind. No, he was alone, she was sure of that. The parking lot had been nearly empty when she went out to get her swimsuit, and, besides, none of the students liked him any better than she did. He didn't have any friends, nobody to share secrets like this with. No, he had to be acting on his own. But was he? He wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, that much she knew for certain. She guessed, shrewdly, that he was about the last person in the school who could put two and two together and come up with four where her activities were concerned. No, she was certain of it, he had help, a suggestion, a hint or two, someone planted the idea in his mind, but who? "Archie, you son-of-a-bitch," she screamed. She tried to use her words like claws to scratch his impertinent face. "Who put you up to taking those pictures? Who told you to watch me like that?" "Now, now, teacher, don't you go callin’ my mamma no `bitch,' ya hear? You wouldn't want her thinking you did a bad job life-guardin’ me down here tonight, would you?" He took a step closer, menacingly, but he had a sort of puzzled look on his face. With that swim cap and goggles on his head, and that monster in his hand, he looked like an alien fresh off a spaceship asking for directions to another galaxy, and she would have laughed in his face had she felt less threatened. Son of a bitch, of course, is what did it, she thought ruefully, don't begin a sentence with a pejorative or they never hear the rest of it, especially if they're dumb. Well, he is about as thick as a slab of bologna on a country store sandwich, she reasoned, and was about to rephrase the question when he reached out impatiently and seized her arm. He yanked her arm, and she stumbled toward him. He was powerful, and his grip hurt her. He was agitated. His face contorted with befuddled anger, and he blurted out, "Enough questions, teacher, this ain't class down here. "Archie, don't." She struggled to free herself, but he was too strong. She twisted her hips and brushed against him and felt his rubbery flesh against her thighs. He grinned and pulled her closer. She pushed against his wet chest with her hand, but he twisted her arm behind her back painfully, and she rose on her tiptoes to relieve the pressure on her shoulder. She stumbled toward him, and her breasts flattened against his chest. His hand guided him to her crotch, and he rubbed himself against her wet triangle. "Noooo, Archie, please, not like this." Pain seared her shoulder and obliterated her resistance. "I'm not supposed to hurt you, unless I have to, understand?" Her face was pressed against his throat. He was forcing her hand up the middle of her back, and she could almost touch the back of her neck. Her shoulder felt like it was coming out of its socket. He was scraping himself against her triangle, trying to force the material out of his way, and she was powerless to prevent him. "Archie, Archie, please, you're breaking my arm." She was shrill in her anxiety and hopped on her toes for relief. Her covered breast slipped free of it's cup, and both breasts rubbed his chest as she moved. She felt him stiffen between her legs and felt a sudden chill at the possibility that he might like to take his pleasure by giving a generous helping of pain. "I know, teacher, but you aren't being nice to me, like they said you would." Her arm lifted an inch, and she nearly fainted with pain. "Arghhhhh, Archie, please," she begged, "please don't." "I'll stop when you promise to be nice, teacher. It's gonna happen, whether you like it or not. I'm gonna fuck that tight little pussy tonight, and you're gonna let me, even if I have to break both your damn arms to do it. Understand?" "Yes, yes, yes." She burbled, gnashing her teeth against the pain and the realization of her predicament. "Yes, I'll do it; just let me go." "And, tomorrow, you'll keep your fucking mouth shut, ‘cause if you don't those pictures will be on every bulletin board in the school, won't they, teacher?" Oh, sweet Jesus, her voices shrieked in her head; give him what he wants. He's right, he'll just take it anyway and probably kill you in the process. Give him what he wants, let him do it, or those pictures will ruin you. You'll be in disgrace and will never be able to find another job as long as you live. She writhed against his hard body in pain, and he rubbed himself against her wantonly. He pushed the fabric covering her crotch aside and violated her nakedness cruelly, and she spilled hot tears on his unyielding chest. "Ok, ok, Archie, yes, yes, I'll do it, whatever you want, I'll do it. Just, please, let me go." You promise?" His voice was rough with his desire, because the rubbing was producing a considerable effect on him. "Yes, yes, I promise, please," she gasped breathlessly. "Don't try to fool me, teacher. No tricks now, cause if I let you go, and you don't do what I want, I'm gonna really hurt you. They told me not to, unless I had to, you know, to make you do it. But, if you try to trick me, I'll hurt you bad and make it look like an accident, like you fell down the stairs or tripped over a chair and fell into the pool. You understand, teacher?" "Yes, Archie, oh my God, you're hurting me, yes, I'll let you, please." Slowly, like he was reluctant to accept her assurances, he lowered her hand and released the tension on her shoulder. He let go of her arm, and she dropped to her knees rubbing her shoulder with her hand and sobbing. Through her tears, she looked at his feet, standing in the water puddled around them, and she cowered there before him, afraid to look up or to move. He towered over her, one hand on his hip, the other holding himself pointed at her like he was about to take a leak, and sneered at her misery. What a haughty bitch, he thought, just like so many of them; struttin’ around shaking their asses at you and pretending you don't exist. Well, we'd just see who doesn't exist around here. He swung his meat like a bat and slapped her cheek with it, and she felt like someone had thrown a forearm to her face. Dazed, she looked up toward his face, and above her, he jutted out like an oversized limb from the trunk of a tree. "Get up; let's go." He spoke brusquely. "Where?" she answered abjectly, but struggled to her feet as he told her. "Swimmer's lounge, right down the hall." "Alright, Archie, take me there." She was resigned to what awaited. He stood still, pointing himself at her, grinning salaciously at her bare breasts. "Take off your suit." "Archie?" She protested. "Let me wear it going down the hall, won't you?" "Take it off now, or I'll take if off for you. Bein neked will keep you from runnin off from me, won't it." "Archie! I promised to let you, and not run away." "Off, godammit teacher, you talk too much to suit me." He yelled at her in his urgency, and her hands jerked to spin her top around to release the clasp from the front. She leaned forward and pushed her buttocks out behind her and wiggled out of her bottom. Her face came perilously close to him, and he rubbed her lips with the tip. She jerked upright, wiping her mouth distastefully with the back of her hand and glared at him. "What's the matter, teacher, don't want to suck my cock?" His words were derisive, and he waved himself at her teasingly. "Don't worry none, I guess he wouldn't fit into that pretty little mouth of yours, anyway." She refused to respond, mustering what dignity she could, and tried to cover herself with her hands. She thought she could taste him on her lips and looked at him with hate and loathing. He would have been comical under other circumstances, with his cone headed hat, his goggles and that monstrous pubescence pointing at her like some secret weapon of mass destruction, and she would have giggled and asked him to take her to his leader, but this was real, and she knew he intended to use that weapon on her. She shuddered at the prospect and waited. He reached for her and took her arm again, but less forcefully. "Come on then, teacher, this way," he said, and half guided, half drug her toward the exit. He banged through the heavy steel doors and jerked her into the hall. She squinted in the bright light and prayed that Jackson, or somebody, would come ambling down the hall to her rescue, but it was empty, and the only sounds were of his feet slapping wetly on the tiles as he propelled her toward the lounge. He pulled her toward a closed door with a sign across the top that read, "Swimmer's Lounge - Swimmers Only," and he thrust her back against the wall beside the door, while he bent and hurriedly tried to punch in the code to activate the lock release. She glanced behind her shoulder at a bronze plaque which bore the inscription "This Lounge and It's Contents Are the Gifts of Nancy Farber and Jerry Farber, Mayor, In Loving Tribute to their Son, Archibald Farber," and it occurred to her that use of the singular in the sign identifying the location had not been entirely inadvertent. At last, after several attempts, he succeeded in opening the door and pushed her inside the darkened room. He followed her and flicked on the light switch. A table lamp in the far corner lit and threw a small cone of light up the wall. She was amazed at the appointments. Though fairly small, the room was elegant and plush. There were a couple of leather sofas with end tables and coffee tables and an assortment of club chairs and stools. There were two, large screen televisions in a massive built-in bookcase, and a wet bar along the back wall. Above the bar was another lane indicator, a duplicate of the one over the pool down the hall, and on this one, too, a small green light was lit, indicating that lane three was in use. The walls were painted in the school colors and were hung with portraits of swimming legends like Mark Spitz and Johnny Weismeuller, and she thought it must have cost the Farbers a small fortune to furnish and decorate it. She hadn't more than a second to admire the furnishings. He shoved her roughly and sent her sprawling onto one of the couches. The smooth leather felt cool against her skin, and soothed her nerves. He followed her and stood over her leering at her. She heard the clang and snap as the door closed and locked and felt the pangs of cold dread in the pit of her stomach. She dug into the leather with her elbows and tried to evade him. He grabbed her ankles and pulled her back, spreading her legs and exposing her. He stepped between her legs, and she tried to press her knees together to fend him off. He slapped her thigh with his open hand, and growled, "You promised, bitch," and she recalled his threats to hurt her, and she forced herself to relax and allowed her thighs to fall apart. He stood between her legs, stroking himself, and watched her fear distort the delicate features of her face. "You like it, don't you, teacher? You want a nice big cock to fill you up real good, don't you? You ain't ever had one like this here, have you?" He shook himself proudly as he taunted her, like he was jigging for fish with a crappie pole. She stiffened, doubt crowding fear for space in her mind. Her nasty voice, usually so helpful at times like these, making up her mind for her and telling her what to do, seemed uncertain. Jeez, Anne, it whispered to her, I don't know about this, babe. Whatcha gonna do with that thing? Maybe you could just slip it between the cushions for him, and he could fuck the sofa instead. He's so stupid he probably wouldn't notice. Archie mounted the couch, pointing himself at her exposed crotch, and knelt between her legs. His eyes were wild, crazed with lust, and spit drooled from the corner of his mouth. He leaned toward her, and she felt him pressing against her, seeking entry. "Open wider," he grumbled in frustration as his first thrusts failed to gain a lodgment. Dutifully, she opened her thighs and grimaced at the pressure on her sensitive flesh. She closed her eyes to shut him out, but the sounds of his grunting held her attention. Is this going to be it, she wondered? It this what he wants? No kissing, no touching or stroking, nothing, not a single caress to make her ready. She shivered in disgust, and he, stupidly, mistook her reaction for excitement. She had known big men and didn't like them much. They were all alike; vain and proud, preening and prancing, exposing themselves, like their sheer size was supposed to make you swoon and fall over on your back with your pussy juice pouring out of you like Niagara Falls. They thought their dicks did all the work, and a girl was supposed to start cumming just at the sight of them. Their idea of foreplay was exposing themselves to you and pushing you over. Johnny had been like that. Nadeen brought him to her and told her to be nice to him, and she had tried. He was big, much bigger than Cletus, and nearly as big as Archie, and he loved to show it off and wave it at her. But he was a total failure in the bed, because he didn't know to do anything but shove it in and thrash away till he was finished. He got mad and called her a liar when she told him he hadn't done a thing for her, and the other boys, when they came to her in the night and crawled into her bed while Cletus and Nadeen were sleeping, told her that Johnny said she was frigid and probably was a lesbo. She would just laugh at that, and tell them to pay attention while she proved him wrong, cause she liked the boys with average sizes, who labored over her lush curves and soft skin with their tongues and lips and feathery fingers till the dawn was breaking. They worked so hard to make her feel good, and she returned the favor a hundred fold and held them close in her arms refusing to let them leave until each of them felt they were all the man they would ever need to be. She had loved them, in her way, because they had tried so hard, because their efforts confirmed their adoration for her and filled her heart with joy and comfort, and she yielded herself to that love with a power that left them breathless and amazed at themselves and feeling like they were the giants among men. Johnny hadn't lasted long, she remembered. Nadeen had shown a fondness for him that kept Cletus pretty riled up for a while, and one day Cletus caught them in the laundry room, only it wasn't the washer that was doin’ the agitatin’, and he marched Johnny right into the cab of his truck with his pants down around his knees and drove him off the property, and that was the last anybody there saw of Johnny. Nadeen was pretty glum about it for a while, but she kept her mouth shut and got over it eventually. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 07 "Goddamn," Archie cursed in frustration. He scowled and poked haphazardly at her ineffectually. She felt him pressing her, and knew it would be difficult because she was dry and unprepared for him. She gritted her teeth and steeled herself to endure his assault. She lay motionless, neither helping nor hindering, and he grunted helplessly above her. "Open up, bitch; you can't be that tight," he snarled forcing her to open slightly under his onslaught. She opened her legs wider, even placing one foot on the back of the couch, but it availed him nothing. He grunted again, pressing harder, and she feared her tissue would tear to shreds if he succeeded in entering her. His fingers clawed at her where they were joined, not gently or coaxingly, but like an overly eager child ripping the wrapping off a birthday present. His nails scored her tender flesh as he sought to widen her opening. She whimpered and bit her lip and resigned herself to being torn to pieces. He forced himself upon her, and she looked down at the bridge that linked their bodies and gasped when it bent nearly double with the pressure of his thrust. Still she did not yield, and his frustration mounted. "Godammit, you skinny bitch, she said you would be too tight for me." Sweat oozed from the band of his cap and trickled into his eyes. He blinked against the sting and cursed her for her inability to receive him. "Who said, Archie?" she asked gently, trying to sound sympathetic. His eyes were clenched shut. His lips were tight against his teeth. His fingers were pulling at her, stretching her flesh beyond the limits of her endurance, digging at her like a badger chasing a mole down a hole. His mind was on her, and the opening he was desperately attempting to fill, and his guard was down. "Mommy," he muttered absently, and spit on his fingers to wet them. She stiffened under him, but he was too engrossed to notice. The quick talons of hatred seized her heart in that instant. She hated him and his mother for what she had turned him into. She remembered with anger how her cheerleader outfit had been the one to fit the worst, how it had been three sizes too small and barely covered the cheeks of her butt when she tried it on. She remembered how Nancy had flipped up the back and patted her bare buttocks, saying "nice ass, Anne, bet somebody's gonna really enjoy that one of these days." She felt his fingers transferring his spittle to her body, and her mind reeled with the enormity of her discovery. She collected what courage remained and spoke, "What did she tell you about me, Archie?" "It doesn't matter," he said choking on the words in his frustration. "Yes, it does, baby. I want to help you. Tell me what she said about me." He struggled vainly to pierce her, to cloak himself with her body and relieve his raging desire in her dark hole. He had lodged himself within her outer ring, but, push as he might, could gain no deeper toehold, and the torment of being denied was driving him beyond the brink of cogency. Her words, soft and yielding, drew him out, "She said you'd be too tight for me to fuck and that I ought to be happy with her." He gathered himself for another push, and she braced herself. "Aren't you happy with her, Archie? Doesn't she let you do what you want to her?" "Yeah, she does, but you're prettier. I told her I wanted to fuck you, too." His lust was running at spate; he had no time to heed the warning signals in the back of his mind. He pushed harder, and she felt herself stretching under the pressure of his assault. "Didn't that make her mad, Archie? You telling her you wanted to fuck me, too. I would be jealous too, if you told me you wanted to fuck her." "Uh, I don't know. She told me to go ahead, if I wanted fuck you that bad, but that you'd be too small for my cock, is all." "Is she the right size for you, Archie. Does her cunt fit your cock good?" He shook with the impact of her words. She felt him tremble as memories of his deviant desires awakened in his muddled brain. "Yes, yes, just right," he panted excitedly. "She lets you slide that big cock of yours right up her pussy, and lets you fuck her brains out, doesn't she, Archie?" She had found her stride and the pathway to her escape, and she drew him out with slippery words. "Yes, yes." He shook his head and tilted his chin toward the ceiling. His eyes were shut as wanton, slutty images danced in his brain. "She loves it too, doesn't she? Loves it when you fuck her, and I know she screams out begging you to fuck her, to shove your huge cock into her. And, she tells you how good it feels to have your cock in her pussy, doesn't she?" "Yes, yes," he chanted in awed response, "she does." "And, you cum in her pussy and fill her up, don't you, baby, and she feels it squirting up inside her and begs you to keep fucking her and filling her up with cum, and she cums too, and she hangs on to you and bucks, fucking you like she's crazy." He was mad with lust. His hands circled her waist, pulling her onto his spike, trying to drive her down on him. "Goddamn, goddamn," he panted helplessly as she refused to admit him. He hovered over her loins, lunging, jerking impotently, insane with the need to achieve his release. Her legs were splayed under him, open and inviting, yet unyielding and unremitting. He felt the heat from her body touching him, and he sobbed with frustrated desire. He felt the tight circle of her opening around him, and the promise of the exquisite sheathing beyond ignited his dementia. "Oh, please, please, open up; let me put it in." She reigned in her disgust. He was ready for her. She brought him to the edge and needed only the tiniest shove to push him over. She rolled her hips up to him in a gesture of acceptance. "Here Archie, let me help you, baby." Her voice was soft and gentle, almost motherly, and she reached down to take him in her hands. "Noooo, nooooo, don't touch me," he sobbed as her fingers encircled his huge column of flesh. "Why not, Archie, it's what you wanted, isn't it?" She had become cold and calculating, and the harshness of her words robbed him of his pleasure. "Uuuugghhhhh," he grunted at her touch, and she felt him throb in her grasp and expertly moved her hands on him in a quick succession of tiny strokes. She wiggled and dislodged him, and he sagged in bitter disappointment as his intentions poured out onto her milky white thighs and stained the rich dark leather of the sofa beneath her. "Nooooooo," he cried and tried to stuff himself back into her, but he had already lost his ardor and failed the attempt. "Yesssssssss, big boy," she taunted him, pushing him away and scrambling to her feet. "Maybe you better run on home to mommy, and not try to play with grownups anymore, until you learn how." He slumped dejectedly on the couch, embarrassed by his inability, covering himself in shame, and watched silently as she walked to the wet bar and casually wiped herself clean with a bar towel. She turned and crossed the room, passing within inches of his legs, deliberately invading his space, and, as she passed, she tossed the towel onto his lap, and said in cold fury, "Thanks for the laugh, stud; I'll find my own way out." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 08 All hell broke loose the next day, of course, but little of it was at Anne's instigation, despite her rage at the events of the previous evening. She arrived at school early, intending to confront Rufus about Archie's attempted rape, because she felt that he was somehow behind it, and she was determined to have it out with him that morning before the faculty and students arrived for the day. She marched into his office even before the first light of day had hit the windows and discovered him hunched over the glowing screen of his computer monitor. "Rufus, you son of a bitch, turn around and talk to me." She managed to control the volume of her voice enough to be intelligible, but she was too heated to heed the lesson she learned the night before about not commencing a statement with a pejorative. "Not now, Anne," he panted in response without turning from the screen. "I know you're upset, but I had no options, and you'll just have to accept that for now, because I'm up to my ass in alligators at the moment, and I don't have time to discuss Archie Farber with you." His office lights were off, and the terminal screen lit the room with a sickly glow. She flipped the switch to the overhead florescent lights and bright light filled the room. "Turn around, I don't give a damn what you're doing, you're going to talk to me, you bastard. You sent me down there last night to be raped by that jerk kid, and you knew it, didn't you?" "Yes, I knew it, and I can explain, but not now. I'll talk to you later." He didn't turn around when speaking, and she looked over his shoulder at the screen. He was scrolling through lists of files, marking some for deletion. He was unfamiliar with the task and was struggling. "What the hell is so important with that damn computer, that you can't turn around and explain that business with Archie last night to me? You owe me that much, you bastard." "I know, I know, you're right, but they're coming, they'll be here any minute, I'm sure of it. I have to finish deleting these files before they come." "What the hell are you talking about, Rufus?" She was suspicious of a rouse and sounded like it. "Postal inspectors, Anne." "Oh yeah, right, Rufus. What? Have you been cheating them out of postage on the school mail? You really are too cheap for words." "I wish," he groaned. "It's not that simple." His fingers scuttled ineptly across the keys as he spoke, and he cursed and retraced his steps. "Well, what then?" she demanded. Her eyes swept his desk for an object heavy enough to club him with. Finding nothing handy, she punched his shoulder aggressively with her fist and yelled, "Turn around you son of a bitch and talk to me." The blow knocked him against the table, and he turned. "They're coming here, any minute, I know it. They came to the house last night with a search warrant and took Imogene's computer." "Why'd they do that, Rufus?" She sounded skeptical. "Search warrant said they could search for evidence I had been, er, ah, they said, `trafficking in child pornography.'" That news surprised her some, and she tried to take her mind off of Archie to respond. "You are a piece of work, Rufus. I had no idea, well, except of course, that business with Cletus the other day, but I figured you were just buying that stuff to blackmail me with it. Guess I figured wrong, huh? Is that it, Rufus? You got a thing for little boys and girls? Is that it?" "Yes, I mean, no, oh, dammit it Anne, get out of here and let me finish this before they get here, please." He sounded desperate. "What put them on to you, Rufus?" "I don't know, Anne, honestly, I don't." He sounded sincere enough, she thought, but then again, he sounded pretty sincere last night setting her up to be raped like he did. She wasn't buying ignorance today, and leaned down bringing her face within inches of his. "You are lying, you son of a bitch, you know exactly how they caught up with you, don't you." "Oh alright, yeah, I got a pretty good guess," he confessed, recoiling in shock at her vehemence. "Well," she demanded impatiently. "The Internet," he sighed wearily. "The search warrant said something about using the mail or wire, including the Internet, so I figure that has to be it." "Oh great, the Internet, and here I though you were computer illiterate. What? I guess you've got some huge network of pedophiles that you trade that shit with, you know, back and forth with the pictures. Or, maybe you're one of the really sicko ones who gets names and addresses, and you go off somewhere and meet little kids and do stuff to them. Is that what you are, some sick son of a bitch, Rufus?" Anne, of course, knew whereof she spoke, and she came by her indignation from experience. "It's not like that, Anne," he protested weakly. "I don't do that." "Oh yeah, right, Rufus, so what were you doin’ with that computer of yours on the Internet that's got the federal government breathing down your neck, then." "Talking to Caruthers about his pictures, I expect." "Oh, bull shit, Rufus, Cletus doesn't know a computer from a cow's teat or the Internet from an intestine. Peddling that crap out of his pickup to truckers at rest areas on the interstate is more his speed." "You're behind the times, Anne. Been gone too long; things change." "Cletus Caruthers does not change, Rufus. I don't think he's even literate, and besides, you just bought $1300 worth of pictures off him a couple of weeks ago. You expect me to believe you're going back for more? Already? What more could you hope to get out of that?" "Before he came here, Anne, that's when I contacted their web site." "Oh for Pete's sake, Rufus, don't insult me like that. What do you take me for, a complete idiot? Finding Cletus with his own website on the Internet is about as likely as finding a pig in the parlor under a parasol." "It's the truth, Anne, I swear it. That's how I found him, on the web, a couple of months ago." "Ok, you say he has a website, so what was Cletus calling himself on the web, huh?" "I believe he called it, `HotTots.com,' Anne." "You've got to be kidding,” she replied, shaking her head in disbelief and nearly laughing out loud, but it was do dumb and so direct, it had Cletus written all over it, and he convinced her. Can you believe the stupidity, she thought. He probably tried to register it as dot `org,' too, thinking that `org' stood for orgasm, and he'd get more hits. "What's stupid about it?" Rufus asked, puzzled and considerably concerned. "God, Rufus, for a smart man you can be dense sometimes. It's too obvious. It's so obvious, I'm wondering why didn't he just call the feds and tell them to come pick him up, and you too, for that matter." "Me?" He protested. "Why me? All I ever did was go there a few times, you know, and talk to him over the computer, email and stuff." "Yeah, go on." "Well, and look at his pictures." "And, down load them to your computer." "A few, I guess, but Caruthers didn't put that many on the web, just enough to generate interest. He said it was better for him to sell the real thing, in person and for cash, than to give them away to any asshole with a computer and a hard-on." "That sounds like the good old Cletus I remember, alright, face to face, all cash, and no strings, but I guess neither of you ever heard of `cookies?'" "No, well sure, of course, but not in connection with computers. What's that?" "Trackers. You leave them where ever you go on the web, like a trail of cookies in the woods, and they can be followed right back to you." "Shit! I didn't know that. I got to get to work. Right now." "Hold on a minute, Rufus, I'm not finished with you," she snapped. “There's a lot left for you to explain." "What? I told you everything I know. Hell, you know more about it than I do." "Yeah, you got that right. So I am supposed to believe that with billions of web sites out there to choose from, you just happened upon `HotTots.com' and discovered Cletus Caruthers was sellin pictures of me in my birthday suit? Pullllleeeaase." "It wasn't that random." "No, I bet it wasn't; you had lots of help from your kiddie porn pals, didn't you. One of them probably gave you the name and recommended him. Still a remarkable coincidence, if you ask me." "It was recommended to me, alright." "That's obvious, Rufus. I want to know who gave you the web site." "I can't tell you, Anne." "Why not?" "I can't, that's all there is to it." "You're making me suspicious, Rufus. Who are you protecting? Is it somebody I know?" "Anne, look, it doesn't matter. It was just somebody, that's all." "It matters to me, sport, and I'm not leaving till you tell me who it was, so you can forget about deleting all those files you're so worried about, not that it'll do you any good." "Wha, what do you mean," he stammered, "do me any good?" "`Deleting' doesn't get rid of a file, Rufus, it just lets the computer write over it. The file's still there, till it's written over, and anybody with half a brain can retrieve it, even after it's been `deleted.'" "Oh, shit!" he gasped, "what can I do, then? Do you know how to get them off here?" "I might." "Help me, please?" "Tell me who." "No, I can't." "Ok," she said evenly and turned to leave. "I think a conviction for trafficking in that stuff on your computer, with the cookies and all, probably will get you twenty years. Bye now, Rufus, y’all have a nice day." "Wait, wait," he begged, lunging to catch her hand as she turned. "I'm waiting, Rufus." She had paused by the doorway. The sun had come up, and students were beginning to trickle in. "Getting’ late, buddy, you better make up your mind fast, or it'll be too late." "Alright, alright," he panted, "get in here and close that door." She pushed the door to behind her and leaned her back against it. "Well?" she said with an expectant arch in her tone. "Nancy Farber." He whispered and hung his head sheepishly. My God, she thought, as the utterance slammed her against the resisting panels of the door, and her mind scrambled to fit the knowledge into a semblance of order. Oh, sweet Jesus, thoughts bounced in her brain like pinballs off of pylons, complete with flashing lights and ringing bells. Of course, my God, of course, the connection was beginning to form. Archie wants something, and mommy sets out to get it for him, so she puts Rufus in touch with Cletus, but, but, no, that can't be it, too many loose ends. "How'd she find out about Cletus and connect me to his pictures?" "Oh, Anne, I was afraid you'd ask me that." "Why? What have you got to be afraid of?" "Think about it." She studied his face closely while her brain tumbled the information. What was she missing? What was there that she couldn't see? What was he still hiding from her, afraid to tell? What? What? No, no, not that, impossible, but still. "You knew!" she screamed at him. "You knew and you lied and denied it, when I suggested it last night, didn't you?" "Knew what?" he replied evasively. "You knew she was screwing Archie, didn't you?" "Yes, I knew it; how'd you find out?" "That jerk kid you sent me down to fuck yesterday told me, that's how, you bastard. His eyes were rolling back in his head, and he started babbling about it and forgot all about me being there." "Anne, look, I'm sor..." he began, attempting to apologize, but she cut him off. "How'd you find out about them?" "Caruthers told me about it first; sold me some pictures of them, later." "Cletus? Pictures?" she gasped. "How the hell did he get pictures of her and Archie, for Pete's sake." "According to Caruthers, she was really proud of Archie, you know, his, uh, uh...." "Equipment?" "Yeah, right, his `equipment.'" "You know what Cletus was talking about, Rufus? You ever seen that `equipment' yourself?" "Well, no, of course not. I saw pictures, is all, and I've heard talk, some." "I saw it last night, Rufus, thanks to you. I got a real good look at it, you son of a bitch, and he could have killed me with that thing, that YOU told him to use on me." "I know, I know, Anne, and I am so sorry." He sounded so miserable she almost believed him, but she knew he was only worried about his own skin, and that what happened or didn't happen to her skin mattered very little to him. "Shut up, you bastard, and let me think." He slumped in his chair, dejected and anxious, watching her pace in front of his desk, back and forth, on his Persian rug. Finally, she spoke again. "It makes no sense, Rufus, her trusting Cletus like that, giving him pictures of her and Archie?" "I thought so too, but that's what she did. I guess vanity is no friend of judgment, darling, just look at me if you want another proof." "I'll amen to that," she retorted with a snort. "She thought she was safe and trusted him, I guess. She began by buying pictures from him to show to Archie, you know to educate him, so to speak, and then she told Cletus about Archie and, er, ah, his proportions, and he became interested and asked her to take pictures and send them to him, which she did. Somewhere along the line, she must have recognized you in one of Cletus' pictures and figured out the connection. I guess that's how it happened; Cletus told me a little when we were negotiating the price for those photos he brought the other day, and I guessed the rest. Beyond that, all I can tell you is that Nancy's the one who gave me the name of his web site and his phone number; told me I might learn something `interesting' about one of my teachers, if I looked. So, I checked it out, and she was right, and the rest you know." "I wonder if she ever let Archie participate in one of Cletus and Nadeen's photo sessions with the kids." "I don't know, why do you ask?" "Just wondering how tight Nancy and Nadeen might have been, is all. What you said reminded me of the way Cletus and Nadeen liked to operate. They were always looking for fresh faces, bringing new people in, kids mostly. I think they tried to find people who had nobody to look after them or care about what happened to them, you know, orphans like me, or people who had as much to hide as they did, and they would use mutual blackmail for self-protection. They always liked to get something on somebody before they gave them much information about themselves. If Nancy let on that she was doing it with her son, Cletus and Nadeen would welcome her and Archie with open arms. I guess with Archie being so, ah, photogenic, they wouldn't mind much that he was a little older than their customers probably liked." "He might not have been all that old in the beginning." "What?" "Nancy and the Caruthers go back a while, Anne. He showed me pictures of them together when Archie was thirteen." "Thirteen!! My God, what was that, six, seven years ago? That must have been about the time I ran off from there. Did you know that?" "I guessed it." "Lord, thirteen," she said softly. "Was he...? Back then." "About the same, except not nearly as tall." "Standing up or lying down?" "Standing." "Whew, I pity those poor kids if she did put them together." "Honestly, Anne, I don't know if she did or not. If he had them, Caruthers never offered me any pictures of Archie with anybody but Nancy, but I sure wouldn't put it past her. She is utterly ruthless and cunning, and would cut your throat in a minute to help herself. She knows how to get what she wants, that's for sure, and won't let anything or anybody, including Archie, stand in her way." "Is that what happened to you last night, Rufus? Did she put you over a barrel?" "I had no choice, Anne, none. She got me this job. She was chair of the Headmaster selection committee, and let me know in no uncertain terms that her word was law, and that she got her way by whatever means were necessary." "That's it, Rufus? She chaired a goddamn committee, and you're going to spend the rest of your life licking her feet and kissing her ass?" "She's the Mayor's wife, for God's sake, Anne. The school's named after her grandfather, Archibald Hardwick, in case you didn't know. They know people, important people. They have friends with clout and connections that protect them. They can get things done, Anne, and they can do just about whatever they want." "So she put you up to sending me down to `watch' Archie, last night?" "That's right." "You could have refused; you could have protected me, you bastard. Why didn't you?" "She had the photos that Archie took of you and me. What could I do?" "How'd you like that, Rufus; being blackmailed with pictures like that?" "Not much, Anne," he admitted, squirming uncomfortably at the comparison. "Yeah, right, you poor thing, and you weren't having to kneel in the floor, while some disgusting asshole spewed cum all over your face, because of some pictures you were forced to pose for years ago, were you?" "No, no I wasn't, you're right. Oh, Anne, I'm so sorry." "Quit blubbering, I don't feel sorry for you, Rufus. Why didn't you stand up to her? Fight her. You had pictures of her with Archie, you said so yourself." "You couldn't see her face in the photos I saw. Couldn't really tell who it was, except for Archie, of course. Never seen anything like it, really." "You coulda called Cletus, hooked up with him on `HotTots' and bought some from him with faces, couldn't you?" "I figured not. Like I said, she's pretty smart. I don't think she'd allow herself to be photographed like that. Now, letting Archie's face get out, that's another matter, but she probably figured that as long as she wasn't identified, it would be ok. But all that's beside the point. I can't get in touch with Caruthers anymore, his site's been down since he was here, and his phone's disconnected. I tried him yesterday, right after Nancy called me." "Gee, thanks for trying," she chided him. "That probably means the feds are after him too. Stands to reason; he's the big fish that all trails lead to, I suppose." "They are." He sounded sure of himself. "How do you know?" she asked. "They were asking me questions about him. Had I seen him? Had I done business with him on the computer, things like that." "I see." "There are a couple of other things I ought to tell you, Anne." "What would that be, Rufus?" A feeling of dreadful premonition filled her. "I knew they were coming last night, to search my house." "How?" she exclaimed. "Nancy called me. It was about the time you were, ah, watching Archie swim. She called and said the feds were coming with a warrant in about an hour, and that the sheriff would be by in a few minutes to help me get ready." "What? She told you they were coming before they got there? This is too much, Rufus." "I told you, they have connections into places you wouldn't believe. Somebody tipped them off in advance about the raid, obviously, and she called to warn me." "Got worried about her cookies, I imagine." "It gets worse. Wasn't ten minutes later that Sheriff Briggs himself showed up on my doorstep with a computer under his arm. He made me show him where mine was, and he went in and swapped them out. Told me the one he was leaving was his kids’, and there wasn't anything on it but children's games and word puzzles. That's the one the feds took when they left." "My God, Rufus, the sheriff himself?" "Fraid so, Annie. And, he got hers too." "Hers?" "Nancy's. Said he was leaving to go over to the Mayor's house and pick up their computer for `safe keeping,' along with mine. He said, and I think these are his exact words `You keep your fucking mouth shut, dipshit, and maybe you'll come out of this ok.' He made it pretty plain that he was holding on to mine to protect her." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 08 "What about that one?" she asked, pointing to the screen behind him. "I lied. Told him there wasn't anything on it to worry about." "He believed you?" "I doubt it. He said this one was safe for the moment, because the judge had refused to issue a warrant to search the school without more proof that something was actually going on here which would involve the school." "But, you're still worried?" "Of course, wouldn't you be?" "Probably. So what is it on there you're so desperate to dispose of? "Pictures." "Of?" "You. Caruthers' photos." "Rufus! Is there no limit to you, man?" She was astounded at the callousness, the lack of compassion in him, and nearly wretched in anger. "I needed the money. The thirteen hundred. I took it out of our savings, and I was afraid that Imogene would find out about it and get suspicious, so I was trying to sell some of them, copies you know, and get some of the money back." "Goddamn you, Rufus Justice, what else do you have to tell me, that I ought to know?" "They're looking for you too, Anne. They asked about you by name, wanted your address and phone number, too." A chill shot up her spine, and she wrapped her arms around her body to still her shaking. The specter of the orphanage never left her, so she guarded her privacy carefully. She lived in another town, several miles away from school, and her phone number was unlisted. "Did you give it to them?" "Obviously not, or they would have been by to see you already." "They could have missed me last night. I was detained by Archie in the `Swimmer's Lounge;' that's `swimmer's' in the singular, by the way, you do remember that, don't you, asshole?" "I didn't tell them," he replied sheepishly. "I told them that information was here at the school, and that I didn't keep personnel files or information at my home. I guess, since they didn't have a warrant to search the school, they didn't press the issue, but I bet they'll be here today, any minute in fact. "What did they want with me? Did they say?" "Just to talk to you, to find out what you knew about the orphanage, and what went on there while you were there. They said they had checked the State's placement records to identify the children who had been put there and were trying to locate all of them, but weren't having much luck, so far." "Why are they doing that? I mean, they're just after you guys for spreading that stuff around, aren't they? That's what Postal Inspectors do; investigate crimes involving the mail and the Internet." "According to Nancy's attorney, they may be after the Caruthers for producing, instead of just distributing." "Her lawyer?" "Yeah. Nancy called me after the feds left and told me to get over to her lawyer's place and tell him everything that happened, so I went." "Go on." "He tells me that producers are the really big fish that the feds usually are looking for in these cases, and that `producing' carries a much heavier penalty than just passing the pictures around to your friends. He figures the raid was to get evidence about the distribution network, with pictures of you and the other kids showing up on everybody's computer. Then, when they find you, and you identify yourself and the others and tell them how it was the Caruthers who staged the photos and made the pictures, and they establish how old you all were at the time, they'll have enough evidence to convict both of them for producing and trafficking and to put them away for a long time." "Ohhh," she sighed, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. She had run away from her past and the nightmare that was the Caruthers' Children's Home for Orphans, and had put it behind her, yet here it was again, dogging her heels relentlessly, and her stomach knotted in fear. "They'll want me to testify against Cletus and Nadeen, won't they?" "That's the consensus." She grimaced and willed her stomach to behave. Calm down and think, she told herself, and her nasty voice chimed in saying, lordy, lordy, girl, are you in a heap of trouble or what? You don't think for a minute that Cletus and Nadeen'll let you git up on a witness stand and tell some jury about all them thangs Cletus and the others done to you back then, and how Nadeen set it all up and took them pictures while they done it, do you? Don't kid yourself. Why ole Cletus'd just as soon wring your neck and pop your head clean off, as to let you testify against him. You remember them big hands of his, don't you, and how he used to catch chickens for Sunday supper and wring they's necks and pop they's heads, and them chickens'ud run all over the yard, flappin and bleedin, till they run out of gas and fell over daid. That'd be you, girl, neck wrung and headless, plumb outa gas and lyin in the grass, daid. "Jesus!" she exclaimed. "If Cletus and Nadeen hear about that, they'll be after me in a heartbeat." "That's very probable, Anne, and I'm afraid it's not a question of `if' but `when.'" "What? You mean they know already?" Fear flickered in her eyes, and she glanced reflexively over her shoulder toward the closed door. "Who knows, but just because I can't get in touch with them, doesn't mean Nancy can't." "Damn, you're right," she responded and bit her lip in consternation. She looked at him sharply and continued, "When were you planning to warn me about this, Rufus, or were you just going to let Cletus and Nadeen show up on my doorstep one night?" "Anne, I..." "Forget it. It was foolish of me to think anything you and I did meant anything to you." "That's not true." "Yeah, right," she jeered, "save your denials for somebody else, Rufus, and just tell me the truth for once. Is there anything else you haven't told me yet?" "No, Anne, I swear. You know everything I know." "Ok. I'll accept that for now. But, Rufus?" "Yes?" "You've told me so many lies and screwed me figuratively and literally so many ways, that I don't trust you any further than I can throw your despicable ass." "I know." "Good, just so we understand each other. Now, move and let me get to work on that computer." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 09 It only took Anne a few minutes to initiate the process of reformatting the hard drive on Rufus' computer. Only a few key strokes were required to enter the necessary instructions; "format c:\ [enter]." Amazingly simple, she thought, given the totality of the process' destruction. Serves the bastard right, trying to sell her pictures. She swiveled her chair to face him, and the computer clicked and whirred behind her lobotomizing itself with sterile efficiency. "You know, Rufus, I am helping you only because those are pictures of me on there, don't you?" "I know that, Anne." Rufus was sweating, rubbing his palms on his pants, and he kept glancing nervously at the clock above his door. "Will that take care of it? I mean, did you get rid of the pictures for good?" "I don't know, Rufus. I'm not a computer expert, but I think reformatting the hard drive wipes it completely clean. It's possible that some expert has a recovery program of some kind that might retrieve some files, or parts of files, but with pictures, I have to think not much recognizable will be left on there." "I sure hope you're right." "Whether I am or not, there are still some things left for you to get rid of,” she said, giving him no time to savor his relief. "Huh? What?" He looked freshly concerned. "The photos and videos you bought from Cletus. I want them." Her tone was steady and measured, and she watched him shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "The hell you say. I paid good money for those pictures, and I intend to keep them." "Why, so you can put them back on your computer as soon as you think the coast is clear and sell some more of them? I don't think so." "No, not to sell, but they're mine. I bought them, and I am going to keep them." "What if I tell Imogene what you've been up to around here; blackmailing me into having sex with you all over the school and stashing porn pictures in your desk." "She wouldn't believe you." "She will when she sees Archie's photos of us together right here in your office." "She won't see them, nobody will, I've got that covered." She looked at him closely. He hadn't been completely forthcoming after all, and she tensed in anticipation of another revelation. "Yeah, how'd you cover that little problem, Rufus?" "Nancy's got them put up in a safe place, and they won't see the light of day, unless you or I do something stupid." "Hell! Of course she has them. Why didn't I think of that? She probably put Archie up to taking them in the first place after she fixed you up with Cletus, so you could blackmail me into fucking you, so she'd certainly hold on to them afterward to keep you and me in line, especially after last night's fiasco with lover boy. I guess she told you to tell me to keep my mouth shut about last night, unless I want those photos plastered all over town, right?" "More or less." "OK." She spoke the word slowly, lengthening the "K" to buy herself time to think. "I bet she told you to tell me something else too, didn't she Rufus?" "I don't know what you mean, Anne. What else?" She snorted in disgust; the man was a pathological innocent, constitutionally incapable of dealing honestly even when confronted with hard facts. "Don't be obtuse, Rufus, it doesn't suit you. She told you to fire me, didn't she? I'm too hot for you two to handle all of a sudden, and what's more I hurt her little darlin's feelings last night and she's mad as hell about it. Am I right?" "Partly." "Only `partly?' Tell me, Rufus, what part did I not get right?" "She's not mad because you hurt Archie's feelings, Anne, she wants you out of here because you tricked him in to telling you about the two of them, Archie and her. She thinks you're a danger to her now, and she wants you gone." "How's firing me supposed to keep me quiet? What's to keep me from blowing the whistle on her and Archie anyway?" "You have no proof, Anne. It's just your word against theirs; who's going to believe anything you have to say? Besides, Anne, who are you going to tell, the sheriff? I think I've told you enough about last night that you can draw your own conclusions about how much help he'll be giving you if you go up against the Farbers." "And, of course, you won't back me up either, will you Rufus? You'll forget all about setting me up to go down there and be raped by Archie last night on Nancy's instructions, won't you." "It never happened, Anne." "Right." "I think you better go. I'll give you an hour to clean out your desk and vacate the premises." "It'll be my pleasure, Rufus, believe me. I could almost kiss Nancy for getting me off the hook like she has; I was afraid I would be stuck here for years with you blackmailing me the whole time. It'll be a relief to go, buddy, trust me." "I told her you would be reasonable about this." "Oh, I'll be reasonable all right, just as soon as you open that drawer and hand over the videos and photos you bought from Cletus." "We settled that already. They are staying right where they are." "Oh Rufus, Rufus," she began, shaking her head in mock disbelief, "aren't you forgetting a couple of things?" "Like what?" "Imogene?" "We've been over that already. Tell her if you want to; she won't believe you." "How about that thirteen hundred dollars that's missing from your savings account?" "Doesn't prove anything, does it? I'll just come up with an explanation for it. Hell, maybe Nancy will lend me the thirteen hundred for a while; just long enough to cover any questions Imogene has." His confidence was building, his story had legs, and he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. "Jeez, Rufus, you're too smart for me, I guess." She let her shoulders drop a little and tried to look dejected. "Look, Anne," he began, his voice acquiring a conciliatory tone, "I didn't intend for it to end..." She cut him off with a wave of her hand. Squaring her shoulders, she put her hands on his desk and leaned across the polished mahogany. She angrily thrust her face toward him and hissed, "Can it, Rufus, I don't want to hear it; if you were half as smart as you think you are, neither of us would be standing here talking about this shit." "But," he sputtered, jerking back in his chair to put some distance between them. "No buts, Rufus, here's the deal. Remember that night when Cletus sold you the pictures?" "Of course." "And you got so excited looking at them you jacked off and shot cum all over my face?" "Yes," he croaked. "You gave me your handkerchief, a monogrammed one with your initials on it, to clean up with. Did you ever wonder what happened to that handkerchief?" "Huh?" He stared at her blankly, struggling to comprehend her meaning. "I didn't think so. Clean slipped your mind, didn't it, Rufus?" He was obviously becoming rattled, and she continued without waiting for an answer. "It wound up in my freezer, Rufus, in a plastic Zip Lock bag, along with the bra and panties I was wearing that evening. Can you imagine that?" She smiled innocently at him, and he gulped. "Wha..." "What's the matter, Rufus, cat got your tongue? You would not believe all that cum, baby. You must have squirted a quart, and I got all of it on that handkerchief. Of course, some of it is on my underwear now, but I guess that doesn't matter considering it all came from the same source." "Ahhhhh, ahhhhh" he was beginning to perceive, and his face flushed bright red. She continued, "It's all frozen now, you know, like one of those lab experiments where they try to preserve the specimen for a long time. Kind of like a giant cum ice cube with my underwear and your handkerchief all mixed up in it." "That's not..." he started to argue, but she waved him off again. "Beginning to sound a lot like Monica Lewinsky's blue dress, isn't it, Rufus? Of course, this ain't the Oval Office, and you sure as hell aren't the President, are you, buddy, but I have enough of your DNA in my fridge to identify you at least a couple of billion times." He shook his head vacantly, as his mind explored the ramifications of her disclosure. "Oh yeah, Rufus, there's a spot or two on your rug down here, ‘cause I made sure to rub some on it, so there would be no doubt you were up to something in here. Oh, and there are a couple more places around here with your cum on them too, but I don't think I'll tell you where they are just now. Maybe, if I have to tell her about all this, Imogene'll tell you where they are and you two can come find them together. Sound like a fun afternoon to you, Rufus; you and the little missus together on a scavenger hunt for cum spots?" "Anne, you wouldn't." "You bet your ass I would, ‘cause I have nothing to loose, have I? I'll just collect my things and pop on over to your house to have a chat with Imogene on my way out of town. What you want to bet that, after she hears what I have to say and checks your bank account for a recent, rather large withdrawal, she'll be eager to follow me home to collect my little frozen specimen and hang you out to dry with it? Unless, of course, you can come up with something to tell her that will explain how I came to have a quart of the Headmaster's precious reproductive fluid in my freezer." Her words connected in his consciousness like a couple of overweighted freight cars coupling in a railroad switchyard. He turned white as a sheet, and his mouth dropped open. Subconsciously, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to mop his brow, and she snickered at the gesture because he revealed himself in it. "Well?" "All right, all right, you win. You can have the damn pictures." Even as he spoke he was fishing his key ring out of his pocket. "Good choice, Rufus. You give me the photos, and I am out of your life forever." "What about the handkerchief?" "You'll just have to worry about that for a while, baby; I'm hanging on to it till I feel safe from you and everybody else around here, and then I'll throw it away. `Till then, it's my insurance policy that you won't do anything too stupid where I am concerned." "How do I know I can trust you?" "Brother," she said in exasperation, "don't be a moron now. You got no alternative, do you, buddy; you either give me the photos and trust me to keep quiet, or you hang on to them, and I give your wife your cum rag and point her toward your pecker tracks around here and the bank. Best course for you to take seems pretty clear to me." "All right, Anne," he sighed, recognizing defeat when it was staring him in the face. He pulled open the bottom drawer and extracted a stack of glossy photographs and the three videos. He tossed the materials on his desk, and said "There, take them." "Not so fast, Rufus." She stepped around the desk just as he was pushing the drawer closed. "Open it up and let me see if you forgot something." He leaned back in his chair and glared at her, but she ignored the look and bent to open the drawer herself. He didn't move to stop her, and the drawer slid open easily. It was nearly empty, but on the bottom, lying face down was what appeared to be another photograph. "Rufus, you scoundrel, you're holding out on me, I do believe," she said, scolding him like a schoolboy. She retrieved the photo, and three others, which were concealed beneath it, and flipped them over to confirm that they were a part of Cletus' package. She laid them carefully on the pile of photos already on Rufus' desk. "Count `em, Rufus, and there better be a hundred of `em there, or Imogene's going to have something to put in her freezer tonight and it ain't gonna be a frozen dinner, unless of course you consider cooked goose to be dinner." He counted the pictures and satisfied her that all were accounted for. She collected them, pushing them into a neat pile, and walked to the corner by the coat rack, where Rufus' briefcase leaned against the wall. She picked up the briefcase and dumped the contents on the floor. Then, she began placing the photos and videos into the empty satchel, and blithely disregarded his venomous looks. "Nice briefcase, Rufus," she said admiringly as she snapped the clasps shut, "`Mark Cross' no less, it must have cost you a bundle. I know you don't mind if I borrow it for a while, do you? I don't think it would do for me to be traipsing around school with these pictures under my arm, don't you agree?" "Get out. Just go. I want you out of the building in an hour, understand?" "Oh, I surely do," she replied sweetly, and she blew him a kiss as she walked out the door. * * * She didn't go to her classroom. There was nothing personal there to collect, and she had no intention of hanging around to pack a few pencils, rulers and a handful of papers, while the authorities, or worse, Cletus and Nadeen, closed in on her. Instead, she bypassed her classroom and slipped unobtrusively out of the building through a seldom-used exit at the end of the hall and bolted for her car. She glanced nervously around the faculty parking lot, fully expecting to see Cletus' beat up van lurking in the shadows, but she saw nothing except familiar sports cars and expensive SUVs, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She sped down the drive to the highway and turned toward home, thankful that she had been careful to give the personnel office a false residential address. It was one of those things that had become ingrained, second nature to her, and as a result, she never left tracks or a trail wherever she went. She also collected little in the way of material things, expressly for times like these, so she could pick up and disappear in a matter of minutes. A morbid fear of Cletus and Nadeen compelled her to behave like a fugitive, and she had moved twice since Cletus’ appearance with the pictures a couple of weeks earlier. She had refined moving to an art; her worldly possessions, a desktop, TV and toaster and a couple of suitcases of clothes, fit easily into the trunk of her car, and, start to finish, she could be packed and gone in under a quarter hour. She picked Trash Can at random out of a phone book and took a circuitous route to his office, driving a hundred and twenty miles to cover what a crow could do in twenty minutes. She had known nothing about lawyers beyond what little she had learned during the probate of her father's estate, but she thought his picture in the Yellow Pages made him look gentlemanly, and the fact his office was located well away from the usual business traffic way was reassuring. She had appeared at the U-Haul office unannounced and without an appointment, but Trash Can hadn't been busy and saw her immediately. The interview stretched into the evening hours, because she was skittish and reluctant to divulge many of the details of the events he had asked her about. Well after dark, he convinced her that she would be safe in the local motel and drove her there himself, leaving her car parked out of sight in the U-Haul repair shed behind his office. She was still at the motel when Trash Can called for help. * * * Caleb finished reading and dropped the report on his desk. He checked his watch. It was nearly 2:00 a.m. and he was mentally and physically exhausted. He quickly gathered up the report and his notes and returned them to the folder. He picked up the photo of Gweneth Paltrow and, laughing at himself a little, said aloud, "In you go, imposter," and he stuffed the picture into the folder with his other papers. Finally, he took the folder and locked it in his file cabinet, before turning off the lights and locking up his office. He went directly home and packed an overnight bag, because he didn't know how long he would be gone. He wrote himself a note to call Mildred first thing in the morning to have her cancel court for the day and his afternoon appointments, and then he went to bed to get a few hours sleep, but he was too anxious, keyed up, he rationalized, by the anticipation of meeting the woman in the report to actually sleep, so he wound up watching an old movie on the TV, and, by the time the sun was up, he was already an hour west of home and had the new bridge over the Mississippi River in sight. His course to the river took him through the broad, flat plains of the delta along roads that ran straight and true atop endless, interconnecting levees, which had been built to protect soybeans and cotton from the inevitable floods. He turned on the CD and in seconds "The City of New Orleans" was playing, and he and Arlo were rolling "past the houses, farms and fields, and the graveyards of the rusted automobiles," and he was exhilarated by a newfound sense of adventure. The fields he passed were quiet, dark and brown, withered by fall's heavy frosts, and the farm- to- market roads through them were virtually empty, so he traveled in the dim, half-light of the early dawn with out distractions or external stimulation, and his thoughts turned to the girl he was rushing to meet and his soaring expectations. She would be pretty, of that much he was sure; all of the sources in the report had agreed on that point, and he had Moon Dog's judgment, and Terrell's, to corroborate them. Not that beauty was the only consideration, but it certainly didn't diminish his convictions any, when the people he set out to help turned out to be desperate and attractive, too. And, this girl surely was desperate for help from someone, after all that she had been through already and, now, with the added threat of being hunted and pursued by people with pretty apparent reasons to do her harm, she had cause to be panicked. She also had an amazing sexual appetite that wasn't, so far as he could determine, fettered by much commitment to modesty, and she had no reluctance whatsoever to putting her sexuality to use for her advantage whenever and wherever she could. The way she had used her body to manipulate that Justice guy, and then, the way she had stood up to him and had gotten her pictures back in the end, were nothing short of impressive, and he suspected that she was more of a force to be reckoned with at the Caruthers' household than either she or Nadeen would admit. She was a complex mixture of contradictions; sweet, innocent vulnerability on the one hand, ruthlessly cunning culpability on the other, and the prospect of learning how she balanced those conflicting characteristics intrigued him. It was the certainty that he was about to meet a beautiful woman, who desperately needed his help, and who was willing, even eager it seemed, to use sex to get what she needed, that sent him hurtling toward her through the pre-dawn darkness, and it was almost more than he could manage to keep the throttle off the floorboard. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 10 It was nearly four in the morning and nothing was moving. Even the dogs which had been prowling the neighborhood had stopped barking and had retired for the night. The Acock Motel's no vacancy sign threw a faint light onto the parking lot, which was empty except for Moon Dog's solitary car. He had parked beside a hedge in the deep shadows at the edge of the lot and the car was nearly invisible from the street beyond the motel lobby. Moon Dog had lowered the windows of his car so his breath wouldn't fog the windows in the cool night air; the interior was pitch black. Hunter was reaching for the door handle on the passenger side of the car, when, behind him, Moon Dog stepped out of the shadows and spoke in a low voice. "Don't open the door, I rigged it to set off the horn and turn on the lights." "Whoa, shit," Hunter gasped. "Don't sneak up on me like that, Dog, you scared the hell outa me." "You're gettin rusty in your old age, Hunter, I heard you coming ten minutes ago. Could have shot your noisy ass three or four times, easy." "No kidding, Dog, maybe that's because I been here for thirty minutes and already circled the damn motel twice making sure there wasn't anybody here but you and the girl, before I started over here to the car kicking' gravel and grunting like a pig in a hole, so's you'd hear me and not blow me full of holes." "You're kiddin'; I didn't see you." You weren't meant to, Dog. I stuck to the shadows. Every time you turned on that starlight scope of yours, your car filled up with green light, so I just stayed hid till it went out." "I knew I was picking up too much light from that damn sign,” he snorted with a nod in the direction of the “no vacancy” sign. “Damn scope's made to amplify starlight; too much artificial light just overwhelms it." "I could have shot your ass twenty or thirty times, old man; you're just lucky I wasn't Caruthers." "Hell, Caruthers isn't coming here tonight. There's no way he could have trailed us here that quick. Besides, we got no proof that he'd actually shoot anybody, do we?" "We do now." "No shit?" "That's a fact, Dog; I've had quite a night." "You want to get in the car and tell me about it?" "Sure, if you disarm your alarm system first." "Oh, hell, I was lying, it isn't rigged." Hunter opened the car door and nothing happened. The interior remained pitch black, and he looked questioningly at Moon Dog. "Well, I haven't forgotten everything I ever knew; I did take out the overhead bulb, so it wouldn't light up every time I got out to pee or something." "Good man to share a foxhole with," Hunter laughed, and he slid into the car soundlessly. When they had taken up their positions, Hunter began to recount the night's events in a low voice. “I left here and drove straight to the school. By the time I arrived the place was looking pretty well deserted, but I spotted a beat up old truck behind the building and called in the license plate. It was registered to an old fellow named Jackson, who is the janitor there. I figured he might have a pretty good idea about the things going on around there, and I thought the direct approach would be a lot faster than snooping around the principal's office in the dark, so I went in and found him mopping the halls. He was a little standoffish at first, but after I told him how I was there to help our little girl over there, he warmed right up.” “What do you want to know?” he asked me. “Everything,” I told him. “Whatever you think might help me protect Miss Anne. I don’t even know what she’s up against right now. “Well, sir,” he said, “I can tell you this; Mr. Jerry, the mayor, now, he’s OK, but that wife of his and their no good kid, Archie, they’re bad people, fer sur.” “How’s that, Jackson?”“ “`Cause, they’s the ones that got me fired up at the plant, and after I’s been workin’ up there well nigh thirty years without hardly missin’ a day.” “Why’d they do that?” “On account of that boy lyin’ and tellin’ his mamma that I tore up his car, when he was up here visitin’ his daddy, when he knowed hit was him that got drunk and sideswiped a fence post. They said hit’as me that drove the forklift into the side of his car, but hit weren’t me.” “How come you were fired, if it wasn’t you?” “On account of that woman, Mrs. Nancy, that’s why. She got all mad and come up here demanding Mr. Jerry fire that ‘goddamn black bastard’ what scratched up her little darlins’ car, so Mr. Jerry called me in and said they weren’t nothin’ he could do but do as she says and let me go.” “After thirty years?” “Yes, sir, thirty of them, but that weren’t the end of the story either. Mr. Jerry said he’d been thinkin’ that I’as gettin’ purty close to retirement and that he needed to find me somethin’ a lot easier than workin’ in that pallet factory, so he told me that I was comin’ down to the school to be the janitor starting the next day and that he’as givin’ me two times the pay.” “Sounds like a pretty good deal for you, Jackson.” “I couldn’t hardly believe my ears, and I asked him if that wouldn’t make the missus madder than hell at him, if she ever found out what he done? He said she wouldn’t ever know the difference `cause didn’t neither of them, her or Archie, know what I looked like or even what my name was.” “Was he right? I mean, didn’t Archie recognize you here at the school?” “Shoot no, mister. That boy didn’t no more know who this old nigger was than he knowed who his momma was. He did axe me once if’n he didn’t knowed me from somewheres, an’ I jes tole him, ‘Why no suh, Misser Archie, suh, you knows all’n us niggers be lookin’ jes alike; hit mussa been summun `sides me,’ an’ he jes scratched that empty ole haid of his’n and walked off an’ I ain’t heered no more ‘bout it after that.” “But hadn’t he seen you at the plant?” “I `spect so, out the office window, whiles he’s in the air conditioning, maybe, but that no account boy ain’t never got out where the work was goin’ on, so he ain’t never seen me no closer than from here to town, just about.” “Archie and his mamma sound like quite a pair, Jackson; you have anything else you can tell me about?” “I `spect you done heard `bout him forcin’ hisself on Miss Anne down in the Lounge the other night.” “I know about that.” “D’jew know she put him up to it?” “How come you think that?” “`Cause, she put him up to spyin’ on `em, and takin’ they’s pictures offen my ladder, that’s how come.” “That’s kinda thin, Jackson.” “They’s more.” “Like what?” “Why don’t you go see for yo’sef?” “Go see what?” “What all goes on up there at they’s house up there on that hill.” “At the Farber’s?” “Yessir.” “What goes on up there?” “Oh my gracious, Mr. Hunter, bad stuff, that’s what. Stuff decent folk don’t talk about. Hit’s all there, recorded on them recorders.” “How do you know what’s up there?” “`Cause, the missus makes Mr. Justice send me up there to help clean up after they’s parties, and, whoee, is they ever a mess. I seen what they dos with them recorders stuck all over the house so’s you can’t move without havin’ yo’ picture took. They leave `em runnin’ lots of times, and don’t pay no `tention to no old nigger runnin’ a vacuum, and I seen plenty, yessir, plenty, so’s I’s knowin’ everthin’ what’s goin’ on up there.” “And, you think I ought to go up there and see for myself?” “Yessir, I does. You can take yo’self up there tonight if’n you’s a mind to.” “Why tonight?” “They gone, pulled outa town right after Miss Anne took off. Mr. Justice, he say, they be gone two weeks at least.” “Why’d he tell you about that, Jackson?” “`Cause, she done tole him to send me up there to shampoo they’s carpets while they’s be gone, so hit’ll be clean when they comes home.” “You’ve been doing that?” “Yessir, ever night, cleanin’ them carpets and watchin’ they’s videos when I can.” “Every night, Jackson? You go clean carpets at the Farbers’ every night after you get off work here?” “Hit’s a big house and they’s lots of carpet.” “How long you up there nights?” “Mostly all night, then I comes down here to the school.” “Good God, I hope she pays you well.” “She don’t pay me nothin; she say I gets paid enough here at the school.” “Some lady, Jackson.” “You be goin’ up there, then, Mr. Hunter? I got me a key to they’s house, right here on my keychain; you be welcome to it.” “I won’t be needin’ your key, Jackson; I know how to let myself in.” “Maybe so, but you better be mindin’ they’s burglar alarm; hit’s one of them fancy ones what knows what yo’ be thinkin’ b’foe yo do.” “You must know the pass code.” “That I does.” “Let me have it, and tell me where the control box is, and I’ll get out of your way, Jackson. You’ve been a big help; Miss Anne will appreciate your help more than you’ll ever know.” “You gonna be seein’ her soon, Mr. Hunter?” “Tomorrow, probably.” “Will you give her something for me?” “Sure, Jackson, what is it?” The gentle old man reached into the pocket of his bib overalls and extracted a small bundle. It was a flat, folded, square of paper hand towel, the brown kind that you find in the dispensers in public toilets. Jackson carefully unfolded the paper, revealing the contents to be what appeared to be nothing more than a little wad of strings. “What’s this?” Hunter queried upon accepting the package. “Hit’s her swimmin’ suit; I found hit by the pool that night after she run out on Archie. I guess she was too scared to go back and pick it up herself.” “I’ll see that she gets it, Jackson,” he promised. “And, I’ll tell her it was you that found it and kept it for her; I know she’ll be grateful.” “You have it with you now?” Moon Dog asked, interrupting Hunter’s narrative. “Yeah, right here,” Hunter answered, and he pulled the plainly wrapped package from his pants pocket. “Let me have it; I’ll give it to Caleb when he gets here this afternoon, and he can decide what to do with it.” “Yeah, right, he’s coming, then; I guess I knew he would,” Hunter responded just a little sullenly. “You know he’s not half the man THE Judge was, don’t you?” “Hunter, ain’t no man dead or alive that’s half the man that Colonel Montcastle was,” Moon Dog declared with conviction, “but the boy’s learning, and we promised the Old Man, before he died, that we’d help him however we could, even if it meant lettin’ him make his own mistakes.” “So, you think this is a mistake too?” “I didn’t say that, Hunter; let’s just let him play his hand and do what we can to keep him from getting killed or arrested.” “Jesus H. Christ, Dog, his daddy was the best damn officer the Army ever had; what the hell do you think he’d say if he knew Caleb had us out here in the middle of the night babysittin’ some hot piece of ass for him?” “I know what he’d say, Hunter, soon as the patrol came back in and reported what all the `hot piece of ass,’ as you call her, had been through and what Caleb was doing to help her, he’d tell us to shut the fuck up and get back to business, which is exactly what we are going to do, my old friend.” “Yeah, you’re right, I guess.” “Not a lot of room for guessing where the Colonel was concerned, Hunter; either you were with him or against him.” “I never let him down, Dog; I won’t start now.” “I never doubted it,” Moon Dog responded softly, and then, he continued, “That brings me back to the question at hand, buddy; I assume you made it into the Mayor’s house.” “Did I ever. You would not believe the security in that place; it was like breaking into Ft. Knox. Doors had some kind of fancy digital locking mechanism that took me half an hour to figure out. Had me wishing that I had accepted Jackson’s offer of his key, but that would just have pointed the finger at him. Once I got the door open, the alarm system wasn’t any problem thanks to Jackson’s pass code, but that was only the beginning. That whole place is wired for sound and video, with motion and sound detectors everywhere, so whenever somebody enters a room, any room, a video and sound recorder starts up, sometimes several at once, and every thing that happens gets recorded. It took me a while to learn the system and erase all the video of me poking around. I imagine that they’ve got video recordings of everything that’s happened in that house for years.” “What do you mean, `I imagine,’ you looked, didn’t you?” “I tried, but they have most of the videos locked up in a vault that really did look like Ft. Knox. I figured it would take me a day just to open it up, and I didn’t have that kind of time, so I looked around and found about a month’s worth of tapes in a little control room just off the den. I figured they hadn’t gotten around to putting the more recent recordings into the vault, so I ran through most of them on fast forward and found a few that looked to connect to your lady friend in the room over there. Regardless, they gave me a pretty good look at the Mayor’s wife, buddy, and is she ever a piece of work.” “That bad, huh? Worse, even, than what we learned about her from Anne’s last conversation with Rufus?” “A lot worse, Dog.” “Well, you better tell me about it; we got a while before sun up.” “It’ll take a while; there were a stack of tapes. You still have that tape recorder with you?” “Yeah, it’s right here,” Moon Dog answered, reaching into the back seat to retrieve his portable tape recorder. “Fresh batteries?” “Yeah, new ones.” “Good. Turn it on and don’t interrupt me till I’m finished. I’ll dictate my report from memory right now, `cause if I sleep first, I will surely forget half of what I saw.” Moon Dog squinted, trying to read Hunter’s face in the darkness. He had been the best in Nam; the one recon scout in the whole Army with a truly photographic memory. He could lay under a bush beside the Ho Chi Minh trail for three days, watching and counting NVA regiments infiltrating south, and when he was extracted a week later, he could not only give numbers and troop strengths, he could tell you how many officers accompanied the troops, their ranks, what they were wearing, the side arms they were carrying and how many days had passed since their last shave, and he could do it completely from memory without a single note. Hell, Moon Dog recalled, he could even identify half of them by name from intelligence photographs he had looked at months earlier. He wasn’t a man to lose track of details, no matter how many or varied. “It’s running, buddy; let her rip.” Hunter started speaking, his voice rising and falling with the pace of the story like an actor reading parts from a script, and, almost immediately, Moon Dog was caught up in the tale and was being swept along in turbulent waters. * * * Jerry Farber was sitting in his kitchen, reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. He was wearing a white, freshly starched dress shirt and necktie. Dishes, with the remains of breakfast, had been pushed to the center of the table. He glanced over the top of his paper at the sound of Nancy Farber's voice. "Just look at what the postman left us yesterday, would you, Jerry?" she muttered with a note of irritation as she entered the kitchen and made her way to the end of the dinette table opposite Jerry. She was waving a folded, note sized rectangle of scented, lavender paper at him. "It's another invitation from the Justices to a tea at the school; engraved no less. That makes three so far this year." "You're not planning on making me go, are you?" The mayor sounded a little apprehensive; teas were not his cup of tea, you might say. "I went to one just last Spring, didn't I?" "No, darling, you didn't. That was a coffee at the retirement center." She was paying little attention to him. She tapped her lip with the folded invitation, thinking. "Darn," Jerry snorted, "I was hoping I had done that already. But, hell, aren’t three teas a little excessive? I mean how much tea can they be drinking out there, anyway?" "I expect the headmaster's wife is getting a little desperate at this point." "Who's desperate?" The mayor had picked up the newspaper and was losing interest in the conversation. "The headmaster's wife; Imogene Justice," she repeated impatiently. "Put down that paper and talk to me, you know how I hate talking to the newspaper." Jerry sighed and lowered the paper to his lap. "Sorry darling, I was just checking the soybean futures; what's bothering Mrs. Justice aside from the fact that she's too skinny and her tits are too small." "Jerry Farber, you naughty man, you've been lookin at another woman again," she teased him good naturedly. "She's not that small; hers just aren't as big as mine." The mayor's wife leaned over and pulled the lapels of her robe apart revealing her considerable cleavage as she spoke, and she giggled when Jerry smacked his lips in appreciation. "You're right, babe, you get the best booby prize for all time. I guess she just looks flat-chested standing next to you." "I'll take that as a compliment, thank you very much," she laughed covering herself. "You really weren't looking at her, I guess. She's actually a pretty good looking woman. A little overdone in her hair style, perhaps, with it cut short and swept back like a boy's, but I guess she's just trying to look older, more mature." "Why the hell would she want to do that? I thought all you women wanted was to look ten years younger than you are." "Trying to look sophisticated, Jerry. Didn't you notice? She's got wannabe written all over her." "Notice what?" He was genuinely puzzled; the machinations of women frequently left him perplexed. "Oh God, men," Nancy huffed in exasperation. "Her clothes, you boob; she went down to Maxine's boutique and bought a whole new wardrobe not three days after she and Rufus moved into town. Maxine said she wanted to know what kinds of things I was wearing, cause she wanted the same for herself, and she ran up a bill that's gonna take her three years to pay off on the Headmaster's salary." "Guess she needed something to wear to all those Goddamn teas." Nancy was beginning a roll and ignored him. "And, how about her car; have you seen it?" Jerry shook his head. "No, I can't honestly say as I have." "Well, mister, it's a BMW, the big one, but Sheriff Briggs checked the registration for me and found out that they bought it used and didn't even have enough money left to put decent tires on it. The tires are so bald now that they can't go out in it if it rains." "Sounds dire to me." Jerry knew it was best to sort of punctuate Nancy's sentences with brief little observations like that, just enough to show he was paying attention. "Jolene, down at the "Clip, Curl & Chat," says she even brought in a magazine with a picture of Lady Diana and said she wanted to look just like her. How do you like that?" "That Jolene must be a whiz with the scissors; they do favor quite a bit." Nancy had to admit that even her girls had been amazed at the resemblance, but that didn't prove she wasn't a wannabe. She sensed that Jerry was slipping away, but plunged ahead anyway; "And, what's more, Jolene says that Imogene keeps asking about who the members of our bridge group are and how could she get asked to play with us." "I never cared much for bridge, you'll recall; I always got the lousy cards, and you kept calling me a "dummy." "That wasn't..." she began, but stopped and shook her head, "Oh, never mind, that's beside the point. She's a social climber, baby. She would like nothing better than to be invited to join our bridge group and play cards with us every Tuesday and Thursday. It would give her an entrée. Then, she could start socializing with us and all our friends, because we would have to invite her to all our parties, since we would be seeing her two days a week at the bridge club meetings." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 10 "I see your point, honey; would be kind of awkward, everyone but her partying all night on Wednesday, and then getting together with her on Thursday to socialize with the club." "Exactly. That's why we're so careful about who we invite to join the group. First it's cards, then it's the cocktail hour and parties, and, before you know it, they're wanting you to propose them to the country club membership committee, and you can't figure out how to say `no.'" "Jeez," he gasped, "And, I thought dealing with the city council over the budget was fraught with pitfalls." "Don't be sarcastic," she chided him, bristling a little at his good natured ridicule. "I have an important function in this relationship. We have to protect our position in this town, and it's my job to make sure we associate with the right kinds of people. If I wasn't looking out for us, our social life wouldn't be much more than swilling beer and munching barbecues under some carport with your redneck fishing buddies, and you, sir, would not have been elected mayor for three terms in a row." He grinned at her and tossed his paper onto the dinette table. Then, he stood and walked around to her, smiling, and said, "You are sure right about that, babe. Marrying you was the best thing I ever did." He bent to kiss her upturned lips, and his hand moved gently over the thin silk of her robe and caressed her thigh. She returned his kiss, her tongue squirming into his open mouth, and she parted her thighs invitingly. He meant those words with all his heart. He had been a ship without a rudder before he met her; divorced, hunting and fishing all the time and letting his pallet manufacturing business run itself, while he dissipated his energies and was getting nowhere. Not that the business was doing badly or anything; the money poured in like always, just as it had for his daddy and granddaddy, before he inherited the business, but success hadn't been important to him then, not until he met Nancy. It was an unlikely, chance encounter. There had been a convention; the National Pallet Manufacturers' Association annual convention, and the thought of spending a week in New Orleans had intrigued him. Of course, he had wandered onto Bourbon Street the first night of the convention, drawn by the tawdry flashing lights, the sweet strains of soulful jazz in the air and the tantalizing tinkle of beaded curtains shielding delights of the flesh, the likes of which a small town, Missouri boy could not imagine. He wandered aimlessly until an insistent street barker half dragged, half pulled him into "Sloppy's" and sat him at the end of the polished mahogany runway with a double shot of whiskey and a Coors chaser. He had watched in delighted amazement as girl after girl came through the curtains at the end of the runway to perform, dancing, swaying, flinging stockings and shorts, bras and panties into the crowd amid whistles and cheers, and he clapped and put his pinky and forefingers together in his mouth in a "V," and whistled loudest of all. It was nearly two in the morning and empty beer bottles were lined up all along the bar in front of him. Dense blue cigarette smoke filled the room like a morning fog in a mountain valley back home, and it burned his eyes so badly he had to squint. The waitress brought him another round without being asked, and he could barely hear her over the din of clinking glasses and rising, drunken voices. Suddenly, an expectant hush fell over the crowded room, and he looked around, wobbling on his perch, half expecting to see the police raiding the place. The sound system crackled, and an announcer's voice broke into the silence; "Gentlemen, may I have your attention. The lady you have all been waiting for, the lady you have come here to see in all her splendid, beautiful, radiant glory is about to perform for your enjoyment. She has come to New Orleans by way of New York City, Chicago and Los Angeles. She has danced in the best and finest gentlemen's clubs in those fair cities and all across the country. We are indeed fortunate to have her here for this week, and this week only, for she has graciously consented to take time from her very busy appearance schedule to be with us here at this time. So, now, gentlemen, without further adieu, appearing by special invitation, I give you the queen of exotic dancers, the incomparable, the spectacular, the world renown, "Satin Sheets." Drums rolled and trumpets blared announcing "Satin's" grand entrance, and, then, there she was, stepping through the beaded curtain into the spot light at the end of the runway and in that instant their eyes met through the fog and time stopped; she looked straight into his eyes and into his soul, and he was swept away on an irresistible wave of adoration. Rhinestones and sequins glittered, sparkling and throwing off flashing splinters of light like lightning bolts. Thunderous applause erupted instantly as the crowd leapt to its' feet and cheered. He sat rooted to his seat, transfixed by wonderment, as Satin shimmied down the runway and into his life. He drunkenly believed that she danced only for him and ignored the catcalls and caterwauling of the rowdy spectators around him. He gulped his beers without taking his eyes off of her, and when she dropped her pink panties in his lap, he snatched them up and stuffed them inside his shirt next to his racing heart, and the scent of her perfume intoxicated him even more than the beer. He returned the next night and the next, tipping the barker with hundred dollar bills to obtain his usual seat, and by the third night she recognized him and they spoke. Between sets, she led him to a couch in a secluded corner, and he bought her drinks at outrageous prices, and she danced for him alone, and let him worship her silky skin with trembling fingers. He returned every night, and they talked, and he told her of the pallet mill and the loneliness of life in a small town, and she told him that his story touched her for she had longed for a life away from the lights and the hot screams of drunken lechers. Toward dawn at the end of the week, she came to him for one last dance, and, while she undulated over his lap, she put her hand between his legs and she felt his longing. She kissed him on the mouth and whispered she would come to him if he gave her his room key. They stayed together, in his hotel suite, for three days and nights, and on the fourth day they flew to Las Vegas and were married in a little wedding chapel in the shadow of the Desert Sands. They had been giddy with new love and champagne, and she had giggled when the Justice of the Peace pushed the application for a wedding license across his desk for her to complete and sign. She whispered to Jerry that "Satin Sheets" probably wouldn't do, especially if word got out back home, and he told her to make up another, if her real name didn't suit her, so she thought for a minute and then wrote down "Nancy Hardwick," because she had remembered a boy she had made some adult films with when she was younger, who had gone by the name "Randy Hardwick," and she had liked both the name and the boy. The boy was long gone now, but his name lingered in her memory, and she took some of it for her own. After the ceremony, he took her home by way of St. Louis, where he bought her a new wardrobe and a hairdo to ease her anxiety over adjusting to her new life. It was difficult in the early years because she was raw and unpolished, and the wives in town eyed her suspiciously because they sensed she knew more about their husbands than they did, but in time she melded seamlessly with the community, and with her help Jerry got himself elected mayor, and she became a pillar of the community. Together, she and the mayor established the Hardwick School for Boys, which, using a little creative revision of her ancestry, she let out was named after her grandfather, Archibald Hardwick, who was a semi-famous educator in his own right. "Hmmmm," Nancy murmured, reverting to her "Satin Sheets" persona, as Jerry's fingers slipped under her robe and stroked her naked flesh, "Mayor's gonna be a little late for work this morning. Want a lap dance to get your day started, baby?" "Oh shit," he gasped with a start. He glanced at his watch for an instant and reluctantly withdrew his hand from under her robe. "I can't, darn it. I'm due at a meeting in fifteen minutes, and it's important; those people from that outfit I told you about, the one that's looking to relocate, are flying into town for a few days to see what sort of concessions we're willing to give them to set up their operations here. We're meeting this morning to get started. This could be really big for us, baby; I'm talking half a billion in investments right here." "Too bad, baby," she pouted as her fingers toyed with the zipper to his fly. "Business before pleasure though. Do we stand to make any money out of this deal?" "God, yes. You can't imagine how much, baby. They're going to need about a thousand acres for starters, and Briggs and I have already started putting together some tracts for them. We're optioning swamps and rundown farms real cheap, figuring we'll be able to flip `em for a fortune within six months." "Oooo, baby, I love it when you talk smart like that about makin money. You think you're gonna need some help with the deal from my bridge club; we can be pretty persuasive, you know?" "Sure we will, darlin. Your girls are indispensable, but not this morning. Today, it's all business and no play. Guess I'll be a dull boy but a rich one at least." "Rich is good, honey," she purred, giving him a loving squeeze through the fabric of his pants. "Remember what we used to say in the business, don't you; the thicker the wallet, the bigger the dick." "I remember," he laughed, "Trust me, baby, when this deal is done, my wallet's gonna be so thick, my cock'll make Archie's look like a midget's prick by comparison." "Ooooooo, baby," she cooed, "I can't wait. When's this going to happen?" "Never," Jerry snorted, glancing at his watch again, "if I'm late for the meeting this morning." "Scoot then, Mister soon-to-be-filthy-rich Mayor," she said, pushing him away with a laugh. "Since you're going to be tied up for a while, if you have no objections, I think I'll have Imogene Justice over for lunch on Wednesday and check her out for the bridge club." He frowned slightly, visualizing the Headmaster and his wife. "You think she's ready for you girls? She seems a little too proper to fit with that group, if you know what I mean." "I have a hunch she'll be just fine, but we'll see how the audition goes; if she works out, she's in, if not, well, no great loss." "Go for it darlin, I trust your judgement. You haven't let me down yet." "Thanks, hun," she smiled at him as he headed out of the room. He reached the doorway as she remembered and called out, "Say, did you have a chance to find out what was wrong with that camera over the couch in the playroom?" "Yeah, baby. Greg came over and checked it out. Drive motor was burned out. He fixed it, and it's working fine now; shouldn't give you any more problems." "OK. Thanks honey; good luck with the meeting." As soon as he left, Nancy reached for the phone and dialed the Justice's number. Imogene answered midway through the first ring, a little too eagerly Nancy thought; she must have known her invitations were delivered yesterday and was hovering by the phone for the RSVP's to begin. "Hello?" Imogene's voice was surprisingly low and throaty, almost sensual, like a torch singer's voice, not at all what might be expected from such a tall, slender woman. "Imogene, my dear, its Nancy Farber." "Ohhhh, Mrs. Farber," Imogene gasped. Nancy smiled at the young woman's reaction and reached for the invitation, which was lying on the counter beside the phone base. "Please, darling, its just Nancy," she replied warmly. "Yes, ma'am," Imogene gulped and then immediately corrected herself, "I mean, Nancy." "Good girl," Nancy answered genuinely. "I have been hoping we could become friends, and I've been meaning to invite you up to lunch, but things got so crazy during the election and all..." "Oh, me too, I mean, oh." Imogene's voice broke, betraying her excitement, and Nancy struggled to keep from chuckling. “And, this morning, darling, I opened your lovely invitation to tea, and it reminded me that I hadn't been neighborly at all, and that with the election and everything, I had completely neglected you, and I am soooooo sorry, so I decided that I would just give you a call and see if you were free for lunch Wednesday." "Oh, no, you haven't, you didn't do..., I mean, you don't have to apologize, I mean the election was so exciting, and..." Imogene was becoming a little rattled; Nancy's call and the invitation to lunch were so unexpected, she was totally unprepared to deliver a coherent response. "Oh, yes, it was, wasn't it," Nancy replied soothingly. "Even Jerry's being unopposed didn't detract from the excitement, did it?" "Uhhh,” Imogene gurgled. Nancy could sense Imogene's wheels spinning futilely for traction on that notion and covered the phone with her hand to smother the sound of her laughter. "Oh good then, you'll be available for lunch Wednesday, won't you, darling?" Nancy resumed smoothly. "Oh, oh, yes, of course, I would love to, Nancy." "Wonderful, Imogene, that's wonderful. How does noonish look for you?" "Good. Noon is good," Imogene replied without hesitation. "Marvelous, darling. We'll have cocktails first, and then do lunch, if that sounds good to you. I mean, you do like a cocktail or two at lunch, don't you?" "Cocktails? Uh, oh, yes, sure. I love cocktails at lunch." Nancy grinned. Imogene's lack of sophistication was pouring through her facade like sunshine through a moth-eaten curtain. "Oh wonderful, my dear; I just knew you were a kindred spirit," she gushed at the dazzled girl. Then, she lowered her voice and continued conspiratorially, "But you won't tell anybody about the cocktails, will you; that'll be our little secret, OK? You know how small-minded people around here can be about things like that, I'm sure." "Oh, of course, Nancy," Imogene whispered, "I won't breathe a word." "I had a feeling I could count on you, sweetie," Nancy responded. "I will see you around noon on Wednesday. Put me on your calendar, so you don't forget." "I won't forget, I promise. It sounds wonderful, and I'm sooooooo excited, I just can't wait." "Me too, honey. See you then." Nancy broke the connection and laid the phone on the counter. She pulled her robe tightly around her and retied the belt at the waist, smiling smugly and thinking about Imogene's reaction. Well, she congratulated herself, that went well, even better than she had expected. The poor girl was so shocked and excited, she was nearly incoherent. If she had been told to strip naked and drive right over, she would have been pulling into the drive before Nancy had time to hang up the phone. It didn't look like she was going to present any problems at all on Wednesday and after that, well, the videos'll keep her manageable. Nancy picked the phone up again and keyed a number to dial from the phone's memory. An answering machine picked up on the fifth ring; a gravelly male voice intoned abruptly, "Caruthers. Leave a message." Nancy cleared her throat self-consciously and began speaking to the recorder, "Nadeen, honey, it's me. I was just calling to be sure you guys were on schedule to bring them pictures of our new teacher up here to the school for Rufus this week. I still can't believe Archie recognized her from them old videos you sold us; sometimes that boy is just amazing, but I guess you all knew that already. Anyway, I'm trying to coordinate some things on my end, and I didn't want to get too far ahead of you. I just invited Rufus Justice's foxy little wife up here to have lunch with me next Wednesday, so I can audition her for the bridge club and get some candid video shots of her and Archie, just in case she gets wise to the fact her hubby's getting into little Annie’s hot pants. Just let me know today or tomorrow if there's a problem, OK?" She paused to think for a second, "Oh yeah, Archie said to tell you `hi;' he can't wait to get together with you again. Bye now, love ya girl." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 11 Wednesday dawned bright and clear. Nancy was mildly thankful, since she wasn't sure Imogene's car could climb their hill if the road was wet. She bathed and washed her hair, and switched the TV on to watch Jerry Springer, while she shaved her legs and her nail polish dried. She fixed a Screwdriver with just a light splash of vodka to sip on while Jerry roasted a couple of fat cousins, who, for no readily apparent reason, were fighting over some grungy, deadbeat, scrawny twerp, who, it turned out, had been fucking them both and a boy who worked in the detail shop in the garage under his apartment. The vodka made Jerry's guests tolerable and made her feel laid back and mellow. Around eleven, the van from the Galloping Gourmet catering company pulled up and the delivery boy brought lunch to the door. She had ordered a shrimp and crab salad with honey glazed croissants and a raspberry compote desert. She unpacked the plates from the white delivery boxes and put them into the refrigerator, thinking as she did so, that they were lovely to look at, but it was questionable whether she and Imogene would actually get down to eating lunch. She smiled, thinking about the upcoming audition and figured that she and Jerry could enjoy the lunches later in any event. She dressed in a relaxed, uptown casual style, in a white, long sleeved, silk blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons and a snug but reasonably modest, pleated, navy, wool skirt with a hemline that hit her just a few inches above the knee. She slipped barefooted into a pair of high heeled, navy pumps, and stepped to the mirror for a quick look at herself just as the doorbell rang on the precise stroke of noon. She fluffed her hair with her fingers, giving herself just a hint of disarray, and quickly loosened the top two buttons of her blouse to expose some cleavage. Nancy opened the door and, giving her guest a lingering lookover, smiled appreciatively. Imogene was standing on the porch anxiously massaging her handbag with black-gloved hands, and looking a little like a deer caught in the headlights. She was wearing a short-waisted, chinchilla jacket over a black satin cocktail dress, which was slit up one side nearly to her waist. A cascade of pink and red roses had been embroidered exquisitely onto the front of the dress beginning just below the plunging neckline and continuing uninterrupted to the hem. That hemline probably would have been low enough on someone not quite as tall as Imogene, but on her, Nancy observed with interest, it was obviously going to make sitting modestly very difficult. "Imogene, darling," Nancy said warmly, her mild twang betraying her Arkansas origins. She extended her hand, "You look absolutely wonderful. Please do come in." "Thank you," the young woman answered, taking Nancy's hand hesitantly, "I hope I'm not overdressed." "Not at all, honey. You look pretty as a picture. Here, come on in and let me take your jacket." "Thanks," the girl replied stepping into the foyer and turning to allow Nancy to help her remove the jacket. While Nancy hung up her coat, Imogene glanced around the formal, marbled entryway and into the living areas beyond. A pair of massive white pillars rising from intricately carved, green, travertine plinths gave definition to the entry and dramatically framed the view through the living room to a wall of arched, multi-paned windows overlooking the town in the valley below. Nancy had been emphatic when describing what she wanted to the architect Jerry had brought up from Memphis to design their house; she wanted a room just like the Jungle Room at Graceland, but with windows and a view, and he fulfilled her requirements admirably. "OhmyGod," Imogene gasped when her eyes adjusted to the change in light. "This place is fantastic." "It is a nice view, isn't it," Nancy responded modestly, "but let me look at you, honey." Nancy lifted the girl's hand above her head and led her in a slow, full circle pirouette. The skirt flared slightly as she turned, exposing a shapely, tanned, bare thigh to well above the pantyline, and Nancy guessed that she was either wearing a thong or nothing at all. A single band of black satin began at the waist in the front of the dress, gathered in a pleated satin cup to partly cover one breast, then continued up, around her neck and back down to another pleated satin cup and then on to the waist on the opposite side. It was an ingeniously fashioned halter-top, which looked like an hourglass with the narrow neck, which separated the opposing halves, passing behind her neck and the globes at opposite ends just covering the swelling mounds of her breasts in front. Her back was completely bare just to the point where her buttocks began to slope outward and the cleavage of her backside was only barely revealed. "Wheweeee, honey, that's some dress," Nancy whistled appreciatively, making a mental note to give Maxine a special thanks at the next bridge club meeting, "Does Rufus know you're going out in daylight dressed in that outfit?" "Rufus hasn't seen it yet," the girl blushed. "Do you really like it?" "Honey," Nancy began solicitously, placing her arm around Imogene's shoulders, "on you, with your figure, it looks spectacular. I always admire a woman who can wear a dress as sexy as that one and still carry herself with style." "It's too sexy?" Imogene declared anxiously, screwing up her face with concern and self-consciously covering the bare expanse of skin below her throat with her hand. "Nonsense, my dear. It's perfect." Nancy gently pulled the girl's hand away from her bosom. A mantle of crimson colored Imogene's neck and bare chest and was creeping up her face. "Now, shame on me, I've promised you a cocktail, and all I've done is make you blush. Come on with you; let's see if I can get to the liquor cabinet and make amends." Nancy took the woman's hand and led her into the living room. "Here," she said, gesturing toward a gigantic curved couch covered in pearl white damask with pink, tasseled antimacassars aligned at precise intervals along the back cushions and on the arms. "Have a seat, and I'll fix you up in a jiffy. How does a Martini sound?" "Hmmm," the girl hummed enthusiastically, trying to sound worldly beyond the reach of her experience. In truth, she hadn't tasted a Martini in her life. "I would love a Martini." She settled into the soft cushions of the couch and crossed her legs at the knee. The hem of her skirt rode up dangerously, and she tugged at it ineffectually and glanced nervously in Nancy's direction. "Martini it is, then, my dear. I'll make it a double ‘cause you deserve one since I embarrassed you so badly a minute ago." Imogene struggled to master her growing feeling of inadequacy as her eyes swept the sumptuous surroundings. Gone-with-the-Wind lamps with beaded shades in a rainbow of hues and Venetian glass blended with teak and oak and a myriad of other imported woods, and converged on an immense Italian marble fireplace in the corner beside the wall of arched windows, which she had glimpsed from the foyer. A set of matching Eames chairs flanked the hearth, and to one side, in a pool of light from a series of spotlights recessed in the ceiling high above, there stood an alabaster replica of the statue of Aphrodite, who seemed to be beckoning to an equally imposing statue of David across the room. Three enormous, stunning, Persian rugs stretched out across the expanse of hardwood flooring, and Imogene squirmed uncomfortably and prayed that Nancy had not seen the tatty imitation she had bought for Rufus' office. "Here we are darling," Nancy interrupted her inspection. "Shaken, not stirred, and dry too, barely a whisper of Vermouth; just the way Double "O" Seven liked them." Nancy handed her the drink and sat down on the couch at some distance around the curve from Imogene, so that they were more or less sitting at right angles. "Oooo, thanks," Imogene answered accepting the goblet of clear, chilled gin. She eyed uncertainly the red plastic sword skewering three marinating, pimento-stuffed olives, which was resting against the side of her glass, and was relieved when Nancy fished a similar sword out of her own glass and stripped the olives from the blade with her teeth. She imitated her hostess and immediately the tart tang of olive commingled in her mouth with the faint flavor of juniper from the gin making her grimace. Nancy smiled knowingly and leaned slightly toward the inexperienced woman, extending her glass toward her, "Cheers, darling; here's to a long and happy friendship and to the first of what I hope will be many memorable luncheons." "Oh, yes, I'll drink to that," the girl bubbled ecstatically. She leaned toward Nancy, reaching to tap her glass lightly against Nancy's in the empty space between them. It was an awkward stretch because Nancy hadn't met her half way, and the movement caused the fabric of her dress to fall forward briefly exposing her smallish breasts to Nancy's view. Oh, Maxine, you are a dear friend, Nancy chuckled to herself as she craftily moved her glass away to prolong the moment. They thrust and parried with their goblets briefly, and she glimpsed the girl's softly rounded mounds and their tiny vermilion tips jiggling with the movement of her arm. Hmmmm, she thought, she'll do quite nicely, and then, abandoning the ruse with a soft laugh, she allowed Imogene's glass to brush her own with a gentle clink. Imogene righted herself and lifted her glass to her lips. Nancy watched the girl expectantly as she poured a liberal quantity of the drink into her mouth and swallowed. Imogene hesitated for a heartbeat, then another; her eyes widened, a touch of flame singed the outer edges of her ears, and her shoulders jerked back reflexively. She coughed and covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She gulped to flush the foreign taste from her mouth, and wanted to die from embarrassment. "Oh dear," Nancy breathed soothingly. She waved a napkin toward the girl more to distract her than to fan her flushed face. "The first swallow always does that to me, too," she volunteered reassuringly. "OhmyGod, I'm sooooo sorry; some of it must have gone down the wrong way," Imogene gasped. "Take another swallow; it'll help, I promise." Imogene raised the glass cautiously, eyeing the innocuous looking liquid like it had turned to flaming motor oil. "Go ahead," Nancy encouraged. "It won't bite you a second time." Already the girl could feel the numbing effects of the first sip, and her breaths were coming more easily. Her lips felt full, tingly and sensuous, and she licked them tentatively to confirm the effect. She brought the glass to her lips again and sipped a drop or two. The taste filled her senses instantly but less jarringly, and she gulped in relief. "See?" Nancy smiled knowingly. Imogene nodded and dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her cocktail napkin. "All better, already," the older woman grinned soothingly. "Take another sip and you'll be fine, honey." Imogene struggled to bring the glass to her lips a third time. Good lord, don't let me make a complete fool of myself, she prayed inwardly. I can do this, she thought as she bravely raised the glass. The rim caressed her full, pouting lower lip, and she closed her eyes. She tilted her head back and lifted the stem. A trickle of fire ran across her tongue and down her throat warming her neck and breasts as it flowed toward her belly. Her head swam slightly, and she lowered the glass without opening her eyes. "See, darling, it's not so bad, is it? Just about like swallowing cum, isn't it? At first you're not too crazy about the idea, but after you try it a few times, it ain't so bad after all, isn't that right?" Imogene was concentrating on mastering the art of martini drinking, and, so, Nancy's ribald comment failed to completely register. Her lips felt thickened and hot, and a flush of warm well-being was spreading into her fingers and toes. She blinked and looked blankly at Nancy, who was smiling at her expectantly. "Huh?" she said vacantly. "Oh my goodness, look at you, your glass is empty already. Be still and I'll pour you another," Nancy answered unresponsively. "I'm sorry. What did you say?" Imogene asked, obediently surrendering her empty glass. "I said, `I'll pour you another,'" Nancy replied as she stepped toward the wet bar. "No, no," Imogene said shaking her head. "Before that?" "Ohhhhh, that!" Nancy laughed over her shoulder as she shook the silver martini shaker. "I said that drinking martinis is a lot like sucking cock and swallowing cum; it gets better with practice." "Oooooooo," the girl answered, blushing furiously. She was unaccustomed to such talk and certainly never dreamed that Mrs. Farber would be so, uh, uh, "earthy." "What's the matter, honey? Did I embarrass you again?" Nancy returned to the couch with a fresh drink for the speechless girl. "I guessed that was your first martini, but I sure didn't figure you to be a virgin in the cock-sucking department." "I, uh, uh," the girl stammered hopelessly and stared into the bottom of the glass Nancy had returned to her, praying to glimpse a vision of her future taking shape in the shimmering depths. She took a sip for strength, a gulp, actually, and calming bliss soared on juniper wings to warm her soul. Nancy's brash words rang in her ears and chiseled at the walls restraining her memories. Men, she thought, hot men, hard, taut with need for her, yearning for her and begging, then filling her, squirting their love into her and flooding her with their warmth. Her lips thickened, and her tongue restlessly searched the crevices of her mouth for remnants of those treasured pilgrimages to the temple of lust. Oh no, no virgin, she, and she fumbled in the dark edges of her mind for the crumbs of courage she required to proclaim her experience. "Oh, never mind, that was impolite of me, darling. I guess I tend to be a little forward, don't I?" "Oh, no, not at all," Imogene protested, recovering some of her composure. "It's alright, really, I don't mind." She took another sip of her drink. Lord, she hadn't known what to expect from this luncheon invitation. It was more than she had ever hoped for, and she had wanted to be prepared. She had confided her luncheon invitation to Maxine, who, of course, had talked her into the cocktail dress, telling her about the fabulous, wild and crazy parties Nancy and Jerry threw up there in the "castle on the hill," and how important it was for her to make a sexy, sophisticated first impression on Nancy. Maxine had fitted the dress herself and let her have it at cost, she said, and still it set her back six hundred dollars. As she signed the charge slip and prepared to leave, Maxine called her to the back, into one of the fitting rooms, and put her hands on her shoulders and looked her right in the eye. She said, "Imogene, you're a sweet girl, and I like you. You remind me of myself not many years ago; I was struggling to get a start in the world and didn't really have a clue about how to go about it. I've learned a lot since then, so let me give you a little advice. This is your big chance to make something of yourself. You won't get many chances in life and you surely won't get another from Nancy Farber, so don't blow this one. What ever she says, what ever she tells you to do, you go along with her and make her happy. Understand? I've been friends with her for nearly ten years, honey, and it's cost me some, but it's paid me ten million times what it's cost. When I met her, I was just like you; I didn't have two nickels to rub together in my pocket. Now, I have a ski chalet in Aspen and a villa in Provence, believe it or not, and the only reason I'm still working in the shop is because I enjoy making pretty women like you look sexy as hell. Everything I have in the world I owe to Jerry and Nancy Farber, everything. They let me in on deals that most people only read about in the papers years after the deal's done and shake their heads and say `oh, Jeez, I wish that was me done that.' You listen to me, now, cause I'm telling you exactly how it is up there on the hill. You make her happy and she'll reward your friendship beyond your wildest dreams; you let her down and you won't hear from her again, or any of her friends either and there are a bunch of them. She won't be rude or hateful or anything like that, you'll just cease to exist as far as she's concerned. You'll continue to scrape by, getting nowhere, buying clothes you can't afford, to wear to parties you aren't invited to attend, and you'll go through the rest of your life looking up from way off at the lights flickering on top of that hill. Only difference between you and the little match girl will be that you will know exactly why you're on the outside looking in, instead of being on the inside looking out. It's all up to you from here on, honey. I've done my part, you're dynamite in that dress, if I do say so. You can thank me after your luncheon." "Oh, I think you do mind, honey," Nancy rejoined sounding less frivolous. "Perhaps I overestimated our similarities, my dear." Her tone was brittle, like thinning ice at the edge of a pond. Imogene squirmed uneasily. This was turning ominous quickly; exactly what she had determined to avoid at any cost. Maxine made perfect sense; you get one chance and you don't blow it. She took another gulp of fire. "I just misunderstood you for a second, Nancy. I guess I was choking and not listening. I've got a lot more experience than you give me credit for, I bet." "Oh, you do, do you? My, my, this may be an interesting lunch after all." Nancy grinned and scooted toward the young woman. She reached out and patted Imogene's bare knee knowingly and whispered, "Go ahead, you can tell me all about it." Imogene took another gulp and drained her glass. Nancy ignored it, and waited. Imogene squirmed her hips into the cushion, fidgeting as the liquor worked it's magic. "I, uh, did it lots of times." "Really?" Nancy's brows were arching skeptically. "Oh yes, lots." "Tell me about one. Which one was your favorite?" "Oh, gosh, I don't know." "I bet it wasn't old Rufus, now was it, honey. Hell, I bet that stuff shirt just pushes his pants down and fucks with his tie and socks on, doesn't he?" Nancy roared with laughter at the image she created and patted Imogene's knee happily. Imogene forced a chuckle and squirmed deeper into the cushions. She looked at Nancy, desperate for a hint of intent. She didn't know whether to defend her husband or participate in the ridicule. Gin muddled her thoughts and slowed her responses. Rufus' image floated into her mind, and she giggled. "Ohhhhhh nooooo, Nancy, you got Rufus all wrong. He's not like that at all, really." "Don't lie to me, honey, I know better." "No, really, I'm not lying, honest. Most of the time he doesn't even take off his pants." "Eoooweeeee," Nancy howled with laughter. She rocked on the couch, spilling her drink and gleefully slapping Imogene's knee with her palm. "Oh God," she sputtered between peals of laughter, "the headmaster does it with his pants on. That's too much. Too, too much. Honey, if I was you, I'd bite him next time he did that to me." "Maybe I will," she replied laughing and inching her leg away just enough to discourage further pounding. Nancy recovered enough to continue, but she had laughed so hard tears had run down her cheeks, and her mascara was beginning to run. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and said, "Lordy, you are funny girl, and I do like a girl with a sense of humor. I guess I must look awful, so I'll go powder my nose, and you help yourself to another martini. They're in the shaker by the sink. When I get back, I want to hear all about your best one, OK?" No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 11 "Sure, Nancy," she said, relieved that she would have a few minutes to gather herself. Nancy left and Imogene refilled her glass at the bar. She turned and stepped toward her seat on the couch, but her toe snagged on the edge of one of the carpets and she stumbled. She caught herself with a hand on the arm of the couch and steadied her glass without spilling the contents. Whoa, girl, she thought, feet are getting a little wobbly; better go easy on the sauce. She took a tiny sip to calm her nerves and walked cautiously toward the windows. She spotted the highway leading out of town and followed it out to the school, where, she could imagine, Rufus was toiling diligently to bring learning to the "heatherns." She giggled at the thought of his dreary little office so many light years away from where she was standing, and thought it was like being in two separate worlds at the same time, and she knew which world she was born to. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Nancy's soft voice startled her. She had returned, soundlessly, and had materialized by her side before she realized it. "Yes," she breathed wistfully, "and so far away." "I know," Nancy replied softly. She slipped her arm around Imogene's slender waist and drew her close by her side. "Far away and far beneath, honey. I like it that way. Up here, I can do anything I like, but, down there, they have rules and regulations that tie you up and lock you down. Up here, the only rules are my rules, and the only rule I have is to have fun." "I lish, like, that rule," Imogene declared thickly. Martini tongue was beginning to set in. "You don't know what I think is fun, yet." "I know I'll love ish, it, too." "Do you now? We'll see about that in a little while, but first, you tell me about your best time, so I'll know what you think is fun." Imogene glanced toward Nancy uncertainly. Her head was swimming a little, and she felt tipsy, but she felt safe and warm, and Nancy's arm around her waist was reassuring. Nancy had hugged her while they talked and looked from the windows, and she felt the woman's fingers lightly stroking the bare skin of her hip through the slit in her dress. Surely to God, she isn't going to make a pass at me, she thought, ‘cause if she is, I'm gonna have to have a whole lot of martinis to get through that. She took another gulp to steel herself, just in case Nancy's hand got any more inquisitive, and she willed herself to remain passive. "Ummhuh," she coughed, clearing her throat to begin. "I expect this will surprise you, heck, ish, it, may even shock you, but who knows." "I can't wait to hear about it, hon." "He was a third year law student. We were in the same business law class at the law school." "Really?" Nancy asked with a note of surprise. "I didn't know you went to law school." "Oh, I didn't. I was in undergraduate school at the time. One of my professors thought it would be good for me to take a couple of courses at the law school, sort of broaden my horizons." "I can imagine that," Nancy responded wryly. Imogene failed to detect the sarcasm and continued. "He was sooooooo smart; everybody said he was the smartest one there. He was Law Review and everything and made straight "A's" just about the whole time. And, he was cute too, really handsome, with coal black hair and dark, Italian looking eyes, that could look right through you into the back of your mind and read your thoughts, or so I imagined whenever I noticed him looking at me in class." "Nice combination, hon; brains and looks; so how'd you get together with him?" "I was nearly flunking the darn course; I had no idea that stuff was so hard and I wasn't prepared. It was midway through the course, and I was getting desperate for tutoring or something, so I figured if I could get him to help me understand some of it, I might learn enough to get a passing grade." "Go on." "Well, I knew that he spent all his time out of class in the stacks above the main floor of the law library. It was pretty much common knowledge that he got to the school real early in the morning and set up shop in a little cubbyhole on the fourth floor where there was a window and a table. He had a typewriter up there and typed up his classnotes every day after class, and spent nearly all the time he wasn't in class up there studying. Everybody knew his schedule and pretty much left him alone up there, sort of respecting his privacy, cause they all knew how intense he was about being first in his class and all. He had it all figured out, you know, when to graduate so he would be at the top of the class and had even arranged his schedule so he wouldn't have to graduate at the same time as a couple of his classmates, who were competing with him for number one and were giving him fits." "And?" Nancy grumbled at the digression. "Oh, yeah," Imogene continued, shaking her head in a futile attempt to clear the cobwebs from her brain. "So, I decided to go up there and ask him to help me with the course, but I didn't just want to barge in on him and all, so I tried to think of some excuse for being up there, so, if we struck up a conversation, I could sort of hint that I needed help. Anyway, I had heard some of the students joking and laughing about a case that was in one of the books up there in the stacks where he hung out. It was a case about a criminal trial for statutory rape, and it was supposedly in a volume called ‘Twelve Southern Seconds,’ or something like that. "One afternoon, when I knew he didn't have any more classes that day, I went up into the stacks looking for that case. I couldn't believe what it was like getting up there; I had to climb and climb three flights of tiny, spiral steel stairs, it was like climbing to the top of a lighthouse, and, when I finally got there, it looked like an attic that had been filled up with bookshelves. There were rows and rows of them with hundreds of books, mostly in sets, and some of them were over two hundred years old. There were only a few, dim, light bulbs hanging from wires about every third row of bookcases, and it was dark and musty, and I nearly lost my nerve, ‘cause I thought nobody in their right mind would want to spend their time up there all alone. Anyway, he must have heard me rummaging around, `cause I heard his typewriter stop, and pretty soon he came around the end of one of the stacks and asked me what I was doing up there. I lied and told him the business law professor had given me the assignment of finding the volume 12 So. 2nd, and bringing it to him. He looked at me real funny for a minute and then laughed, and said, `He must be playing a joke on you, girl; everybody school knows about that case.' I guess I blushed, and he could see it, even in that poor light, and he laughed again when I told him I was only doing what I was told. He asked me if I always did what I was told, and I said pretty much, and he said in that case, the book I was looking for was three stacks over. He led me to it and pulled it off the shelf. It was funny because that volume was nearly worn out, but all the others in the series were just like new. The markings on the spine were nearly rubbed off from being handled so much, and the binding was frayed and nearly broken. He brought me over to his desk by the window and set the book on its spine. He let go of it, and it instantly fell open to exactly the right page. `There,' he said, `read it for yourself,' and he pulled out his chair for me to sit down. I started reading and was amazed. It was about a statutory rape all right, about an old guy who had been caught fooling around with a couple of young girls. The judge who had written the decision had a pretty good time describing everything that the three of them did, and he got into some very graphic details about all sorts of oral sex. I guess it would have passed for porn if it wasn't in a law book, it was that steamy. I know I was blushing and breathing pretty hard by the time I reached the end of the decision, and when I looked up he was staring at me. I was embarrassed, of course, and said that was some story, and he said, `yes it was,' and admitted he read it pretty often himself. Then, he looked at me hard and said that he didn't believe our professor wanted to look at the book, and I felt pretty foolish. He asked why I really was there, and I broke down and told him I was about to flunk the course and thought he might be willing to help me. He thought for a minute, glancing from the book to me and back and then he said real low, `I'll help you, Gene,' that's what they called me then, `and you can help me.' I guess I looked at him funny, and then I said, `what can I do to help you, you're number one in the class?' He didn't say a word; he just bent down and kissed me full on the lips, and I was so surprised that I didn't know what to do, but I let him kiss me, and he kept doing it, and I felt his tongue pressing against my lips, and I opened my mouth a little, and he started French kissing me. He was so strong and kissed so good, and his lips were so soft and sensual, I felt dizzy and weak all over, and he grabbed me by the shoulders and lifted me out of the chair and pulled me to him, kissing me all the time, and I leaned against him, and I could feel him pressing between my legs. He was hard and thick, and I could feel him through my dress, and I knew what he wanted. I felt scared and excited at the same time and was powerless to stop him. His hands slipped down my back, and he squeezed my butt and pulled me hard toward him, and he started rubbing himself on me. I was breathing hard by then ‘cause it felt good, him rubbing me, and I couldn't do anything to break away or anything, and he started thrusting his tongue into my mouth, like he was doing it to me with his tongue, and I don't know what came over me then, but I made a little circle around his tongue with my lips, and I started moving my mouth back and forth on his tongue, sort of suggestively. We did that for a minute or two, and I could feel myself getting hot and excited, and I was wondering what I was going to do, and all of a sudden he was pushing down on my shoulders, and he pushed me down into his chair. He was standing right in front of me, looking at me, and I looked up at him and licked my lips, cause they were tingling from where his tongue had been rubbing them. I guessed it was my fault, that I gave him the idea or something, because he unzipped his pants without saying a word, and he reached in and pulled out his, ah, ah..." Nancy caught herself just as the word formed on her own lips, and resisted the urge to supply the word the girl was struggling to utter. Let her deal with it, she thought, hugging her comfortingly as the young woman grappled with her secrets. Imogene shivered as the memories spilled from her lips; Nancy's fingertips fluttered on her bare thigh through the gap in her skirt but failed to distract her. She stared in a trance into the void beyond the windowpanes, her eyes half-closed and unfocused, as a flood of memories and sensations flowed into her brain. Her skin warmed, a blush of hot pink tinged her cheeks, and she breathed with shallow, breathless gasps as she relived those tense moments from her past. "Ah, thing," she continued, and Nancy was relieved that the girl's struggles hadn't interrupted the stream of her memories. Imogene hesitated, allowing the memory to crystallize, and then she plunged ahead. "It was so big and hard; I was amazed and afraid, but it was beautiful, too, and he was pointing it right at me. I was shaking, I was so scared, and I thought about running out of there, but, then, he said, `Suck it,' and pushed it toward me. I froze, and it brushed my lips, and I thought I was being burned. It was so hot and so smooth. His skin was softer than his lips had been, and I could feel his strength flowing into me through his touch. He brushed against my lips lightly, and my mouth was on fire. My hands were trembling so badly I had to hold on to my knees to control them, and I couldn't push him away even if I wanted to, but I didn't, and instead, I opened my lips a little and touched him with the tip of my tongue. His skin was sooooooo soft, it felt like velvet, and he smelled of soap, and I licked the opening in the end, and he said `Yessssss,' in a sort of long sigh. He nudged himself against my lips, and I wanted him; I wanted to feel him inside me, to taste him and lick him. I felt vulnerable and exposed, and I wanted to give myself to him, to please him, to make him feel good, so I opened wider, making an oval with my lips, and he pushed the head into my mouth. The texture was wonderful, and he filled my mouth up completely, and felt soooo hot and hard. I licked him with my tongue and tasted him, and it made me want him even more. I closed my lips around the shaft and sucked like a baby sucks a breast, and my cheeks collapsed around him, and my tongue stroked him while I nursed on him. He cupped my chin with his hand and pulled me toward him. I wanted to let him enter me deeper, but I was scared I would choke on him and I held back. I licked and sucked and moved my mouth back and forth on him, and I could feel his blood rushing and his pulse beating on my tongue. He was delicious, and I could feel him getting harder and harder, swelling up as I sucked him, and that made me want him even more. He was hunching toward me and running his fingers all through my hair, and I kept moving my head around so my mouth would rub him in different places and pretty soon I learned where he liked to be licked best, and I concentrated on that place, and he started getting really excited. He groaned and pulled my hair with his hands, and I knew he was getting close, and I wanted him more than anything. I wanted to take him all, to eat him up and make him beg for me, and I put my hand on him to guide him into my mouth and I held him there while I sucked him, and he wound his fingers in my hair and pulled me toward him, and I let him. I let him enter me like that, feeling him sliding past my lips and into my throat, and it was like I just opened up for him, and it didn't hurt or anything, and I didn't choke a bit, and it seemed like the most natural thing I had ever done. I held him while he pushed right down my throat and pulled out again, and when the head slipped out of my mouth, I gently bit it, chewing it playfully, and it made him squirt a little of his juice into my mouth. He tasted sweet and warm, and then he was pushing back in, and I took him all that time, and my face was buried in his pants for a minute, until he pulled out and did it again. He kept pushing it into my mouth and down my throat, you know, ah, ah, fucking my mouth, yes, that's it, fucking my mouth, and I kept sucking and licking, stroking his cock with my tongue and scraping him lightly with my teeth, and I was so excited and hot feeling him swelling in my mouth and getting ready to shoot his cum into me. He started moving faster and faster and jerking around, and I had to concentrate to keep his cock pointed at my mouth so he wouldn't miss, and he was so hard and rigid I thought he would split if he got any harder, and all of a sudden, he moaned, `I'm cumming,' and I pulled him into my mouth and held him there as he started to squirt. It was incredible, just amazing, and I felt overwhelmed with warmth and love and a sense of power, cause I knew that I had made him cum like that, and it was wonderful, and he kept squirting and I tasted him and gulped and swallowed and pulled him deeper, so he could shoot cum into my throat, and he could feel me gulping his cum and squirted even more. He was twitching and throbbing and shooting cum into my mouth, and I couldn't get enough of him, and I started moaning and stroking his cock and sucking it to make him cum some more, and he held my face between his hands and fucked me like I was some kind of rubber doll, and I had never felt anything like it, I had never done anything in my life that made me feel so..." The girl's words trailed off at the end like she had fallen asleep in mid-sentence, but Nancy had heard enough. "I could use a drink after that, how about you?" she said, attempting to break the spell. "Huh?" Imogene answered vacantly still staring out the window. She was holding her empty glass against her mouth, and was absentmindedly caressing her lower lip with the rim. "That was some story, honey, and I've developed a ferocious thirst listening to it; how about you?" "I, uh, yeah, I guess so," the girl answered vaguely, glancing down at her glass. "I can't believe I told you all that." She blushed and looked away, too embarrassed to meet Nancy's gaze. "I'm glad you did, Imogene," the older woman said gently, taking the glass from her hand. "I think sharing secrets brings people closer together, don't you?" "Yeah, but..." she began, "I talked too much." "Nonsense, darling, you were wonderful, open and sharing, and sexy as hell I might add, and I could tell you must have cared a lot about him." "Oh yeah, I did that." "Who was he? Did this boy have a name?" "Billy, Bill Billingsly." "Bill, huh? What happened to your Bill Billingsly after that; did he help you with the course?" "He did more than that. We started getting together in the stacks pretty regularly, and one thing led to another. He asked me to move in with him, and I did. We fell in love, and everything was wonderful. We were going to get married in the spring, after he graduated." "Well, what happened?" I mean, you're married to Rufus now, so what happened to Billy?" "I came home from school one afternoon, and he had moved out. The apartment was empty; he had taken everything, including my stereo and microwave and all of my CD collection." "That son of a bitch! He moved out without a word, nothing? Sounds like another woman to me." "I wish for his sake it had been, Nancy." "What's that supposed to mean; don't you hate him for leaving like that?" "Not really. Of course, I was devastated and distraught; I ran all the way to the law school to find out where he had gone. Everybody looked at me like I was some sort of lunatic, I guess, but finally one of his friends took me outside and told me what had happened. He told me Bill had been caught cheating, `plagiarizing,' on his papers, and that he had been doing it all along. One of his professors had recognized some paragraphs from an obscure law review article in one of his papers and checked it out, and, sure enough, he had copied the paragraphs word for word from the article. That professor told Bill's other professors, who also started checking, and pretty soon they had an air-tight case against him. They confronted him in the Dean's office and offered to let him withdraw from school on the condition that he would never seek admission at another law school or try to practice law anywhere. They had him dead to rights, and I guess he knew he had no options, so he just left, disappeared into thin air. I don't know if he was too ashamed to see me again or just didn't care, but he left without a word of explanation or regret. I never saw him or heard from him again." "Whew, darlin, that's a real tear-jerker. I guess I ought to apologize to you for making you remember it." "No, no, that's ok. I don't mind really. It was a long time ago and whatever hurt he caused is long gone now, but I still remember the good times." "I'll say you do," Nancy grinned at her, while she shook another batch of martinis in the silver shaker. "I thought you were going to cum just talking about it." "Ohhhhh," Imogene gasped, and her hands flew to cover her shame. "Oh God, there I go again, making you blush." Nancy's voice was almost motherly. "Here drink this, it'll make everything you don't like go away," she said pushing Imogene's brimming goblet across the bar toward her. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 11 Imogene lifted the glass and took a sip just as the sounds of the front door opening reached the two women. "Ahhhh, that'll be Archie, I imagine; he doesn't have classes this afternoon," Nancy said looking expectantly toward the foyer, and calling out, "oh, Archie, Archie, we're in the living room, honey, come in here, there's someone I want you to meet." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 12 Imogene auditions for the bridge club, or Modeling Lessons The timing of Archie's arrival could not have been less fortunate for Imogene. She was tottering on the verge of intoxication, and the cogent half of her brain was still lingering in the stacks sucking on Billy's thundering erection. Her memories and Nancy's stroking of her thigh had conspired to quicken her pulse and initiate a flow of warmth to her loins like an aphrodisiac. She knew her hand was trembling as she responded to the boy's proffered hand. "Oh sure, I know Mrs. Justice, mom; I've seen her at school and at the games a bunch of times." His hand closed around hers, surprising her with the strength of his grip. He held her hand in his without shaking it, and his eyes roved up and down her revealing dress in a blatant examination of her barely concealed curves, before he continued, "But, jeez, she sure didn't look this good." He was grinning salaciously, and, under other circumstances, she would have jerked her hand away indignantly, but her thoughts were muddled and she barely reacted. Her hand lay in his grip inertly. She blinked at him, and he swam in and out of fuzzy focus. He's kinda cute, she thought and tried to smile at him unself-consciously as his eyes settled on the deep "V" of her cleavage. Nancy, remaining behind the bar, went through the introductions perfunctorily, but she studied Imogene's reactions with keen interest. "I should have known you two knew each other already," she said blithely. Archie was clearly impressed with the dress; he was practically undressing the girl with his eyes, and Imogene, bless her tipsy little heart, was absolutely helpless to protest. Nothing like martinis and sexy talk to pull down the inhibitions and loosen things up, Nancy thought, congratulating herself on the ease with which Imogene's reserve seemed to be unraveling. Imogene's free hand brushed her hair back from her face, and she smiled at Archie bravely. Atta girl, Nancy thought as she measured the interaction between her son and the young woman. "You know, Archie, Imogene was just telling me how much she likes to suck cock, weren't you, dear?" Imogene jerked like she had been jabbed with a fork; her mouth shot open and her eyes nearly popped out as her head snapped toward the older woman. "That’s so cool!" Archie replied excitedly, maintaining his grip on Imogene's hand. "Nancy!" Imogene yelped in protest. "Well, that's what you said, wasn't it?" Nancy pressed. "You were telling the truth, weren't you?" "I, I, I," the girl sputtered. Suddenly, Archie laughed and patted her hand. "Don't pay any attention to her, Mrs. Justice, she's just testing you; trying to see how tough you are, aren't you, mom?" "Archie! Shame on you; now you've gone and given me away," Nancy scowled. "See, Mrs. Justice? She does it all the time; says something shocking and then watches everybody's reaction. Gets her kicks that way. Well, that's one of her ways." "Don't you have something to be doing, young man?" Nancy said sternly. "Yeah, I guess so," he replied evenly, but then, releasing her hand finally, he continued, speaking to Imogene, "You're here to audition, I guess?" Imogene's head swiveled from one to the other as she tried to process the exchange. She looked at the boy blankly and responded, "Audition?" "Imogene and I haven't discussed `auditions' as yet, Archie," Nancy interrupted. "Oh!" Archie answered, "Well, I guess I got home a little early, then. I'll leave you guys to talk or whatever. I'm gonna take a shower." "That sounds like an excellent idea, sonny; I can smell gymnasium from here." Nancy was grinning smugly; things were progressing nicely. Archie winked suggestively at Mrs. Justice and said in a stage whisper, "Y'all have fun, now, ya hear; maybe I'll see you later," and walked out of the room leaving the speechless woman staring after him. When he was gone, Nancy sighed and shook her head. "That boy, Imogene, sometimes I don't know what I'm gonna do with him, you know? Did you see the way he was looking at you and that dress?" "Nancy!" Imogene blushed. Of course, she had noticed; what woman wouldn't notice being drooled over. Reactions like that were worth every penny of the six hundred dollars she paid for the dress. She hadn't been looked at like that in years, and she had come to miss the sensation of being so obviously attractive. It felt good, she mused drunkenly, being ogled, even by a kid, well, not exactly a kid. "Lord, if I didn't know him better, honey, I'd think he was about to tear your clothes off and fuck your brains out right here in front of his mommy." Nancy was smiling wickedly, and the word "fuck" cracked in the air like the snap of a bullwhip. "Oh God, I need a drink," Imogene gasped. She lunged for her glass and gulped half the contents in a single swallow. Her mind was reeling. What the hell was going on here, she wondered, totally confused and bewildered by the older woman's unfettered lubricity and the boy's brazenness. She sagged heavily against the wet bar waiting for the liquor to quell the quick tremors of uncertain anxiety rippling through her gut; her knees felt weak, unable to support her weight, and she struggled to make sense of what she had heard. "That might not be so bad, now that I think about it; he's not bad looking, if I do say so myself. I bet he'd be a pretty good fuck, and I know he'd be better at it that your stuffy old Rufus." Nancy was sort of thinking out loud, and Imogene was aghast at the idea of a mother talking so casually about someone having sex with her own son. Imogene drained her glass and stared at the empty doorway, where Archie had exited, as though she expected him to return to ravish her right there on the Persian carpet. She staggered slightly and caught the bar to regain her balance. Nancy was in the process of refilling her glass. "Careful, honey," Nancy warned, "that carpet'll get to moving around on you, if you drink too fast; first thing you know, you'll wind up on your back and miss your chance to audition." "Audishun?" the girl responded thickly. She took a deep breath, pushed away from the bar and tried to stand without assistance. She wobbled unsteadily and blinked uncomprehendingly at the older woman. "Yes, honey, audition; you know, `try out.'" "Huh?" Imogene's confusion was complete. "Whash, uh, what for?" Her tongue thickened, and her consonants sloshed in her mouth giving her an inebriated lisp. "For the bridge club, silly," Nancy laughed. "You want to join, don't you?" "Bridge?" Imogene brightened perceptibly at the mention of the club, and she sobered up slightly. "Oh, yesh, yesh," she gurgled, "join." Nancy laughed good-naturedly. "I thought you would, but you have to audition for it first. I have to see if you're really ready to be one of us, you know." Imogene nodded eagerly, but a feeling of uncertainty plagued her. She glanced around the room for a clue to what Nancy was talking about. God, she thought haplessly, I hope she's not going ask me to sing or dance or anything like that. She looked at Nancy expectantly. "Don't worry, dear," Nancy answered sensing her apprehension, "It's not all that big a deal. Sort of like sorority rush, they tell me; you were in a sorority, weren't you?" "Yesh, ma'am," she acknowledged. "I thought so; it was on your resume as I remember." "Yesh, ma'am." She had reverted to formality to help her deal with her confusion. "Which one was it, honey; I forget." "Chi Omega," she answered thickly and took another gulp of martini. If my sisters could only see me now, she thought ruefully, half drunk and half naked, making a complete fool out of myself every time I open my mouth, but, sisters, I'm getting there anyway. She gloated drunkenly, she's talking about asking me to join her bridge club, `THE' bridge club, the one that everybody in town's dyin’ to be invited to join. `Audition?' Hot Damn, she'd run through the fires of hell to join, if she had to, especially after what Maxine had told her; she was ready for anything. She took another sip and waited for Nancy to speak. "I bet you girls did fashion shows and modeled clothes." "Yeah, we did a few times." "Did you like modeling? I mean you've got the figure for it, honey, long and lithe, just like the models in the big fashion shows." Imogene warmed to the flattery. "Ish wuth lots of fun, Nancy," she slurred, and the memory made her straighten her back and throw her shoulders back. "I know it's fun; the bridge club models too, sometimes." "Really? I thought you jus played cards." "You're not supposed to know; nobody's supposed to know about our modeling. We keep it secret cause everybody would just be gossiping about it and wouldn't understand." "Who'd care what yous did at a bridge party?" "Well, honey, we do a little more than play bridge and model clothes at our bridge parties; sometimes we model for our husbands, sometimes it's for their clients, you know, people we can trust not to talk too much afterward. And," she took a breath and lowered her voice as though trying not to be overheard, "every now and then some of us go to St. Louis, or Jeff City, when the legislature’s in town, for a few days and put on a real show." "Gosh," the girl gaped in amazement, "I had no idea." "We keep our secrets well, Imogene, and, if you join, you'll have to learn to do the same." "Ooooo, I will, I will, I promise." Imogene could almost feel the invitation in her hand, she was that close. She was nearly panting with eager anticipation. Parties and dances, weekend trips to the Cayman Islands, all were within her reach now, and she wiggled her toes in her shoes and fantasized about sun and surf and endless miles of sugary white beaches. "I know I can trust you; if I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have invited you up here today." "Trust me, yesh, yesh," the girl gushed ecstatically. The fog of alcohol, which had swirled in her brain worsening her confusion, seemed to lift, but it was only the rush of excited adrenaline that momentarily cleared her mind, the wreckage of her judgment would take much longer to repair. "Oh good, then, you'll model for me, and we'll see how you do. If you're half as good as I think you're gonna be, you and I will be bridge partners starting next week. How's that sound to you?" "Oooo, Nancy, really? Yoush promish? You're not teasin me, are you, pleashe?" The girl was practically hopping from foot to foot. She took another gulp of martini to steady her nerves and tried to control her excitement. "I promise," Nancy laughed good-naturedly. "Now, let’s get on with the show; I want to see how you strut your stuff, kid." "Huh?" Imogene looked around puzzled, wondering where the clothes she was to model were. "This is all I have to wear, Nancy," she shrugged, indicating her dress. "Oh, don't worry about that; Maxine's sent up a whole wardrobe for you to model, darling. Come on, I'll show you; this is going to be fun." Nancy took her hand and led the puzzled girl away from the martinis on the bar and down a long corridor. After what Imogene thought was about a mile, they entered a cavernous room with an immense stone fireplace filling one wall and a series of huge-screened televisions lining the walls. In the center of the room, there was a couch the likes of which she had never seen. It was the size of two king sized beds pushed together and was covered with dozens of throw pillows. She counted four TVs along the nearest wall, before Nancy pulled her around the couch and through a door and into an adjoining room. "See? What did I tell you?" Nancy said, pointing to three wheeled racks of dresses and other garments, as the two women entered the room. It was a smallish, windowless room which had been fitted out as a dressing room with a couch, a dressing table with an assortment of makeup in tubes, jars and compacts scattered on the top, and a couple of upholstered chairs. The racks of clothes had been left in the center of the room and took up most of the available space. "My goodnesh," the girl mumbled as she examined the racks of clothes, "it'd take a week to model all that." "Oh, don't I know it. I can't imagine what she was thinking sending all those suits and winter coats up here. We won't fool with that, shall we; let's just concentrate on this rack." Nancy steered her toward the rack nearest the doorway. A glance told her it held mostly cocktail dresses, like the one she was wearing. She flipped through the dresses, sliding the hangers toward the end of the bar. The price tags had been removed, but she recognized a few as being from Maxine's most expensive, designer original collection; she wouldn't even look at these in the store much less try any of them on. They were elegant and intriguing, totally haute couture, and she could hardly contain her interest in seeing how she would look in them. She soon reached the middle of the rack and, in so doing, exhausted the supply of dresses; from that point on to the end the selection changed to nightgowns and negligees, and the further she went the skimpier things seem to become. "Well, what'd ya think, gal?" Nancy asked expectantly. "Wow," the girl replied in awe, wide-eyed and excited. "I've never worn anything like these," she said as she lovingly fingered a sleeve. "I know; does that Maxine have good taste, or what? You're going to be fabulous, darling, just fabulous. Now, I'm going out to the den to wait for you. You just start at the end of the rack here and find a dress you like and come on out when you're ready. Got it?" "Uh, ok," the girl replied in need of some reassurance. "It'll be ok, trust me; nothing to worry about; nobody there but me to watch you. You need any help getting dressed?" "No, no, ma'am. I'll manage." "That's my girl," Nancy chirped with an infectious air of confidence, and she pulled the door closed as she left, leaving Imogene alone. The young woman clung to the clothes rack for support and wrestled with her bewilderment. Events had moved too swiftly for her to assess, and the martinis, along with her erotic memories of Billy, had fogged her brain sufficiently to cloud her judgement completely. She fumbled through the racks of clothes in amazement; Diane von Furstenburg, CK, Albert Nippon, Gucci, names from all the famous designer houses were there, some two and three times. Ohmygod, she exclaimed to herself, when she spotted a Versace label in a light, shell jacket and matching pantsuit; every one of these must cost more than Rufus makes in a year. She was staggered by the wealth represented in that collection, and shook her head in disbelief. It just can't be, no way, she thought, but Nancy had said she had Maxine send all these things up just for her to model today, and, yet, she said it was no big deal. Good grief, no big deal? Why, these were clothes she had never seen, never would see in her whole life, much less get to try on and wear, even for a second or two. She picked a Georgio teal sheath off one of the racks and held it up to her chest. She turned toward a full-length mirror on the wall. The dress fit her perfectly, and she felt like a queen dressing for her coronation. She attempted a spin before the mirror but lost her footing and stumbled awkwardly. She giggled at her image in the mirror and chided herself gently; queen's a little tipsy today, all her loyal subjects better stand back a little or she might fall in their laps and then it would be off with their heads, cause you're not supposed to touch the queen without her permission. She laughed at herself and replaced the dress on the rack. She was just beginning to flip through the dresses on the rack Nancy had told her to pick from, when she heard a knock and Nancy calling out to her through the closed door, "Imogene, honey, are you alright in there?" Oh darn, she thought how long's it been, anyway; I must have lost track of time, and then she answered, "I'm ok, just give me a sec; there're too many choices in here." "Take your time, sweetie; I'm making a fresh batch of martinis; you can have one just as soon as you come out." "OK," Imogene replied. Just what I need right now, another martini, she thought with what little semblance of judgment remained. She hastily examined the dresses she was to wear. They were a skimpy, flimsy lot, with sheer panels or open spaces in strategic spots; minimalist clothes, she giggled, very chic and avant garde, and she pondered indecisively whether twould be better to bare the breast or the butt for the first trip down the runway. Good grief, she marveled at the wisps of fabric masquerading as clothing, do people actually wear this stuff out in public; my God, she jabbered to herself, holding up to the light a particularly insubstantial looking selection, look at this one, my publishe hairs, I mean, pubiche hairs would be going publishe, I mean, public, in this one. She hung it back on the rack and looked for another, less risqué, offering, but there weren't many modest alternatives, and she wavered uncertainly. As she stood pondering her options as best she could, Maxine's admonition suddenly returned to her, "Whatever she tells you to do, you go along with her and make her happy...you make her happy and she'll reward your friendship beyond your wildest dreams." My wildest dreams, she repeated mentally; sobering thought, her wildest dream, because she had big dreams and big plans for herself; she was ambitious and hungry and, most of all, she was eager for success, and the seductive trappings that accompany success: wealth, position and power. She took a deep breath and reached for the dress she had just returned to the rack, and, as she held it up for reinspection, hoping against hope that it had by some magic suddenly become opaque, she thought uncertainly, Maxine, I sure hope you're right about this. Nancy was sitting on the edge of the couch, waiting with growing impatience, and nipping lightly at her fresh martini. She had turned the sound system on, and the room was filled with the energetic beat of a rock tune called "I'm too Sexy," which Archie had pirated off the Internet and recorded in an endless loop for her. She had partially closed the drapes, darkening the room considerably and had turned on the spotlights in the ceiling, which threw an arc of light circles on the floor from the door to the dressing room across the room to the opposite wall. The circles passed close enough to the couch that Nancy's feet were illuminated within one of them. The song was beginning its eighth rotation, and Nancy was becoming restless. She was about to check on Imogene again when the door to the dressing room opened a crack, and the girl's head poked through the opening. "There you are," Nancy said crisply. "I was just about to come and check on you again." "I'm sorry, Nancy, but some of these things aren't that easy to figure out how to put on. I kind of struggled with this one, but I think I got it right." "Well, then," Nancy replied somewhat mollified, "come on out and let me see you; if you figured it out, I'll reward you with a martini, if you didn't I'll punish you with a martini." "Gosh," Imogene laughed, still holding unsteadily to the doorway, "sounds like I can't lose." "Oh, you'll get the martini alright, but let's see how the audition goes before we decide whether you lose or not, shall we?" Imogene missed the warning in Nancy's comment, because the words of the song, "I'm too sexy for my shirt," had smothered them, and all she heard was the promise of another martini. Buoyed by the music and the thrill of wearing a designer dress, even an "X" rated one, she pushed the door open and stepped into the first circle of light. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 12 She froze in the bright glare of the spotlight and wobbled indecisively. She looked down her legs and was aghast at what the light revealed. She was wearing a sort of pant, but it was made of filmy fabric that didn't do much more than change the color of her legs from tan to a smoky gray, but that wasn't all, the pants were more like chaps, because they only covered the outsides and fronts of her legs and left the insides and backs bare. They were fastened around her ankles with little braided ropes, that kept them from flying out behind her when she walked and the front was made like a fringed bib, which tied in back at the waist with a pair of tiny ribbons, and, in the front, it covered no more of her belly than the four inches just below her navel. Her buttocks were completely bare and her pubis was inadequately concealed behind a wispy curtain of fringe that threatened to part with the slightest of movements, and when she put the thing on, she had been certain that there was more to it than was on the hanger, but a hasty search failed to turn up any more parts, so she put it on as it was. The top was nearly as revealing, but it, at least, had a couple of horizontal tucks which doubled the material where it crossed her breasts and afforded a little more cover than a single ply would have. She blushed in embarrassment and glanced over her shoulder at the sanctuary of the dressing room. She was debating the urge to bolt, when Nancy came to her rescue. "Ohhhhhh, darling, you look spectacular," she gushed enthusiastically. "I'm so glad you picked that one." Nancy threw her arm around the young woman's quivering shoulders and comforted her. "Really, honey, you look just wonderful. You hear me?" Imogene looked down and moved her hand to cover herself. "Yes ma'am," she muttered nearly too embarrassed to speak. Nancy brushed her hand away and laughed. "Don't be silly girl; there's no point in covering up what that outfit was designed to reveal, is there?" "No ma'am; I guesh not." "You're damn right. Now, look at me, honey. I'm gonna show you how to strut your stuff. You do got stuff to strut, don't ya?" "I, uh, I dunno," the girl answered weakly. "Oh, the hell you don't; just look at you. You got tits, and nice ones, and a pussy to die for with all those tight little ringlets and curls all over it, and, just look here," she said as she spun the girl around to inspect her bare buttocks, "at the cutest little ass I've seen on a grown woman in years. You got the stuff, honey; now, all you gots to do is strut it like you know it." The praise helped the girl relax, and she looked at Nancy hopefully. Nancy continued, "So, just follow me, honey; put your hands on your hips like this," and she positioned Imogene's hands on the jutting wings of her hip bones. "Right, and roll your shoulders forward just a little; OK, and, no, no, quit looking down and lift your chin; no, damnit, up; stop looking at the floor; you're beautiful and you know it; you're the most beautiful woman in the room and you're damn well proud of it, aren't you." "Oh Nancy, you think so?" she gurgled doubtfully. "This isn't about what I think, girl, it's about what you think and how you act. You want to be beautiful? Start by acting like you think you're beautiful." "OK, I'll try; honest, it's just that I feel so exposed." "Of course you're exposed; you're beautiful, and you want to show yourself off, don't you?" "I, uh," "Sure you do; now, just follow the spotlights and walk to the other side of the room and back for me." "Uh, Nancy, I don't know...." "Bullshit," Nancy hissed. "That modesty crap won't work with me, darlin'; nobody who loves sucking cock like you do's gonna be that shy. Now get moving." Imogene felt Maxine's warning pushing her forward, and she lurched toward the next circle of light. "That's my girl," Nancy encouraged her as she wobbled toward the couch. "Keep going, yeah, just like that, that's it, pick up the beat of the music, right, now swing your hips, yes, yes, you're getting it. Slink a little, yeah, like a big cat on the prowl; a lioness. Think about Billy, baby; think about walking for him, showin' off for him. Strut like you want to make him hot for you." Imogene's confidence grew as Nancy purred her praise and her balance improved. She turned with a flourish at the end of the arc, and the fringe on her chaps flew aside exposing her, and Nancy gave an appreciative wolf-whistle. As she passed the couch where Nancy was sitting cross-legged and clapping, Nancy handed her the martini shaker and a glass. "Here sweetie, take these with you to the dressing room, and see if you can't find something else you'd like to model." Imogene complied with growing confidence and dwindling embarrassment. She modeled three or four outfits, changing from one to the other in a rush and slugged martinis between strolls through the den. Nancy clapped and cheered and encouraged her to be bold and provocative, and once or twice, she got up to show her how to hold her head or move her hips or shoulders to maximize the effect of some special feature of a garment. Imogene warmed to the encouragement and her reserve loosened. She followed Nancy's advice and concentrated on Billy, remembering how she had loved to distract him by teasing him with her baby doll nightie, while he was trying to study. He was easy, her Billy, lifting his eyes to watch her flash her buns at him, wiggling enticingly, then dropping his pencil and grabbing for her. On the last pass, she paused near the couch while Nancy watched, and, lifting her arms above her head, she undulated her hips in a wantoned display of sensuality, which flared her skirt and showed her naked below the waist. When she stopped, Nancy leapt up to hug her and exclaimed, "Wow, honey, you're some fast learner; you keep it up and me and Jerry are going to have to invite you and Rufus to spend Easter break with us in Cancun at our little hacienda down there. How would you like that?" "Oh, really? You mean it?" Imogene gasped almost childlike at the prospect of vacationing with the Farbers. Nancy smiled indulgently. It was so easy, this game of prey and predator, that the certainty of the outcome nearly bored her. The results were too predictable, always had been, even way back when she was in the business and her bosses had first come to her for help with getting the new girls to turn tricks for them. There were all sorts of girls, dancers, of course, but coat-check girls and waitresses and girls she found in bars and bus stations, too; it didn't matter where she found them, they were all easy for her to seduce. The tools of the trade were always the same, gullibility, avarice and vanity; make them want something badly enough, and they would be willing to do anything to get it. Promise them something they think they want, be it fame, fortune, popularity, beauty, it didn't matter; just get them leaning in the direction you want them to fall, and all it takes is a little push and there they go. "Oh, honey, yessssss. You are so beautiful and so sexy and it would be sooooo much fun. We would drink Bloody Marys all day and wear thongs and string bikinis and drive Rufus and Jerry crazy, oh, and Archie, too, of course, he'd be there with us, and we'd lay in the sun all day, and dance all night till dawn, and then go skinny dipping in the pool before breakfast. We could play and be sexy and do what ever we wanted." "Oooooh, Nancy," Imogene bubbled, nearly smelling the Hawaiian Tropic and feeling the hot equatorial sun on her bare skin, "Yes, yes, yes." "Maybe we'll shave our pussies and just paint our bikinis on with lipstick and prance around the house like that till the boys' tongues are hanging out. Wouldn't that be soooooo fun, Imogene." "Ooooh," the girl responded noncommittally; she was having no little difficulty with the concept of shaving herself down there. "Ooooooooo," Nancy exclaimed, ignoring Imogene's incomplete response, "that reminds me, honey. Archie! Where is that rascal, I wonder? He's just what we need in here, ya know. A man, that's what we need; I mean you're wastin' your talents on me, honey, if you get my drift. I love your looks and all, but I'm just a woman, so what do I know about how sexy you are. What we really need to get is a man's reaction. What'd ya say?" "Nancccccccy," the girl started to protest, but the woman's enthusiasm was infectious, so her objection lacked conviction. "He's so young; he probably thinks I'm just an ugly old hag." "Yeah, right," the older woman retorted, "that's exactly what I thought too, kid, when he was starin' at your tits in the living room just a little while ago. Remember?" "I remember," Imogene replied and blushed self-consciously. "I'm getting him in here, now," Nancy declared eagerly. She stooped and pressed a concealed switch on the end table beside the couch and spoke in an urgent tone, "Archie, would you come to the den please, immediately." Imogene glanced around the room with a look of dazed consternation trying to figure out who or what Nancy had been talking to. For a moment, her gaze settled on the huge fireplace as if she half expected the boy to come down the chimney like Santa Claus. She plucked at the wisps of cloth covering her chest and directed her eyes demurely toward the floor. "Relax, honey," Nancy laughed reassuringly, "It's just an intercom; everybody reacts that way the first time they see me use it. He'll be a minute; it's a ways down to his apartment in the basement. Have a seat." She patted the couch as she spoke, and Imogene sat beside her. Nancy scooted closer, and Imogene could feel the heat of her body next to her nearly naked thigh. Nancy put her arm around the girl's shoulder and pulled her close. Imogene felt the firm flesh of the older woman's breast flattening as she pressed against her arm. She was confused and off balance, unaccustomed to being cuddled by another woman while so, uh, undressed. Nancy held her close and whispered softly, "we'll have so much fun in Cancun, honey, you can't imagine how clear and beautiful the water is down there, and we'll go sailing on our yacht, it's a sixty footer we call `Satin Sheets,' and we'll anchor in a secluded cove we know about and sunbathe neked, and if the boys get horny watchin us, we'll just pull them into the bushes and suck them dry. Ya think Rufus'll like that, darlin?" Nancy's words painted bright images in Imogene's mind, and she allowed herself to drift in her imagination on the soft, swelling waves lapping at the shores of that fantasy island. Surf and sun, rippling heat on smooth, satin skin, and the tidal urge of turgescent flesh, kneeling in homage in pure white sand, thoughts surged in her brain, and she felt a flooding warmth in her loins. "Yes," she murmured distantly, as though reluctant to depart the dream, and Nancy leaned closer. "Making love in the surf with the warm salt water swirling all around you and a hard cock in your cunt, driving deeper into you with every crashing wave." Nancy's seductive words slithered from her lips with devastating effect. Her hand slipped between Imogene's ribcage and her arm, and her fingertips lightly followed the rounded swell of the girl's breast. "Oh, yes," the girl exhaled breathlessly, and her body rocked slightly with the gentle wash of the imaginary surf. Her nipples tightened, and she crossed her thighs to contain her heat. "Or, floating in deep water, with your man hanging from the anchor chain with his cock in you, and you riding up and down with the rise and fall of the swells. Oh, baby, it feels sooooo goooood, with that warm water all around you holding you up and you not touching anything but water and a big, hard cock. Ohhhhhhhh wheeeeee, that's nice." Her fingers followed the sloping cone of the girl's breast out to the tip and lightly squeezed her nipple to measure her response. "Ugh," Imogene grunted incoherently. Her eyes were tightly shut, and she unconsciously lifted her breasts to the encircling fingers. She shifted her hips, adjusting to the building warmth between her legs, and drifted like a chip on a wave toward an immense submarine phallus. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 13 "What's up, guys?" Archie's voice crackled unexpectedly in the quiet aftermath of Nancy's whispered words. "What's the big problem?" Imogene's eyes popped open at the sound of his voice, and she gaped at him in mild surprise. He was standing in front of them, bare chested, with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, and he looked slightly sheepish, like he had expected an emergency that hadn't materialized. "No problem, baby," his mother replied casually. Her fingers released Imogene's nipple, and her hand slipped unobtrusively down the young woman's side. "I just wanted to get your reaction to Imogene here's modeling, that's all." "Hell," he snapped in apparent relief, "if I had known that, I would have put on some pants. You sounded like the place was on fire or something." "You're fine, baby; Imogene doesn't mind what you're wearing, do you, dear?" "No, no, he's fine," she replied groggily; her focus was still impaled and riding the swells at the anchor road. "You sure, ‘cause I can go change in a couple of minutes?" She squinted at him because he was standing in shadow just outside the light. His broad chest rippled with hard muscle, and he was rubbing his head with one hand and holding the towel at his waist with the other. Despite his protestations, he seemed uncommonly at ease with his lack of clothing. Her eyes dropped, following the breadth of his chest toward his hips. His waist narrowed remarkably, trim and flat, with twin rows of sharply defined abdominal muscles marching in even columns toward his groin, and, below his waist, his narrow, sleek hips were hidden beneath the navy terry cloth of the towel. She opened her mouth to reply, but Nancy beat her to it. "You heard the lady; no need to change, you're fine just like you are. Now, you come sit here on the couch, while Imogene and I go pick out something nice to model for you." "Whatever," he replied with that slightly disrespectful tone youngsters use when they're trying to let you know they're straining to put up with you. "Don't be nasty, buster," Nancy barked at him. "I got a feeling you're gonna like this a lot better than you think." "You gonna start with the nighties, then?" he responded hopefully. "You bet we are; Maxine's best, too." "Alllllllllll right," he chirped excitedly. Once more, Imogene allowed herself to be lead by the hand into the dressing room. "Have a drink," Nancy suggested upon closing the door behind them. She gestured toward the shaker Imogene had left on the dressing table. "I'll find something special for you." Imogene lunged toward the martinis like a drowning man grasping at a life-ring, while Nancy hummed her way through the racks of clothes. "Here we go," she soon called out cheerfully from behind the third rack. In a moment she emerged holding a simple, but truly elegant suit. "Get out of that thing, and put this one on, honey," she said, extending the outfit toward Imogene. Imogene hesitated for an instant, balking at the idea of stripping in front of the woman, but quickly rationalized that she really didn't have much left to conceal that hadn't already been displayed. She slipped out of the top, and then reached behind her waist to unfasten the bow at the back of her chaps. Eager to hasten the process, Nancy knelt and quickly unfastened the little ropes securing the pants to Imogene's ankles. In a second or two the bindings were released, and the filmy material drifted to the floor. Nancy looked up at the naked girl towering over her, allowing her eyes to pointedly caress the younger woman's curves and niches appreciatively. "Wow," she breathed softly at the end of her visual tour when her eyes met Imogene's. "That's some figure you have, young lady. Turn around and let me look at you." Imogene looked at her uncertainly, but she had come too far to back out now. "Whatever she wants," Maxine's words rang in her brain, and the girl slowly, reluctantly, rotated on her toes in a 360-degree turn. She blushed under Nancy's intense gaze, and her flesh seemed to be on fire. "Hmmmmmm," Nancy whispered softly as the young woman completed the turn. "You look good enough to eat, baby." "Nanccccccccccy!" Imogene squeaked in shock. She caught her breath and held it; her heart thumped wildly in her chest. Ohmygod, she IS going to make a pass at me, she screamed in silent protest, and she stiffened, steeling herself to accept the woman's advances. Nancy looked at the stunned woman and laughed in a deep, husky laugh that seemed to rumble in her throat. "Oh, so that's what you think we're up to today, is it. An interesting thought, indeed; does that frighten you, my little sparrow? Does the thought of a woman's tongue licking that sweet little pussy of yours make you recoil in disgust, darling?" As she spoke, her hand rose and touched the girl's leg, on the inside, just above the knee. Imogene shivered involuntarily, and the fingers slipped higher, stroking the smooth flesh of her inner thigh, inching upward as Nancy spoke. Imogene's eyes widened in anxious horror, and Nancy's lacquered nails climbed toward her loins. Just as she spoke the words, "sweet little pussy," her fingers brushed through the dense curls that covered the girl, but then, while Imogene hung in tense suspension, suddenly they were gone and Nancy laughed again. "Not just yet, honey," the older woman said softly, rising to her feet. "Maybe later, when you're ready, but not right now." Imogene, visibly relaxed, exhaled, and her shoulders sagged in relief. "Take a drink, dear," Nancy urged. "Then put this on." Imogene drained her glass and set it on the dressing table. She wiggled into the skirt, which was snug and short and was cut in such a way as to resemble a sarong wrapped around her hips. Nancy held the jacket for her and she slipped it on. It had been made like a man's morning coat with cutaway lapels and tails. It buttoned in the front with a single button at the waist and she tugged at the lapels, pulling the jacket tightly across her back just to be able to button it. It was a tight fit, because she was broad through the shoulders, and, when she had buttoned it, the lapels were pulled so far apart that the pink verges of her nipples were exposed. When she was dressed, Nancy stepped back and gave her a quick inspection. "Stunning," she pronounced in satisfaction. "Now, go out there and knock him dead." She put her arm around the girl's shoulders and led her toward the door to the den. The mention of Archie reminded her that a man, well, a boy really, was waiting just outside the door; a man-child wearing nothing but a grin and a towel was lying on a bed in the next room, waiting for her, waiting to watch her prance around nearly naked with a spotlight on her. She paled and slowed, digging in her heels as Nancy reached for the doorknob. "Good grief, girl, it's just Archie; you better start getting used to him being around or you'll never make it to Jamaica." Nancy's hand turned the knob, and the door opened a tiny bit. Imogene peeked through the crack. The boy was lying back on the couch, supported by his elbows, and he was swinging his feet back and forth like a kid watching a parade from the top rail of a fence. He looked harmless enough, she thought, even cute, like a little boy, and the observation reassured her. "Cancun," she muttered. "Huh?" Nancy answered. "You said, `Cancun.'" "Oh, yeah, right, `Cancun.' Whatever, honey, now you just get out there and strut." Nancy threw the door open and pushed the reluctant woman into the light. Imogene stepped into the den with all the enthusiasm of a Christian stepping into a coliseum filled with hungry tigers. She hung back, fearful of progressing toward the couch and loath to distance herself from the sanctuary of the dressing room. She stood uncertainly in the first circle of light and tugged self-consciously at the hem of her short skirt. The effort required her to lean forward a bit, which, of course, caused her lapels to bow, exposing her breasts to the boy's view. She realized her error immediately and jerked upright, plucking at the material of her lapels to cover herself. "Gee, Mrs. Justice," the boy called out to her innocently enough. "You look great; even better than you did before." He sounded youthful, boyish, and his exuberance put her off her guard. She patted the fabric of her skirt with her palms and looked toward the sound of his voice. He was still lounging on the couch and was looking at her with almost casual indifference. Her spirits lifted; he looked manageable. I can do this, she thought. "Do you like it? Your mom picked it out for me." She tried to disguise the nervousness in her voice as she spoke, hoping the reminder of his mother's presence close by would assure his behavior. "She knows what she's doing, that's for sure." "But, I think she forgot; it's not a nightie; she told you we were going to start with nighties." "Oh, I know what she said; that's what she always says, but she almost never keeps her word." "Really? You've done this before, then; watched women model clothes?" "Sure, lots of times." "I haven't ever done it; not like this." His matter-of-fact responses failed to calm her fears totally, and she couldn't keep her apprehension from showing. "Nothing to it, really, Mrs. Justice. You just walk around and model what she picks out, and I clap and cheer, and when you're done, I tell Mom how much I liked it, and she invites you to join her bridge club." "That's all there is to it?" "Pretty much, Mrs. Justice," he replied easily. "And, you just sit there and watch?" "That's it, ma'am; I do whatever you tell me." She shifted from foot to foot anxiously. His manner was reassuring, but... "I, I, I'm not sure about this, Archie," she stammered. "I know how you feel, Mrs. Justice. Most of `em are like that at first. You want me to move, give you a little more room? I'll go sit at the bar over there, if you want me to; not quite as good a view from there, but I don't mind all that much," he volunteered helpfully. "I don't know," she replied indecisively, mentally measuring the distance between the couch, where he was sitting, and the path she was supposed to follow across the room. Plenty of room to escape if he gets too frisky, she thought, taking some comfort from the vast empty area between the couch and the hearth along the opposite wall. And, she reasoned, there's always mom; I'll just scream for help if he tries to grab me. "Well?" he asked expectantly. "No, no, you're OK where you are, I guess. You'll have to forgive me, this is all so new." "No sweat, Mrs. Justice, I'll forgive you easy, but she..." and he pointed toward the doorway behind her as he spoke, "won't; she gets pissed if she's kept waiting long, and she don't ever get over it." "Oh, shit," Imogene blurted in dismay; she had forgotten for the moment how readily Nancy's impatience asserted itself. "It's OK," he said, smiling at her obscenity, "she'd be out here by now if she was pissed already. Hang on a sec, and I'll start some music." He lifted a concealed lid in the top of the end table by the couch revealing a control panel for the surround sound system. He punched a couple of buttons and twisted a knob, and, almost instantly, the room filled with the sound of Eric Clapton singing "Wonderful Tonight." A shiver ran up her spine as the gentle words floated toward her from the speakers along the surrounding walls. Goosebumps popped up along her forearms as she remembered all the times she had heard those words and all the things she had done to that tune. It evoked powerfully erotic memories in her, and she never failed to thrill when she heard it played. Her pulse quickened, and her memories pushed the awkwardness of the moment into the background. She lurched forward unsteadily and struggled to walk toward the couch in a straight line. It went pretty much as he had promised. She approached the couch, and he watched impassively. She passed unmolested, walking a little more quickly than Nancy had shown her, then slowed down when she passed beyond his reach. She reached the far wall and turned to retrace her steps, and he was clapping when she faced him again. "Very good," he called out over the music, and she stepped toward him with more purpose in her step. Her hips swayed with the music as she moved toward the couch, and she recalled Nancy's instructions. She put hands on hips and waggled her shoulders as she walked. The suit flowed over her like liquid silk as she glided across the room, shifting with the movement of her arms to cover and uncover, revealing tantalizing glimpses of her sultry charms. He clapped as she neared, and she felt as though her beauty lit the room. Let the dress do the work, she remembered, as she undulated past the reclining boy, and her long, bronzed legs flashed under her skirt and gleamed enticingly in the glare of the overhead lights. He was clapping enthusiastically as she ducked through the dressing room door. She was exhilarated. She had braved the den of lions and had survived to live another day. Breathlessly, she turned to Nancy. "Sounds like he likes you, kid," the older woman said smiling and handing a refilled goblet to her. "Turn around," she directed, and, while Imogene sipped her martini, Nancy unfastened the skirt in the back and worked the fabric over her hips and down her legs to her feet. Imogene unfastened the button closing the jacket and Nancy lifted it from her shoulders from behind. Imogene held one arm behind her for Nancy to remove the sleeve, and her drink jostled in her other hand. "Careful, honey, we don't want to spill martini on one of Maxine's originals," Nancy cautioned. "Oops," she giggled, considerably relieved that her audition was going so well, and steadied her hand by bringing the glass to her lips. She switched hands, and Nancy slipped the other sleeve off her arm. She turned to face the older woman, no longer mortified at her nudity, and took another sip of her drink. Their eyes met over the rim of her glass, and Imogene felt nearly giddy with her success. "He's really cute and sweet, Nancy. You must be very proud of him," she bubbled. "Proud?" Nancy repeated slyly. "I guess you could call it that, sure, ‘proud's’ as good a term for it as any. I'm glad you like him; I think you two are going to hit it off real good." Imogene took another gulp, toasting her success, and drained her glass again. "My, my," Nancy said, making a pretense of scolding, "you are a thirsty girl. Here, put this on, while I pour you another." Imogene took the hanger from the woman's outstretched hand and examined the outfit eagerly. It was a garishly ornamented tube top in hot pink with ostrich feathers and what appeared to be Christmas balls hanging off various points all over it. It clinked and rattled as she took it off the hanger, and she shook her head in bewilderment. Underneath the top was a pair of matching, hot pink short shorts that proved to be no more than skin tight when she tried to put them on. With Nancy's help she managed to wriggle into the shorts and pull them up over her hips. "Suck in your tummy," Nancy told her as she tried to work the zipper up in the back. "I don't hash a tummy," Imogene protested a little drunkenly, and Nancy had to acknowledge the truth of her claim. "Well, suck in your butt, then." "Ok, I'll try." And, together they managed to wedge the girl's buttocks into the shorts and zip them up. "Wuff," the girl gasped as the gap closed, "I can't breafe." "Take another drink," Nancy encouraged, and held the clinking tube top over the girl's head, while she took another sip from her glass. She raised her arms and slipped them through the oval bottom of the tube top. Nancy pulled it down, over her head and shoulders to her chest. Imogene giggled when her head emerged from the tight tube, and she shook her hair back into shape. She held her arms above her head while Nancy adjusted the top. Nancy tugged and pulled, and eventually got the top centered, so the dangling balls would not obstruct the movement of the girl's arms. She stepped back for a look, and screwed up her face in obvious disapproval. "Too high," she observed critically. "Don't move, I'll fix it.” She tugged gently at the hem, but the top was too snug, and she feared that too much force on the hem would rip the top in half. "Be still," she commanded, and she slid her fingers between the fabric and the girl's hot skin. Her fingers brushed Imogene's breasts as she groped for a grip on the tight cloth. She pinched the cloth between her fingers and thumbs and began working her hands from side to side to lower the garment. Imogene held her arms stretched above her head and wiggled her fingers. Nancy's fingernails, sharp, painted talons, sawed back and forth across Imogene's nipples, which immediately stiffened. "Oooooo," the girl whistled as her flesh tightened. "You have sensitive breasts, my dear," Nancy observed calmly as she worked to position the garment. "That's nice." Imogene blinked at her, leaving her arms raised, and she tried to think of a response. Nancy's hands remained inside the girl's top, her fingers capturing the girl's tense nipples and squeezing them forcefully. She wiggled her fingers, and the girl's taut flesh rolled between them and stiffened more. She tugged at the rubbery, erectile points, alternating from one to the other, like milking a cow, and Imogene closed her eyes. Hmmmmm, she thought, as sensations rippled through her breasts. Yes, she did have sensitive breasts, two cupfuls of erogenous zone on each side, she admitted to herself, and her knees began turning to jelly. "Hmmmmm," Imogene was astonished to hear herself moan, and she opened her eyes. Nancy was watching her face intently, and the manipulation of her nipples had taken on an almost feverish pace. Imogene's fingers entwined behind her head, and she arched her back, lifting her breasts toward Nancy's wicked massage. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Nancy ceased the massage and withdrew her fingers. She positioned the top to just barely cover the tight projections of Imogene's nipples and patted her breasts in satisfaction. "There you are, pretty girl, all stiff and sexy; now, go out there and show him what you're made of." Emboldened by Nancy's blatantly sexual stimulation, Imogene strode through the door with little of her earlier trepidation. She pause only long enough to pick up the rhythm of the music, then slowly began to slide with an undulating slink toward the couch. Archie clapped and cheered, and when she had traversed the room and returned and was approaching the dressing room door, he whistled and called out, "More, more." "He wants me to model some more for him," she squealed happily, after the door shut behind her. "No, honey, what he wants is to see more skin, I think," Nancy corrected her. "Here, see how he likes this one." Imogene giggled, "This is fun. Is this what you meant by having fun, before?" She took a couple of gulps from her glass, then unzipped her short shorts. "You're getting there," Nancy answered. Imogene was flushed with excitement when the dressing room door closed behind her and the spotlights enveloped her again. Two, four inch wide panels of nearly transparent voile hung from a silver band encircling her waist, one panel in the front and one in the back and each trailed to the floor dragging behind her like the train of a wedding gown. Her top was a truncated bolero jacket, which lacked any fastening mechanism in the front and was intended to be held together by hand as modesty required. Archie clapped and whistled, and this time, on her return trip, she paused in front of the couch, just beyond the reach of his feet, and turned slowly, and, as she turned, she opened first one side of her jacket and then the other, offering glimpses of her full, rounded breasts to the enthralled boy. He gleamed, and she smiled seductively, and he drummed his heels on the frame of the couch and squalled deliriously. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 13 She floated toward the door like a smiling vision, straddling the trailing panels as she walked, and her thighs flashed in the light. This is fun, she giggled inwardly; her confidence was soaring, and she was giddy with the sense of her success. Never mind that she stumbled a little on the turns and was a little unsteady on her feet, the boy loved her despite her awkwardness and that's what mattered. His cheers made her feel beautiful and desirable, and they emboldened her to perform for him in ways she couldn't believe. "More, more," he called out as she slipped from sight. "I want more." "Honey, I do believe you've got him on the ropes; one more ought to do it, and this is the one." Nancy extended a hanger from which drooped a few flimsy strands of sheer fabric, and declared, "Nightie time." Imogene smiled uncertainly, but took the offered garment. It had no substance at all, no weight, and it felt like she had been handed a wisp of smoke. She held it to the light for examination, and thin lines of shadow fell across her face. Black lace, sewn together like patches of concentric spiders' webs, had been fashioned into a night jacket and panties. As the circles grew smaller toward the centers of the webs, the fabric became denser, closer, and somewhat less transparent, except that over each breast, in the center where web should have been, there were tiny patches of sheer material, about three inches across, which were matched by a similar patch covering the crotch of the panties. The top fastened by a single satin ribbon high up, just below the neck line, and Imogene put the top on first. She caught her image in the mirror, and stared in disbelief. She was naked, of course, from the bottom of her ribcage down to the soles of her feet. The black lace top jutted out from her chest barely concealing the shape of her breasts, and fell abruptly from the points of her nipples, which were poking through the tiny, sheer cutouts in the front. She bent and slipped the bottom over her feet and up the firm columns of her thighs, wriggling her butt into them easily. She faced the mirror and was astonished to see the clear outline of her mons pressing against the panel between her legs and the clear impression of ringlets of pubic hair. "Ooooo, Nancy, I don't know about this; it's so risqué," she cooed, while studying her reflection. She could almost count, through the little panels, the tiny bumps, which had begun to emerge on the pink disks of her areolas as a consequence of her excitement. She rolled her shoulders, and the taut points of her ruddy nipples lifted and threatened to tear through the flimsy fabric of the patches. Soooooo wicked, she thought, trying to suppress her misgivings; he wants to see more of me, this sure lets him. Nancy stepped behind her and looked over her shoulder at the image in the mirror. She reached around Imogene's waist, passing a brimming goblet to the girl, and whispered, "Look at you, baby; look at that body. Do you look great in that outfit or what? Remember, it's all about how you feel, that's all, now drink up and get out there. Imogene stared at her reflection. Yes, she thought, bringing the glass to her lips, I do look good. Good figure, good face, great hair, she smiled inwardly, and drained the glass. Cancun beckoned; she could feel the toss of the swells, hear the singing of the Trade Winds blowing through the rigging; bobbing, swaying with the surge of the seas, what was it Nancy had said, oh, yeah, making love in the water without touching. She drifted momentarily, allowing the imagery to sweep her along, and she felt a quickening in her loins in anticipation of accepting that smooth submarine phallus. "Come here, darling," Nancy said softly so as not to break the spell. The girl nodded vacantly and allowed herself to be led to the door. Nancy turned her around to face her. Imogene's eyes were clouded with that vacant, distant look she had earlier, when she was describing her experience in the library with Billy. Nancy lifted the corners of the top, exposing the girl's pert breasts. Imogene was frozen in space and time; she made no protest, no move to cover herself. Nancy bent, leaning toward the girl's bare chest, and Imogene felt her hot breath on her sensitive skin. She held her breath, waiting, and trembled with anticipation. Nancy's lips, incredibly soft and warm, brushed her nipple, and the girl gasped. Nancy's tongue flicked out and swirled around the taut kernel of her nipple, and the girl moaned in a soft sigh. Suddenly, Nancy's lips parted and her hot, moist mouth engulfed the young woman's nipple and breast. She sucked and stroked the hard, rubbery flesh with her tongue, and Imogene's hands flew to the back of Nancy's head, and she sighed again, "Oooooooo." She arched her back, thrusting her breast deeper into the hot, sucking mouth, and moaned in delight when Nancy responded by increasing the pressure and the speed of her suction. Oh God, if only Rufus did that to her, if only he played with her, teased her, helped her get ready for him, she thought desperately, as the sweet sensations warmed her loins, and she felt the inception of her hot, wet flow. Nancy's mouth abandoned her breast, and she flinched in despair only to relax again as tender lips closed on its twin. She looked down at the woman's head cradled in her hands and at her breast disappearing into her suckling mouth. Ribbons of sensation twisted and spun like streamers on a May Pole, and her breath quickened. Don't stop, she implored the woman from the spinning recesses of her brain; it feels so good, and she abandoned her reserve to the tender stroking of Nancy's deft tongue. That tongue swirled and swept the turgid flesh of Imogene's nipple, licking, sucking, pressing the throbbing node against the rough texture of the roof of her mouth with exquisite pressure, and the girl sagged in glowing ecstasy against the doorway behind her. "Ooooooo," she gurgled in her throat, and her hands pressed the woman's mouth tightly to her heaving chest. "Aaaaaa," she murmured when the woman's mouth opened upon her and sucked her breast largely into her hot cavern. "Oh God," she whimpered in shocked dismay as she felt a wet warmth flowing in her loins. It can't be, her brain cried out in rejection of her unwanted response to the unnatural stimulation, yet her hands clung to the woman's head encouraging her lips, and her thighs opened involuntarily in expectation of the woman's advancing caress. "Ohhhh, God," she gasped when she felt the sharp edges of Nancy's teeth closing on her swollen nipples, nipping and tugging, pulling the distended points of her breasts, and Imogene's hand dropped reflexively to her panties and snatched the crotch to the side wantonly exposing herself. There, there, she mouthed silently, unable to resist the pressure building in her loins, touch me there, press your fingers into me, if that's what you want; I can't stop you. Her shoulders pressed the door, and she rose on tiptoe as the silken ropes of arousal tightened about her. "There," Nancy said quietly, breaking the sensuous contact unexpectedly. "Ugh, ugh," Imogene babbled incoherently when the warm mouth abandoned her wet, gleaming breasts. "That should do you for now," Nancy said wickedly, and she pulled the jacket across the girl's chest, covering her up once more. She pulled the corners to center the patches over her straining nipples, and, when the first patch was in position, she pressed the fabric against the girl's wet skin with her fingers. Instantly, the sheer fabric was wetted and disappeared for all practical purposes, to reveal the underlying nipple in complete, exquisite detail. She quickly did the same on the opposite side and exposed Imogene's remaining nipple. Imogene leaned against the doorway and felt the muscles in her loins tightening in a rhythmic movement as though seeking an intruder to fasten upon. "Ohhhhh," she moaned noncommittally from that twilight between relief and frustration. Her hand had fallen limply to her side, but the crotch of her panties remained caught between her leg and her mons, and she was still exposed. Her thighs remained parted and sensations lingered in her nipples and her loins; she made no effort to cover herself or withdraw the offer of her body. Nancy smirked as the girl's virtue evaporated. For a moment she toyed with the idea of fucking her herself, right there on the dressing room floor, but she shook the notion off as a bad idea. No, not yet, she thought, Archie's waiting, and the cameras are ready to roll; later maybe. She reached between the girl's legs and groped for the elastic band of her crotch. Her fingers brushed her tightly curled hairs, and the girl shivered. Nancy pretended to fumble to attain a grip on the fabric and teased the girl mercilessly. Her fingertips nibbled blindly at the moist fissure, searching for the cloth. The girl bit her lip to keep from crying out her need, as Nancy's fingers inadvertently separated her fleshy lips and slipped through her wetted furrow. Imogene jumped in an ecstatic spasm causing her butt to slap against the door behind her. "Oops," Nancy apologized insincerely and withdrew her fingers from the girl's gap. Her forefinger fished for the lace covering her belly and finally snagged the material just above the triangle of her pubic hair. She slipped her finger down, pulling the fabric loose, and she tugged it across the girl's throbbing mons. Her movements caused her knuckles to rake the girl's taut clitoris, and with each touch, Imogene moaned and twitched her hips. Finally tiring of the game, Nancy said, "Go girl," and, surprisingly, she wetted her fingers in her mouth and thrust her hand between the startled girl's legs again, rubbing and moistening that sheer panel until it became wet and disappeared as well. "Ohhhh," Imogene moaned, opening her thighs wider for the caress, but the Nancy pulled her hand away and opened the door, giving her a push toward the den. "Take your time, honey; work him and make him sweat a little." Imogene's nipples led the way, straining against the wet, clinging, fabric, and she was propelled into that dark room on a wave of totally foreign sensual excitement. Her nipples tingled, and her loins throbbed with confused, wanton sensation. Nancy had awakened her senses and quickened her pulse. Her mouth had felt soooo good and her fingers, touching her so intimately had felt wonderful in spite of her reservations. She flowed toward the couch with the seductive grace of a stalking cat, and turned her attention toward the boy with the gleaming eyes. She moved with silky strides and brushed his knees with her smooth shins. She whirled and shook and offered herself for admiration, and watched his face for signs of adoration. She stepped to the couch and straddled his knees and leaned toward him till her breasts were hanging in his face, and she was appalled by the exhibitionist Nancy had exposed her to be. She captured his knees between her legs and shook her shoulders so her breasts would move, and the boy's eyes opened in wide delight. The sheer fabric clung to her nipples, and he stared at them hungrily. She felt a gnawing desire to stuff them into his gaping mouth, but restrained herself. She stepped back and spun around, then leaned forward to push her butt at him and shook it with her hands on her knees, while she looked back over her shoulder and tossed him a wicked, inviting grin. She laughed with delight and felt secure in her beauty, and she abandoned her halting, clumsy steps and danced with graceful freedom. The music, the martinis, the boy's eager chanting, "Go, go, go," put wings on her feet, and her whole body throbbed with tense, sensual energy. She felt hot, on fire, and she flickered with desirability. She burned where Nancy's lips and fingers had touched her, and she thought of throwing herself against the unyielding rock of the fireplace and rubbing herself on the projecting stone for relief. She ached with unaccustomed sexual energy and sought to exhaust her fires by unrestrained gyrations. Archie watched with rapt attention as the display soared to its conclusion. He was eager now, hungry for what her lewd gestures were promising. She prowled back and forth in front of the couch, turning and posing, dancing away into the shadows, where he could barely discern the fluttering movements of her hands across her breasts and between her legs. The ribbon tie at her throat came undone and her jacket fell open, but she ignored it and marched right to the edge of the light and stood still, while he gawked at her bare, upturned breasts with their hard, pointed, ruby nipples gleaming in the light. She shocked herself by stepping closer toward the boy and examining his face while he drooled at her wet crotch. He shifted on the couch as the music began to trail off. He looked up, toward the ceiling far above the couch, and, when the music died away, he called out, "She's a hottie, mom, ain't she." "I'd say so, son," Nancy's voice answered from an undisclosed source. Imogene's movements had slowed with the music, but she wasn't quick to depart the stage. She gaped in astonishment at this exchange between mother and son, and wondered where in hell Nancy's voice was coming from. "I told you; I told you she was a hottie," Archie called out triumphantly. "I know, I know," Nancy replied humoring the boy. "I should have listened to you sooner." "That's right, you should pay more attention to me about stuff." "All right already, Archie, don't wear it out,” Nancy snapped impatiently. "Oops," the boy grinned sheepishly at Imogene, who was riveted to the spot, eyes darting from the boy on the couch to an indeterminate spot on the ceiling, where Nancy's voice seemed to be coming from. "Kinda impatient, isn't she?" he said to the girl in a stage whisper. Archie looked up again and spoke, "How about I show her my hottie meter now, mom. You think she'd like that?" Nancy's voice boomed back from the ceiling, in a tone reminiscent of God giving Moses the Ten Commandments on the mount, "Go ahead, son; green light's on; we'll find out." "Come over here, Mrs. Justice. You want me to show you my hottie meter?" Imogene took a halting step toward the couch. The weird conversation had her dazed and uncertain. What the hell is a hottie meter, she thought drunkenly, squinting at the boy, who was lying back on the couch and fumbling with the knot where the towel was fastened at his side. "Wha...." she questioned as she thrust her chin toward him trying to see better. She brought her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the overhead light, and looked inquisitively toward him. "My hottie meter," he repeated, tugging at the knot. "Come here, I'll show it to you. Tells you how hot you are." Imogene's mental processes were nearly at a stop; she was in a tactile mode and not up to figuring things out, so the things that normally would alert her to be wary went undetected. She stepped closer just as the knot gave way. With a grunt, Archie threw the towel aside exposing himself. He was naked under the towel, and the effects upon the boy of her sensual display were unmistakable. He grinned salaciously at her and reached down to take hold of himself. "Here it is, Mrs. Justice," he crowed as he urged his penis into an upright position. "Just look at it, would you; my hottie meter says you are one hottie, for sure." Imogene staggered as though struck by a blow to the head and gasped. The boy's, hell no, not a boy, the man's penis was standing up from his groin like an iron bar, thick, massive, hard as a granite obelisk, and the head was a fierce, angry red. Oh my, she thought, oh my, and she measured him with her eyes in amazement. God, he's huge, and immediately a vision of Rufus' adequate appendage attempted to contest for her attention. Jesus, it's like comparing a finger to a forearm, she thought, banishing Rufus' pale image with a toss of her head, and her eyes and her thoughts remained fixed on Archie's `meter.' She tottered drunkenly and, covertly, stole a glance at her arm measuring the boy against something tangible. Gulping, she flexed her fingers in awe, trying to visualize things and shook her head doubtfully. Cold threads of terror uncoiled in her belly as her self-confidence began to unravel. "How do you like it, huh?" the boy said ominously, teasing her with it. "Want to feel it and see how hot you are?" "Oh God," she screamed and fear gripped her. Cold, icy fear that froze her heart and crushed her chest with its numbing grip seized her, and she whirled and bolted for the dressing room. She slammed into the door, wrenching the knob with both hands, as his plaintive voice wailed in the stillness, "Don't go, please, Mrs. Justice, don't go." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 14 Nancy was waiting for her when she burst through the door. Imogene was wild eyed, half crazed with fright, and she gasped, "Nancy." Nancy put her hands on her hips and glared at the girl. "Get a grip, honey. It ain't nothing but a little ole cock." "Nanccccccccy," the girl wailed in mortification. "It's what the audition is all about, darling; now, you just get your hot little ass back out there and show him how nice you can be." "Nanccccccy," she wept and pressed her back against the door, barring the way as though she was the keeper of the gates of Rome and all the Mongol hordes were outside clamoring for admission. She glanced around the windowless room, seeking a new avenue of escape, but there was none. Then, she looked toward the expanse of previously blank wall, which had flanked the doorway, and she was shocked to discover that the wall had retracted, revealing a bank of television monitors and a huge panel of switches, knobs and dials. Her eyes swept the monitors, and she recognized instantly the interior of the den, the couch and Archie, who was, at the moment, squirming on the couch, obviously agitated and fiddling with the edge of his towel. She turned, gaping in dismayed confusion, toward her hostess. "Get going, girl; he can't wait long, and, if he leaves, you flunk. No Cancun for you, sweetie." "Nancccccccccy, please, she wailed in desperation. Her stomach was knotted like Archie's towel, and she was on the verge of vomiting. "Pleassssssse, don't..." "Goddammit, girl, I said, `get a grip on yourself,'" Nancy screamed at her, and, without warning, she fetched the trembling girl a lick across the face with the palm of her hand. "Owwwww," Imogene yelped and hung her head in despair. She pressed her palm against her stinging cheek, and moaned, "Please, please, don't make me; I, I, I can't...." "Of course, you can, honey. It's just fucking; nothing more. You just lay back with your legs open and let him stick it in you till he cums. If you relax a little, you get to cum, too. That's what I meant by `fun,' darlin; now, get out there and have some fun." "No, no. Nancy, I can't; no, not like that; not just walk out there and do it." "Sure you can; there’s nothing to it. You just go do it. He fills you up for a while, and then he's gone. You wash up and it's over; you can forget all about it later, if you want to." "I, I, I can't...” the hapless girl pleaded. "Oh, for Christ's sake, girl, of course you can. It's just sex, dammit; it doesn't mean anything. It's just a cock in a pussy with no strings attached. That's the trouble with uptight bitches like you, Imogene; you can't take sex for what it is, you got to gussy it all up with weddings and veils and vows you can't keep but hate yourself for breaking. Forget all that shit, and get your ass out there and have some fun with a real cock for a change." "Oh, nooooooo, I couldn't, I can't. Rufuuuuuuuuuuuus," she sobbed. "Rufus? Rufus ain't going to know nothing about it, honey. You're gonna get the fucking of your life, and, when you're done, you're gonna get dressed and go home and fix supper just like you always do, and he's going to come home and hang his hat on the hook and sit down to read the paper, just like he always does, and the world will go on like nothing at all happened. Oh, you might have to put him off a day or two, while your pussy pulls itself back into shape, or else he might get the idea that the garage grew some, while he was out toolin’ around in the family car, but you ought to be able to handle that ok." Good God, she can't mean it; images careened and collided in her brain chaotically. Conscience and raw desire competed for her devotion and whipsawed her to inert indecision. "It's just sex," she repeated like a cantor intoning encouragement to the converted, but she was raised to be a "nice girl," and her mother really did believe she had remained a virgin till her wedding day. "It's just sex," the cantor's voice rose, singsong, in perfect tempo with the trip-hammer throbbing in her loins, and she chanced a glance at Archie fondling himself on the monitor just behind her. Oh, oh, God, it's sooo, sooo...; I wonder how it would..., if I could..., what he would...? She stared at the image in wonder, and all the while, circling in her mind, like a banner behind a tow plane, were the words of her solemn promise, "...forsaking all others, till death do us part." She closed her eyes, and Rufus appeared to her. Good ole Rufus, loyal, honorable, true to his word and to her; how could she dare to face him across the dinner table with the memory of Archie's presence still throbbing inside her? How could she bare to watch him sop his gravy with a biscuit, while Archie's essence was still dripping out of her open wound? Oh God, what if, she trembled, he wants to feel me there, put his fingers in me while I'm cooking dinner, like he does sometimes when he's horny, and she blanched at the thought, and, covering her eyes with her hands, she cried out, "No, no, please don't make me, please. "Ok then, fuck you," Nancy spat at her in exasperation. "Get out; go home; be a worm the rest of your miserable life." "Nancccccy, please." "Please what, you damn fool? Please forget about it? Get over my disappointment? Not to mention Archie's? Oh, I don't think so. And, what about Maxine and all the trouble she's gone to, huh? She'll be disappointed, too, you know; she was counting on you to come through for her." "Huh?" The girl was bewildered and uncomprehending. "Sure she'll be disappointed, and pissed off, too, I expect. I know all about her little talk with you, sister; she thought you were paying attention, said she couldn't wait to have you in the club. When she finds out how you let us both down, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she calls in your account at the shop. "Wha??? She couldn't, wouldn't...." "She can, and she will." "But, but, I owe $5000; I can't pay that much all at once." "$6300, darling," Nancy corrected her, "You should have thought about that before you decided to let us down. Let's see, now, I figure you have about 45 days. She'll send you a bill calling the account, like you agreed she could do in the contract you signed, and she'll give you ten days to come up with the money. When you don't pay, she'll call her lawyer, and he'll sue you for it. Shouldn't take Judge Holmes more than a week or two, less than that if he's horny, to decide you owe the money, so, there you go, darlin, forty-five days to sweat, and then "your ass is grass and I'm the lawn mower," as they say. How's your sweet Rufus gonna take that, honey?" "But, but," the girl babbled desperately, "she said she wouldn't ever do that; that it was just some foolishness her lawyer put in there, and he didn't even ask her first." "Oh, yeah, right," Nancy sneered sarcastically. "Welcome to the planet, Imogene; she's my friend, she'll do whatever I ask her to do." "Nanccccccccccy, you wouldn't do that; it would ruin us forever." Imogene's hands were shaking. The enormity of her predicament was quickly sinking in despite the mind-numbing effects of her many martinis. She felt trapped, cornered, like the time she snuck out on a date with Alice McBride's boyfriend, the class valedictorian, and a couple of days later five or six of Alice's girlfriends surrounded her in the girl's locker room at school and pushed her into a corner of the shower threatening to beat her up if she even spoke to the boy again. Her instinct for self-preservation had kicked in, and her dignity readily succumbed to it; she had promised, and she kept her word, even though she could tell the boy was hurt and confused by a girl, who could run so hot one day and so cold the next. "Remember what Maxine told you?" Nancy asked her pointedly. "`Make her happy, whatever she wants?'" "Yes," the girl whimpered abjectly. "Well, what Nancy wants is for you to go out there right this minute and give that boy the best fucking he's ever had. Am I clear on that?" "Nancccccccy," Imogene whimpered hopelessly; her eyes darted from Nancy to the bank of monitors showing Archie waiting for her to reemerge, and, then, to the knob on the door to the den. She was frozen by fear and indecision. She gulped for air like a dying fish, but no sounds emerged. "Oh, fuck you," Nancy snarled impatiently at Imogene's unresponsiveness, and she shoved the young woman aside to clear the way to the console. Imogene staggered drunkenly into the wall, rebounded, then collapsed in utter desolation to the floor. "Archie?" Nancy snapped into a microphone, which was suspended on a cable hanging from the ceiling. "Yes, ma'am." Archie's voice reverberated loudly inside the small dressing room, causing Imogene to jerk in fear that somehow he had entered the room without being observed and was standing over her at that very moment. "Get Maxine on the phone for me, NOW," Nancy screamed into the microphone. "Aw, mom." Archie's voice dripped with disappointment. Imogene knelt on the carpet wringing her hands. Tears poured down her cheeks and splashed on her bare thighs. A hurricane of conflicting emotions was sweeping Cancun away before her very eyes, her dreams and ambitions were slipping from her grasp forever, and, amid the wreckage, the plaintive cry of an innocent boy, whom she had teased beyond any normal man's ability to endure rose to haunt her. What had she expected when she was rubbing her legs against his knees and wiggling her hips under his hot gaze, she questioned herself? How did she think he would react when she shrugged her jacket off her shoulders and let it slide down her arms to her elbows, completely uncovering her breasts to him? She had been cruel and thoughtless, she chided herself, provoking his lust and stimulating his excitement, thinking only of her own ambition. "You heard me, dammit. Get her NOW; use her beeper number; she'll know we're having a problem up here." "But, I want Mrs. Justice, mama," Archie protested. "Can't you make her come back?" The boy's misery cut through Imogene like a bitter winter wind and wrenched her heart. I used him, she reminded herself; I teased him and used him to get into the club, and I loved watching his reaction, because it made me feel special, pretty, like I really AM desirable. She knelt and wept in self-pity, and struggled to keep her head from spinning. As she knelt, the eye of the hurricane crept over her head, and a single ray of sunshine broke through the clouds befuddling her brain. "It's only sex," she reminded herself, and the new light gave her hope that Cancun might yet survive the storm. "No, son, I can't make her come back; you know the rules. Now, be a man and get Maxine like I told you." Imogene struggled to right herself and blinked through her tears to look at Nancy. She was hunkered over the monitor console expectantly, as though waiting for a signal from Archie. Imogene swallowed, gulping the bitter bile that had surged into her throat on a wave of nausea, and tried to speak. "Nancy, please, don't..." she began. Her hand was outstretched toward the woman in a gesture of surrender. Nancy looked in her direction and frowned. She studied the girl warily for a moment, then slowly turned back to the microphone and spoke evenly, "Hold on a minute, Archie." She turned back to the girl and put her hands on her hips, pointedly indicating her displeasure, and spat at her, "Well?" Imogene crawled across the carpet toward the woman. Her breasts swayed with the movement, but she was incapable of defending her modesty any longer. "Please," she begged, as she reached the woman and threw her arms around her legs, "I'll do it, Nancy; I'll do whatever you want." Nancy looked down at the girl and smiled triumphantly. Imogene's face was pressed against her legs, her nose nudging between her knees. She was sobbing, and her shoulders were heaving. She was kneeling in total subjugation to Nancy's will. This is the point they all reach, sooner or later, she congratulated herself smugly; here's where all they need is a little push, and... "You'll do what?" Nancy demanded insensitively. She made no effort to console the girl or to help her to her feet. "Whatever you want me to do, anything," Imogene whispered hoarsely, without looking up. "And, what precisely is that, my dear? Do you remember?" "Yes," she replied so softly her voice could barely be heard. "Well?" Nancy's impatience ripped the air. "I'll make love to him, ah, Archie; like you said." "I said nothing about `making love' to Archie, you idiot. Love's got nothing to do with it." "Yes, yes," the girl responded, quickly acknowledging her error. "I mean, I'll have sex with him, I'll fuck him, just like you said. He'll like it, I promise." "How can I trust you now, Imogene? You let me down once already; how do I know you won't do it again? And, just look at that poor boy in there; you got him so excited and eager, and he was just dying to please you, to make YOU feel good, and what did you do? You ran out on him like some goddamned, teenaged prick teaser and made him feel like a piece of crap, that's what you did. Now, look at him," she demanded, pointing to the screen, "sitting in there feeling rejected with his hottie meter all deflated. I'm telling you, it's enough to make a mother want to scratch your eyes out." Imogene stared in horror at the monitor, confirming Nancy's report with her own eyes. The boy appeared dejected all right, lying on his back, pointlessly toying with a Rubik’s Cube, with his fallen member lying inertly across his lap like a collapsed Tower of Pizza. He glanced furtively toward the dressing room door, while she was watching him, and a pang of anxious guilt shot through her like an arrow. She turned away, burying her face again. "Nancy, I, I'll mach ish better for him," she slobbered on the woman's knees. "You're too late, dammit; he's already soft." "Bbbbbut," the girl sputtered in protest at the thought of her chance slipping away so easily, "I'll model some more for him, he likes that, I could tell." "That's not how it works, honey," Nancy said darkly. "Oh, please, let me try, Nancy; let me go out there and model for him right now, please." "How do I know you'll keep your word? What's to stop you from rejecting him again and making things worse than they already are? I can't let you go back out there just to hurt him again." "I promise, please, I promise I wouldn't hurt him again. Please let me make it up to him, and you, please." The girl was begging earnestly, and her hands gripped Nancy's calves for support. "Prove it. Prove it to me first, before I let you go back out there with him." Nancy glowered down at the abject girl; her hands, clenched into angry fists, remained on her hips. "Anything, please, I'll do anything you tell me to do." Nancy looked into the upturned face of the girl kneeling in front of her. She was still beautiful, this newest conquest of hers. Despite the tears and the martinis, the hot lights and the terror, she still glowed with an unmarred, radiant beauty, the woman marveled, and she smiled at her wickedly as her hands dropped to the hem of her skirt. "Anything?" she asked huskily as her fingers gathered the material into her palms. Archie's problem would just have to wait a few minutes, she thought, at least till she had finished humiliating the weak little bitch and teaching her the facts of life. Imogene's eyes widened as the cloth slithered up the older woman's thighs, and her imagination raced ahead of the creeping fingers. She clung to Nancy's calves and nodded her agreement, nearly strangling on her response as she uttered the single word, "Anything." Even before the word had formed on her lips, Imogene realized what this new test of her fidelity was to be, and she bit into her tongue to still yet another protest. A cold shiver of loathsome fear traversed her spine as she reconciled herself to the totality of her capitulation to this crude, harsh woman. Nancy gathered the material around her waist, while Imogene stared straight ahead and watched the skirt lift through her field of vision. The skirt made agonizingly slow progress, creeping up by millimeters, as though Nancy was relishing every moment. Imogene clung to her as the material slipped up her thighs, higher, higher, tantalizing her with the unexpected, and she caught her breath as the hem reached the top of Nancy's thighs and hovered there briefly. Her eyes swept the twin columns of the woman's towering legs, and, despite her revulsion, she could not repress a twinge of admiration for the smooth shaved, well-tanned surfaces rippling just beyond the tip of her nose. The hem lifted like a curtain rising on a stage and soft tendrils of hair coyly appeared below the retreating fringe. Imogene exhaled, and the curtain rose to expose a narrow wedge of neatly trimmed hairs, which covered the center of the otherwise smoothly shaved mons like a quirky, vertical mustache. Imogene gasped in surprise, and Nancy gave a chuckle in reply. "Like it, honey? Jolene does it for me. I tried, but I couldn't keep the lines straight, especially way down there, where I can't see what I'm doing, and I kept nicking myself." Imogene just stared at the woman. Thick, fleshy lips protruded from the thinned thicket of hair and hung like a pair of wrinkled drapes. The hairline extended no more than a half an inch on either side of those lips and bisected the denuded mons like a stripe down the middle of a skunk's back. The patch of hair stopped abruptly an inch or so above the point where the lips emerged, and, taken altogether, the fringe of hair looked like a sort of brown matting surrounding a picture of pouting lips. "She'll do yours too, honey, if you want her to, and from the looks of things you could do with a good trim." Imogene blushed furiously at the suggestion that she might allow another woman between her legs for any purpose, and the incongruity of her present predicament with that disposition was entirely lost on her. She fixed her eyes upon the unfamiliar womanhood looming in front of her. She had never been so close to another woman's sex; she had never seen anyone from such short range and in such detail. She, like Tawanda of "Fried Green Tomatoes" fame, had struggled once with a mirror between her legs to get a look at herself down there, but she had abandoned the attempt, when, while trying to throw a little light on the subject, she knocked the lamp over and put a nasty burn on her thigh. Nancy's sex wasn't as ugly looking as she had imagined, only odd, like an oyster with its shell tightly shut, and she wondered what pearls the secret flesh within might cushion. Oh, she was not entirely ignorant, she was a woman after all, and she did have one of her own. She did wash herself and check from time to time for signs or symptoms of things untoward, and sometimes she even allowed herself to console her loneliness with her fingers, and she had felt the tight, wet tissues inside the portal, so she had an idea... "Lick it," Nancy's voice tore into her thoughts, and, as she spoke, she shifted her weight and moved her feet apart, opening the gap between her thighs. The movement caused the dangling drapes to separate for an instant, and Imogene glimpsed a bright pink, shimmering line within the folds of flesh. Oh my, she gulped, rocking back on her heels unsteadily. She blinked, half expecting the lips to part on their own volition and suck her in face first like one of those horrid worms in "Dune." "Well, come on, honey," Nancy snapped impatiently. "Junior can't hang around all day waiting for you to prove yourself." Oh, sweet Jesus, she thought, leaning toward the heat of the woman's loins, what am I supposed to do now? She closed her eyes and puckered her lips. She was sailing into unfamiliar waters with submerged rocks and ledges all about her. Kiss her, I suppose, she guessed, and her face crept toward the junction of the woman's parted thighs. Closer, and she sensed Nancy's proximity with her nostrils and her cheeks. Perfume and womanly essence mingled pungently, and she knew she was close. She felt Nancy's heat on her cheeks, burning like the warmth from a crackling fire on frostbite, and she realized she was there. Her lips brushed velvet skin, and she battled her nerves for a minute to maintain the contact. She kissed those lips, tentatively, because she didn't know what else to do, and she felt them tremble under her soft caress. Encouraged, she pressed her face into the warm triangle and felt the lips of Nancy's sex flatten against her own. She ground her teeth behind her lips and felt Nancy's lips open to her pressure. She grew bold and planted awkward little kisses up and down the narrow divide between those clinging lips. Her tongue lay quietly within it's bed, for she was again uncertain how best to engage it. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 14 "Lick it, dammit, you little slut," Nancy moaned urgently, and her hands gripped Imogene's head and directed her mouth toward her body. "Stick your tongue out and lick me." Imogene, God love her, had been blessed, or afflicted, if you will, with an exceptional tongue. It was long and supple, and, ever since she was a child, it had proved to be amazingly agile. When she was a teen, she had dumbfounded her family at Thanksgiving by demonstrating a talent for extracting olives from the bottom of the jar using only her tongue and a little body English. Billy and some others had come to appreciate another, similar talent, and she was confident in her ability to give lingual pleasure to men, but a woman? Well, that was another question, and, until this moment, it had never occurred to her to seek an answer to it. Oooooo, she thought as the tip encountered Nancy's perfumed folds, and the woman's taste flooded her mouth. She was sensitive in the tongue, tasting and feeling like a snake, and she tasted the exquisitely soft, heated flesh within the woman's sex and felt her own loins tighten with lustful anticipation. She extended her tongue and dipped into the sweetly scented trough, lapping through the glistening beads of moisture, curling, probing, licking the essence from her with a curious hunger. Nancy sighed and pulled her closer, and Imogene advanced her tongue further down the slippery slope, parting her halves like a wetted knife cleaving freshly risen dough, and she cocked her head back as her tongue found and circled the oval opening to Nancy's hot tunnel. "Yes, like that, damn you," Nancy growled when Imogene's tongue uncoiled within her tight, constricting confines and probed her depths with unanticipated ability. Imogene forced her tongue to a narrow point and inserted the soft, fleshy spear into Nancy's quivering, welcoming flesh. She swirled her tongue in tiny circles testing the circumference of her enclosure, and brought gasps of pleasure to Nancy's lips. "My clit, suck my clit, you slut," Nancy shrieked as the tongue probed her full length and began a slow retreat. Oh, Lord, help me, Imogene prayed, and the cold, sharp claws of desperate dread tore at her heart. Show it to me, give me a sign, something, she begged silently for aid in her efforts to obey the woman; her tongue probed blindly, frantically and futilely thrusting into every nook and cranny, every tiny opening, like a snake hunting dinner in a prairie dog town. The object of her search, her "grail," was elusive, and her tongue thrashed inefficiently in Nancy's sopping trough. Oh sure, she had her own, and she knew exactly where it was. She had pinpointed its location years before, and the knowledge had served her well at times, but someone else's? Well, that was another story; everybody's different, aren't they? "Oh, hell, there, there it is, dammit," Nancy mouthed huskily as her hands positioned Imogene's face and lips. Nancy had bent her knees and widened her thighs, and she held Imogene's head with both hands and moved it around against her crotch as though she was rubbing herself between the legs with a basketball. Imogene relaxed and accepted Nancy's guidance. Nancy rolled her hips against the pressure of Imogene's mouth, and the girl felt Nancy's velvet wetness slipping easily up and down under her lips. She meshed with Nancy, and, like precision gears in a well-oiled machine, they engaged and moved together as one. Her lips pressed, opening the divide, and she thrust out her tongue, a slippery ramp for Nancy to ride. Nancy ground against her and Imogene felt her lips trip over a tiny bump. "Yes," Nancy gasped as Imogene's lip rode over the little hump. "Yes," she gasped again as Imogene again felt the hardening knot wriggle by her pressing lips. "There, there, yes, yes, that's it," the older woman chanted as she drug Imogene's mouth into position over the expanding bump, and she thrust her hips forcefully toward the kneeling woman's face. That must be it, Imogene thought in wonder, and, tentatively, she tapped the knot with the tip of her tongue. "Oh, God, yes, do that," Nancy gurgled hotly in response. Imogene licked the spot again and felt Nancy's hips jerk responsively. She licked it again and felt it hardening under her tongue. It was small and fleshy, like a thick button, and it rolled slightly when her tongue passed over it. She circled it with the tip of her tongue and felt Nancy shudder in delight; the button expanded, swelling and lengthening. She licked it again, and Nancy's hips jerked toward her face trying to force the tiny thing deeper into her mouth. "Yes, damn you," Nancy screamed urgently, and her fingers, racked by her exquisite agony, twisted Imogene's hair painfully. So this is what all the fuss is about, Imogene thought dreamily. It wasn't so bad; not nearly as bad as she had imagined it would be. Nancy's wetness flowed over her face and into her mouth, a nearly tasteless stream of emollients that softened her lips and tongue to the consistency of warm butter and washed away her anxiety like a soothing balm. Astonishingly, she found the act, aside from the single, obvious, physical difference, not too dissimilar from sucking Billy; in fact, in terms of the responses provoked, the acts were identical. The moans and squeals were the same, and so was the wild hunching and jerking of the hips; the hands pulling her head, guiding her face into contact with her partner's loins, were just the same, and, with her eyes closed, she knew she could not have guessed if it was Billy or Nancy between her lips. The discovery of some common ground between the present and her experience reassured the girl and abated her fearsome loathing. "It's just sex," she reminded herself, and her hands slipped up Nancy's thighs to cup the firm globes of the woman's trembling ass. "Oh, baby," Nancy gurgled as Imogene palmed her buttocks and began exerting pressure to complete their union. Imogene sought the button with her lips and found it elongated and distended. It was swollen with lust, engorged like a tiny penis, and the size and texture of it reminded her of a newborn's finger. She carefully closed her teeth on the little stalk of flesh and scraped it gently. Billy had loved it when she did that, she remembered dimly, and she repeated the maneuver. "Arrrrrrgh," Nancy moaned in delight and tried to widen her stance. Imogene turned her head a little to the side and opened her mouth as wide as she could. She found the turgid little pole and centered her mouth above it. Her mouth enveloped Nancy's lips, and her lips made contact with the smoothly shaved skin of the woman's mons. She sucked gently to make a vacuum, and a seal was made between her lips and Nancy's groin. She sucked harder and Nancy's tender flesh filled the open cavity of her mouth. She sucked again, then again, and established a rhythm with her mouth. Her tongue swam through Nancy's thickening folds and stroked the wavering stalk. She maintained her rhythm, suck and stroke, suck and stroke, and her lips churned against Nancy's flesh in willing, if not eager, submission. Her cupping hands pulled Nancy to her face, and her fingertips delved into the crease between the jiggling moons. "Yessssss," purred Nancy, and her hands, their task of pulling the two together having been assumed by Imogene's hands, were free to splay across her abdomen, and her fingertips gingerly explored the wet seal of Imogene's lips upon her mons. Imogene sucked harder and felt Nancy's lips thicken with a rush of hot blood. She withdrew her tongue and chewed the fattening lips with sharp teeth, and the hard little man within the folds expanded in the fierce suction. "Mmmmmmmm," Nancy mewed as the white-hot flames of passion flared in her core. Billy liked it when she sucked him with her tongue, Imogene remembered, and she lifted her mouth, taking a breath in preparation. Her fingers clawed across Nancy's thighs toward her loins. They dove into the narrow stripe of hair and seized her slippery lips, pulling them apart. Her warm breath seared exposed nerve endings and flowed over the little man who stood, quaking with anticipation, in the bow of his little boat. She stretched Nancy's flesh, peeling her lips back like the rind of an orange, and pressed her lips against the smooth, flat expanse of exposed tissue. Her tongue probed for and found the taut stalk then led it through the close circle of her lips. She sucked it like she had sucked Billy when he was near the end and licked the tip with the broad, flat surface of her tongue. "Ooooooh Godddddddddd, yessssssss," Nancy howled, and her fingers pulled at her tingling nipples through the fabric of her blouse. Imogene sucked harder, and the stalk stretched to enter her mouth. She licked its length and felt Nancy quake. She sucked again, and realized that Nancy hadn't stopped quivering. She sucked harder and heard Nancy screaming above her. She was caught up in the heat of the moment, in the heady excitement of Nancy's uncontrollable arousal; she was a snowball headed down hill, and she was gathering snow as she careened along. She knew what she was doing now; this wasn't some ghost of Billy past, this was real, it was now, and her heart raced to keep pace with Nancy's urgency. She thrilled to the knowledge of her capability; the woman towering above her was shuddering without respite, jerking and twitching in feverish response to her every touch, and she felt alive. Her whole body awoke to an unknown, primal sexual compulsion; her lips and hips, tongue and toes, her shoulders and thighs, her knees and fingers, all were aflame with her sexual energy, and at her core, deep in her loins, the eternal flame of her lust erupted in a blaze of newly discovered fuel. "Ohhhhhhhhh," Nancy sighed as Imogene sucked her to the threshold of exquisite release. Imogene caressed the woman with her velvet tongue, and let her fingers climb the sculptured column of her thigh toward the tinderbox above. Her fingers skated through slick lubricants that had flowed onto the woman's inner thighs, and they glided effortlessly over that wet skin. She sucked and touched her between the legs with her fingertips. Nancy gasped and dipped her hips toward the projecting points of Imogene's fingers. She sucked and pushed her fingers upward, and they slipped without resistance into Nancy's fevered opening. "Oh, God, yes, fingerfuck me, too," the woman breathed ecstatically, when she felt the probing fingers. Ohmygod, Imogene gasped to herself in awed amazement as her fingers entered that forbidden domain for the first time in her experience. The heat, the clasping closeness of pulsating flesh surrounding her finger made her dizzy with wonder, and, driven by an insatiable, unfamiliar longing, she plunged her digit fully into the flooding depths. She moved her hand, and Nancy's lips clung to her like a wet swimsuit. She sucked and pulled her finger out, and Nancy protested with a moan. She sucked again, and inserted two fingers. They slid easily into the woman's opening, and she steadied her hand, while the woman above her gyrated her hips, forcing the fingers to slither in and out in a cadence that mirrored the motion of Imogene's sucking lips. "Goddamn, Imogene, you're gonna make a believer out of me yet," Nancy mouthed in ecstasy. Imogene sucked Nancy with genuine relish, and her fingers slithered effortlessly in and out of the woman's hot fissure. Nancy's lubrication flowed out of her like honey from a tipped pot, and trickled down Imogene's hand and arm. "More fingers," Nancy gushed. Imogene kept her mouth pressed against Nancy's loins, sucking steadily, and extended another finger. It brushed the portal, where its neighbors were lodged, and Nancy lunged at it with her hips. Three slender fingers with tips of lacquered crimson pierced her loins in answer to her plea. "Aaaaaaaa, yessssssss," she mouthed excitedly. Imogene sucked and spread her three fingers, blindly measuring the capacity of the enclosing vault. Marvelously textured surfaces slipped past the reconnoitering tips of her fingers as she tried to probe that tunnel from mouth to end. She found and circled the rubbery opening of the cervix, and wiggled one finely pointed nail into its tiny aperture. "Oh, God," Nancy moaned, "More; I want more." Imogene was flushed with her own excitement. She licked the little man for luck and uncurled her little finger. Four fingers tightly bunched together in a soldier's salute make a formidable probe, she thought, but the ease with which Nancy accepted the intrusion astounded her again. She thrust her fingers upward, fully expecting resistance and impediment, but she found none and slid easily into the gaping slit. Her progress was stopped only by her thumb, which projected to the side and refused to follow its slender sisters. She flexed her fingers within the tube and milked Nancy's wetness into her palm. She rotated her hand and scoured the tender walls with the pads of her fingers, and was lost in the wonder of her discoveries, till Nancy's insistent cry penetrated the bliss: "Make a fist, Imogene. Make a fist and fuck me with it." Imogene sucked and mashed the little man with her lips, but he wasn't so little any more. He was fat and thick, engorged and stiff, like a diminutive penis, and she nearly laughed thinking that's what Billy would probably have felt like in her mouth after the headhunters got finished with him. She sucked Nancy's little cock and groped for the means to comply with her wishes. She closed her hand in a fist, tucking her thumb against the curl of her forefinger, and squeezed. She flexed the muscles in her arm, fusing the sinews in her wrist and making her fist and forearm one continuous, rigid appendage. She had her doubts, but she was eager to please, and she rubbed Nancy's slit with the saw bone edge of her knuckles. "Fuck meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," Nancy wailed impatiently, when Imogene's first attempt failed to achieve penetration. Imogene pushed harder. The little cock in her mouth swelled perceptibly, and she licked it hungrily. Nancy opened, magically, and admitted her. Awesome, she thought, reeling in wonder, as Nancy's body accepted the intrusion of her entire fist. Hot fleshy walls closed in on her from all sides, clinging to her skin, massaging her hand with secret, gripping muscles, and she relaxed her hand a little because it was cramping. She wiggled her fingers some, way down there near the bottom of the well where the water comes in, and she felt Nancy's hands gripping her shoulders for support. She pressed deeper and felt her wrist dragging past the hanging veil of Nancy's lips. "Uuuuugggghhhhhh," Nancy groaned incoherently. She clung helplessly to Imogene's broad shoulders, her body shaking violently and uncontrollably in response to the girl's wanton assault. My God, it's like putting on an elbow-length glove, Imogene thought, nearly dumbstruck, as her arm advanced into the hot sleeve of the woman's body. She pressed and sucked, and felt her arm slipping inexorably upward, sheathing itself in cloying flesh. At length, where her forearm widened near the elbow, she encountered resistance and her progress slowed to a stop. She flexed her fingers and sensed her hand was well above her lips, floating like a fetus somewhere in the woman's abdomen, and she knew, intuitively, that she had reached the woman's depth. She guessed at the process and fastened her lips tightly around the not-so-little man in the boat, and withdrew her arm to the wrist. She sucked hard and pumped her arm once or twice, just a little, an inch or two, then, suddenly, without preamble or warning, she shoved her fist back fully into Nancy's depths. "Ooooooof," Nancy grunted in surprise, like she had been punched in the stomach, which, of course, in a manner of speaking, she had, and she lurched heavily against Imogene. Imogene struggled to remain erect and attached, and she caught Nancy's legs against her shoulders. Nancy staggered against her drunkenly, and while she was unbalanced, Imogene slammed her again with the full length of her arm. "Oh, Jesus, yes," Nancy screamed at the ceiling, as she felt Imogene's fist pummeling her insides. Imogene knelt, sucking, fisting, nearly oblivious to everything but the woman writhing above her, and she didn't hear Archie's anxious voice at first. "Mom? Mom? Are you all right in there? I heard screaming." Archie's voice sounded worried. His words bounced off the walls in the small room like an echo in a canyon and were totally out of place under the circumstances. Confused, nearly incoherent herself, Imogene slowed her movements, and groggily tried to gather her wits for a response. She was in the act of detaching her lips from the woman's sex, when Nancy hurriedly clasped her head in her hands and yanked her back to work. "Shit!" Nancy exclaimed in a daze. "I forgot the goddamn microphone; he's been listening to everything." But then, reconsidering her regret, she continued, "Maybe it's gotten his hottie meter going again, though." "We're fine, Archie; nothing to worry about in here," Nancy called out loudly in the direction of the microphone, then, whispering to Imogene, "Don't you dare stop." Imogene could hardly have stopped, even if Archie had come through the door to tear them apart. She was locked on to the older woman with single-minded purpose, as if the mission was the attainment of her own orgasm. She resumed with renewed, invigorated effort, sucking Nancy's engorged clitoris and thundering her cock-copying fist into her guts with manic intent. Nancy shuddered and felt the progressive paralysis of her orgasm surging upward from the soles of her tingling feet. Her knees grew weak; her muscles turned to warm water. A billowing cloud of ecstasy rose in a bright plume to envelope her loins, and, being driven to incomprehensible delight by the young woman's virginal lips and fingers, she completely forgot the eavesdropping boy and began screaming at the top of her voice. "Oh, shit, yes, yes, fuck me, suck me, you slut, I'm cummmmmmmmmmmmming. Imogene did her part, also forgetting the boy in the heat of the moment, and she bit into the woman's tender flesh in her eagerness to satisfy her cravings, and, with all her reserve, she shoved her arm into Nancy's hot hole with such force that she lifted the woman off her feet. Imogene hadn't the strength, of course, to sustain such a lift, but, in that instant, while Nancy was suspended, impaled, in the air, with Imogene's teeth tearing at the tender flesh of her clit, her orgasm detonated with annihilating force. "Iiiiieeeeeee, Iiiiiiieeeeeeeee, Iiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee," she chanted as successive waves of sweet, boiling sensation swept through her body. She lost equilibrium and staggered to the side. Then, she stumbled, groped wildly and unsuccessfully to catch herself, and, finally, collapsed in a heap, pulling Imogene to the floor with her. They lay still for a minute or two; Imogene listened to Nancy's rapid breathing, and recalled ruefully how she too fought for breath on the infrequent occasions when Rufus had brought her to a similar state of excitation. She put her hand on Nancy's thigh to maintain contact with the woman and extend the moment, and Nancy patted her hand weakly. "I knew it; I knew I had you figured right," the older woman said still a little breathlessly; she had recovered sufficiently to sit up without assistance. Imogene didn't answer; she just blushed, because it embarrassed her to let people see inside her head. She lay on the floor and closed her eyes and tried to convince herself that "it was just sex." "I'm a believer, now, honey; you've convinced me," Nancy said in a confidential whisper. She had pushed herself up the wall and had straightened her blouse and skirt. She braced herself with one hand on the wall and staggered over to the console. She reached up and switched off the microphone. She glanced toward the monitors and muttered to herself, "Damn!" She turned toward Imogene and walked with carefully placed footsteps to the young woman who was lying inertly on the floor by the door. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 14 "Come on, honey; I'll help you up," Nancy said gently, and she stooped to lift Imogene by the armpits, back onto her feet. Imogene blinked blankly and looked a mess. Her face was smeared with Nancy's juices, which had mingled with mascara and lipstick to form a series of strangely colored smears and blotches. Her arm, the one she had used on Nancy, hung limply by her side like an exhausted prick, fittingly, Nancy thought, and it dripped lubricant in a succession of droplets, which splattered darkly onto the carpet. The spiderweb nightie hung off one shoulder, and the panties had a suspicious tear in front near the transparent panel. "You ready to go out there and be nice to my Archie, now?" Nancy inquired, though she already knew the answer. "Yes, ma'am," Imogene replied without hesitation, and she meant it. She might have had to fake it before, but she meant it now. The experience with Nancy had left her depleted and energized at the same time; "hot and bothered," they say, and she was ready for him. She was ready for anything, anything at all that would relieve the terrible yearning in her crotch; anything that would put out the fires in her swollen nipples. Yes, she thought wryly, I'm ready for Archie. "Clean yourself up a little, first; there's towellettes and some makeup in the dressing table there," Nancy said nodding toward the table behind Imogene, where, earlier, she had placed the martini shaker. Imogene cleaned up quickly, sponging her face and arms with "Wet Ones" and drying with disposable towels. She picked a lipstick from among several in the drawer, and colored her lips with a few flicks of her wrist. She picked up a bottle of perfume from the top of the table and looked at the unfamiliar label. She guessed it was imported and expensive, and she dabbed a drop behind her ears and on each wrist. "Put some on your breasts, too, honey," Nancy suggested; she had been watching the process with keen interest. Imogene moistened her forefinger with perfume and drew a wet line from the top of her breast out to the tip of her nipple, then circled the nipple itself, spreading the sweet smelling fluid all over the point. Nancy continued to watch as Imogene repeated the process with her other breast and replaced the stopper in the perfume bottle. "Put a little on your pussy, too; who knows, you might get lucky," Nancy suggested with a wicked grin. Imogene looked at her wanly, and, thinking of Rufus' stolid inclinations, she started to protest that she was never that lucky, but she thought better of it, and went along with the suggestion. She wetted her finger again and pulled her panties out with her dry hand. She plunged her fingers through the tangle of her pubic hairs, and rubbed the perfume in liberally. When she was done, she turned to face Nancy and said, "There, how's that?" "Not bad, baby, but that nightie's got to go; what's left of it, that is." Imogene shrugged nonchalantly, and the jacket slipped off her shoulders and dropped to the floor behind her. She hooked her thumbs in the waist of her panties and shucked them off her hips and down her legs. She stepped out of the panties, and stooped to scoop them up along with the jacket. She handed the wisps of cloth to Nancy, and, faced her unabashedly, for she had come to realize that she couldn’t suck someone's pussy till they came and still be squeamish about having them see her naked. She raised her arms, palms up, to her sides, as if to say, well, here I am, and said, "This better?" "Much," Nancy said huskily. She was staring at the girl hungrily, like their brief encounter hadn't satisfied her completely, and Imogene began to think she might not get to feel Archie's hottie meter just yet after all. Imogene smiled and tried to look enticing. It mattered little to her at that stage what source provided the relief she required; Archie, Nancy, it didn't matter. Hell, she figured, if she didn't get some relief soon, she might have to drive out to the school and jump Rufus' bones right there in his office. That was a thought that cooled the flames of her ardor right quick, and a frown crossed her face. Nancy grinned, almost reading the girl's mind. "See that jar on the table, the white one?" Imogene looked around on the table for a minute without success. "There, the one with the brown label on the side that says `Prolong.' See it?" "Oh, yeah, here it is," Imogene answered picking up the designated jar. "Bring it here." Imogene complied, walking to the woman and handing her the jar. Nancy unscrewed the cap and removed it. The container was filled to the top with a white, creamy substance that looked like cold cream. Nancy dipped two fingers into the jar, scooping out a hefty portion of cream that covered her fingers in a slippery blob. "Spread your legs," she said in a throaty voice. Imogene moved her feet apart and opened her legs. "Wider, squat down a little." Imogene squatted and pushed her knees apart. Her thighs spread open. Nancy stepped closer and reached out to steady the girl with a hand to her shoulder. She leaned forward and brought her hand up between Imogene's legs. Imogene held her breath and waited for the touch of Nancy's fingers. She quivered in anticipation. Her loins burned to be touched, fingered, clawed, whatever Nancy was offering, she was accepting. The cool cream touched her burning flesh, and she recoiled with a surprised moan. "Be still," Nancy urged softly, tightening her grip on Imogene's shoulder. Imogene forced her hips to halt. She licked her lips and felt the slippery tips of Nancy's fingers probing between her legs. She looked at Nancy imploringly for the instant or two it took Nancy to find her opening, then, as she felt Nancy's fingers advancing, her eyelids fluttered shut, and she lifted her chin, moaning, "Oooooooo." Nancy's practiced fingers adroitly deposited the viscid blob within the girl's vault and swiftly massaged the substance into her hot tissues. She worked quickly, twisting her two fingers deep inside the girl with clinical efficiency. She had done pelvic exams before, plenty of times, back when she was in the business, and, most of the time, it was strictly business. Imogene gripped her fingers with eager intensity and groaned. "Am I hurting you, honey? Your pussy's so small, either Rufus has been neglecting you, or he's been fucking you with a broom straw." "No, no," Imogene mouthed breathlessly, "feels good; what is it?" Her snug channel closed tightly around Nancy's fingers as the cream warmed. "`Prolong,' honey; it’s like medicine. It'll numb you some and slow him down, if you can get him up, that is; be good for both of you, trust me." "Oh," Imogene replied noncommittally, since she was ignorant about such things, but she looked at Nancy woefully when she felt the woman's fingers retreating. "It's Archie's turn, baby," the woman sighed with a hint of resignation. She stepped toward the door, drying her hands on a towel as she went. Her hand gripped the doorknob, and she looked at Imogene deliberatively. "Are you ready, then?" "Yes, ma'am," the girl replied, and she drew a breath deeply, and threw her shoulders back to align her posture with her resolve. The knob turned, and Imogene stepped forward without hesitation. Nancy held the door closed till Imogene was standing beside her. "Be nice to him, Imogene; he's just a kid, who looks like a man," she said in a confidential whisper, "Lord only knows why, but He took most of his brains and put them between his legs, like giving a two year old a bulldozer to drive, you might say." Imogene placed her palm against the door, exerting gentle pressure, as if to signal her readiness to proceed. "He'll be fine, Nancy," she reassured the boy's mother matter of factly, "I told you I wanted to make it up to him, and you, and that's what I'm going to do." Nancy released her grip on the knob, and the door swung open. Imogene stepped into the den and shut the door noiselessly behind her. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 15 Imogene stood in the semi-shadows, just outside the illumination of the spotlights, and felt a rush of cool air flowing over her hot, bare skin. Her loins throbbed with the insistent urgency of her desire. The music had stopped, and the den was deathly still. Archie was on the couch, motionless, laying on his back, with his feet on the floor. His arm was thrown across his face, shielding his eyes, and she thought for a moment that he might have dozed off. "Archie?" she called out softly so as not to startle the boy. "What?" he replied tersely, without looking up. "Are you alright?" "I guess." "Are you mad at me?" "No. Why, should I be?" "Oh, I don't know; maybe a little." "How come?" "I thought you might be mad at me, cause I ran out on you like I did." "Forget about it." "So, you were mad?" "It don't matter." "It matters to me, Archie; that's why I came back." "What'd you come back for?" "To say I'm sorry for the way I acted, and to make it up to you." "You can't." "What can't I do, Archie? Apologize?" "Naw." "What? Make it up to you, then?" "Yeah." "Sure I can, if you want me to." "It's too late." "It's never too late to say you're sorry, Archie; to start over." "I can't start over." "Why not, Archie? Don't you want to?" "Not now; it's gone." "What's gone?" she asked apprehensively; she had gone through too much this afternoon, she reminded herself, just to be rejected by some petulant child with his nose out of joint, who couldn't find it in himself to kiss and make up. "It," he replied matter of factly, like he was having to explain the obvious to her. This is weird, she thought, like someone she should have noticed had left the room and everybody but her knew it. She glanced around uncertainly for a minute, but found nothing amiss. "I'm missing something here, Archie," she admitted, "tell me what's gone, please." "It!" he repeated impatiently, still without moving. She studied him for another minute, keenly aware that her opportunity was in danger of slipping from her grasp. Well, she reasoned, he was about as communicative as a two year old, his mother got that part right, at least... She gasped in sudden recognition, "it," of course, "it." She stepped toward the center of the room, padding silently on bare feet till she was standing about in front of the boy. His bare legs were slightly parted, and his member, deflated now like a punctured tire but still impressive, was snoozing inertly between his thighs. "Oh, you mean, your, ah," she groped to recall his expression, "your `meter,' don't you?" "Yeah, that's `it.'" She smiled, touched by his unexpected backwardness. "It's OK, Archie, I can fix it; it'll come back." "How do you know it'll come back?" "Cause, Archie, I know what to do. I know how to make it feel good, so it'll come back good as new." "It won't." "Sure it will," she cajoled patiently, "if you give me a chance." "It don't hardly ever," he said with disappointment evident in his voice. "What?" she replied, a little perplexed. "It don't come back, hardly ever," he repeated. "You mean?" She was trying to feel him out, as it were. "When it goes away, usually it's gone for two or three days before it'll come back." "Archie?" she began. She was becoming suspicious. Most boys his age, she remembered, didn't take days to recover; heck, she could drain Billy dry, and he'd be right back in ten minutes, begging her to do it again. "Archie, you didn't do anything while I was gone, did you? You know, like touching it to make it go away?" "Naw," he denied flatly. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure. That's kid's stuff; mom made me stop doing that stuff a long time ago." He was pretty convincing, but he still hadn't looked at her. "You do what your mama wants, don't you, Archie?" Her voice was gently soothing; she was trying to keep him calm. She had almost no practical experience in the matter, to speak of, but she, along with the rest of the universe, had heard enough from Bob Dole about "E.D.," to have a general idea about Archie's predicament. "Yeah," he responded, brightening some. That makes her proud of you, doesn't it?" "Yeah," he acknowledged. "You told me that it comes back sometimes, is that right?" "Yeah, sometimes." "What would you say, Archie, if I told you that your mama wanted me to help you get it back, right now, so you don't have to wait two or three days." "Really?" "That's what she said, Archie. And, you want to know what else she said?" "What?" he asked earnestly. "She said, she knew you and I could do it, cause you've done it before, you know, made it come back, when you thought it was gone." "She said that?" "That's right, Archie. She said all you need is a little help." "Really?" "Yes, just a little help, and she wants me to help you, Archie. Would you like that? Will you let me help you get it back?" "I don't know, Mrs. Justice," he responded equivocally. He remained hesitant, but he had called her by name, and she sensed a turning point of sorts had been reached. "It would make your mama very happy, Archie, and me, too," she coaxed gently. "I, I," he stammered indecisively. "Archie!" she broke in insistently. "What?" "Look at me." Her tone was firm, but not overbearing. She took a couple of steps toward the boy and stopped under the spotlight nearest the couch. He hadn't moved, and his arm remained over his face, covering his eyes. He resisted her, out of fear, she guessed trying to sympathize, fear of failure, fear of disappointment, but since she had never depended upon an erection of her own for satisfaction, it was nearly impossible for her to estimate the power of the boy's reluctance. "Look at me, please, Archie." She was close enough that a whisper was sufficient. Still, he didn't move, so she took a step closer. She reached out with her foot and touched his forefoot with her toes. He stirred a little, restlessly, and she repeated her request: "Archie, look at me." Finally, she thought, as the boy raised his arm and lifted his head to peer at her across his chest. She took a step back to stand in the light so he could see her better. "I took off my clothes for you, Archie," she breathed in her sexiest, husky voice. The boy's eyes widened appreciatively. He raised himself on his elbows for a better view, and she turned for him in a pirouette with her arms extended. "Do you like what you see, Archie?" "Oh, yes ma'am; you're real pretty, Mrs. Justice." "Oh, Archie," she laughed gently, "When I'm naked, honey, I'm just Gene, OK?" "Yes, ma'am," he nodded. "You said I was a hottie before." "Yeah." "I still am, you know; I’m even hotter now than I was before." "You don't look like you're so hot, I mean, just standing there." "You can't always tell how hot a woman is, just by the way she moves, Archie." She smiled and winked at him seductively. He tried to grin back, but couldn't think of a response, so she took a step toward him and bent to take his hand in hers. She pulled, tugging his arm, and said, "Come on, big boy, sit up and pay attention." He allowed himself to be pulled upright, and she dropped his hand. She raked her fingers through his hair, and her knee brushed his leg. "Relax, honey," she said softly, "it'll be alright; we're gonna have some fun, you and me." He watched her doubtfully, and she stepped back into the light. Her hands rose to cup her breasts, and she thumbed her taut nipples. "You like my breasts, don't you, Archie," she said, huskily confirming the returning sparkle in his eyes. She squeezed and her flesh oozed between her fingers. Her nipples were hard, still distended as a result of her earlier experiences, and they burned with desire. "Yeah," he said, and his eyes were fixed on her hands as they massaged her firm breasts. She pinched her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and pulled them toward him, stretching and lifting the throbbing cones for him to see. "Oh, Archie," she gushed with auto-erotic tension, "It feels sooooo goood when they're squeezed and pulled like this. I wanted you to do it before, you know, earlier, when I was in here modeling. I wanted you to play with my tits and make me feel good then, baby. Why didn't you?" "I couldn't," he answered, staring at her kneading fingers. "Why, Archie, why? Didn't you like them?" She pouted and tried to sound truly disappointed. "I ain't supposed to; it's the rules," he replied mysteriously. "Oh," she said like she understood, and, then, she pointed with both her forefingers toward her groin and said, "What about this, Archie?" indicating the tuft of hair between her legs. Her hands fluttered on her stomach for an instant, then slid down and pulled her lips apart, exposing her hot, pink gash to the surprised boy. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she reminded herself in justification for her utterly wanton behavior. "You like my pussy, Archie? It was all hot and wet for you earlier, you know. I saw you looking at it, and I wanted you to touch me. I wanted to feel your fingers in me, Archie. I wanted you to fingerfuck my pussy, baby, but you didn't, and I was so disappointed. Was that against the rules too, baby?" "Yeah," he groaned without taking his eyes off her exposed flesh. He squirmed uncomfortably on the couch, but she could detect no sign of arousal. "You know what I really wanted? What I really wanted you to do?" "What?" He leaned forward, staring, and he licked his lips involuntarily when her fingers began to move. "I wanted you to touch my clitoris, just like this," she whispered softly, and she began stroking herself with her finger. "Just like that, baby; it feels so good," she gasped hotly and rolled her hips to accentuate the motion of her finger. He stared, and his tongue pushed against his teeth. A tiny drop of spittle drooled off his lip, but he failed to notice, and it trickled down his chin making him appear slightly Mongoloid. She masturbated for him, writhing in nearly pantomimed excitement, and appraised him surreptitiously for a physical reaction. She panted, and took a step closer. They were nearly touching, and he watched her dancing fingers from a foot away. She took a chance and slid her finger down her slit and pushed it into her void. "Yessss," she hissed hotly as it disappeared, and she spoke his name, "Archie!" "Huh?" He was too preoccupied for conversation. "What I really wanted..." she panted. "Huh?" "Was to feel your big cock sliding up in me just like my finger's doin’ right now." "Ugh." "Would you like that, Archie?" She duck-walked the final inches toward the boy, awkwardly holding herself open with one hand and fingering herself with the other. He stared transfixed at her plunging fingers. She was like a hypnotist, unable to stop swinging the watch for fear of breaking the spell and waking the patient. "Yeah," he sputtered. "I wanted you to do it then, Archie; I wanted you to fuck me with that big cock of yours, but you didn't." Her finger plunged in and out, and she was close enough to have wiped it on his chin if she had wanted. "You should have given it to me, Archie, I wanted it bad," she moaned. "You wouldn't touch it," he said, grimacing at the memory of her rejection. "You got to touch it first." "Is that your rule, Archie? The girl has to touch it first, before you fuck her with it?" "Mama's rule," he said, licking his lips, "model's gotta touch it first, before I do anything." "I see," she said, "now I understand." "I can't touch the models first; it's a rule," he stated as though reciting a stanza of poetry by rote. "I'll touch it now, Archie, if you'll let me." He remained flaccid, but she had hope; he clearly was responding to the erotic exchange. "It's gone, Mrs..., Gene," he said miserably, reporting the obvious. "Do you have to be hard first, Archie, before I can touch it? Is that another rule?" "Uh, no," he replied shaking his head in confusion. It almost never happened that way; he was always hard first, and he would show himself, and they would stare at him in shock, and if they overcame their fear or scruples or whatever and touched him, then he could do what ever he wanted to with them. That was the way it worked, mostly. "Can I touch it, Archie? Will you let me?" "Mrs..., Gene," he sobbed. Fear clutched his gut, strangling his desire; he could neither advance nor retreat. Carpe Cock, she paraphrased mentally, and she groped the boy as he sat in helpless paralysis on the couch. "Unk," he grunted as her warm fingers, still wet with her juices, touched him. He squirmed uneasily, but didn't push her away. That's a start, she thought hopefully, and her fingers curled around the boy's sleeping member and slipped cautiously under its head. She stroked it with her thumb, as she had stroked her nipple, only its texture was softer, smoother and felt silky to her touch. She lifted gently to get a sense of the heft of the thing. It was heavy, a fleshy dead weight lying limply across her palm, and he astonished her. My, my, my, she marveled as she stroked the thing, and the walls of her pussy convulsed in apprehension. She moved between his knees and pushed his legs apart with her own. She lifted his member by the head and inspected it, much like she imagined the Crocodile Hunter might examine a captured python. She closed her hand, squeezing the head, testing for telltale resilience, but he was quiescent. "You can touch me now, Archie," she said, and she moved to straddle one of his legs so he could do so. "I, uh, Gene," he stammered, hesitating again. "It's OK, honey. I'm touching you, so you can touch me, too. Don't you want to? Don't you want to see how hot and wet I am for you, baby?" "Gene," he whispered in awe of her, but he reached out and tentatively touched her belly. His fingers barely touched her skin, tickling maddeningly, and she hungered for him. Her loins ached with her need, and she was near to fainting with desire. Here she was, holding the most magnificent cock she had ever seen, stroking and rubbing the damn thing, and she couldn't even get a finger to stroke her throbbing cunt. "Touch meeeeeeee, Archie," she wailed earnestly, and she yanked on his limp prick to drive home the extent of her need. "I, I," he stammered woefully. His fingers wandered aimlessly across her belly, hanging back, avoiding contact with her lush growth of hair and driving her mad with desire. "Archie, here," she panted, "let me show you." She pushed his hand down with her own, directing him between her legs. She spread, opening herself and thrust his hand against her crotch. His fingers pressed into her curls, and she held him there, letting him feel the heat of her body. "You see? Can you feel how hot I am, baby?" she asked eagerly. The boy fumbled with her amateurishly, his fingers flipping her exposed lips ineffectually, and she was confused, because Rufus had spoken more than once of his reputation with the girls. She held his hand against her body and waited patiently for him to react. She felt some sympathy for the boy, since she, herself, only moments before had felt lost and confused when confronted by something profoundly unfamiliar. "You've played with a woman's pussy before, haven't you?" she asked the boy, whose ignorance was becoming more apparent with each passing moment. She sensed his fingers had failed to establish a purpose and asked him pointedly, "You do know how to do it, right?" "Uh, I, uh, think so, Mrs..., uh, Gene," he replied with sufficient hesitation that she immediately realized he was clueless and, worse, afraid of her. She wavered for a moment, a little uncertain herself about how best to win the boy's trust and confidence. Like a two year old with a bulldozer, his mother had said; well, she thought, even two year olds like to play at something. "Archie, honey," she cooed at him, ignoring the nearly immobile fingers between her legs. "Yeah, Gene." "You've been with women, lots of times." "Yeah." "What do you like to do with them the most; what's your favorite thing to do?" "Fuck `em," he said with conviction, "I like fucking." This time she could detect no hesitation. "What do you do before you fuck, Archie? What do you do first?" "Nuthin." "Nothing?" she echoed incredulously. There must be a communications gap here, she thought. "Well, you've got to do something, honey, otherwise neither one of you's gonna be ready, and I expect any girl you're with is gonna want to be real ready before she takes on that thing of yours." "Huh?" "Oh hell, fugedabowdit," she answered a little impatiently, and she considered taking a new tack. "You sound just like my mom." "Oh great, Archie, that turns me on," she said sarcastically. "Me, too," he answered earnestly. Imogene looked at him a little funny at that remark, but she dismissed the implication. She brightened a little at the discovery that something, although she wasn't entirely sure what, excited the boy. "What else turns you on?" she asked. "Pictures," he said with considerable enthusiasm. "You like to look at pictures?" "Yeah, and movies, too." "Of what, Archie? What kind of pictures and movies do you like to look at?" He looked at her like that was the silliest question he had ever heard: he put that one right up there with the one, you want just the cone, or do you want ice cream on it, too? He laughed and said, "fucking, of course." "Anything else?" "Yeah, models, like you did." She was becoming exasperated; the key to unlocking this boy was becoming harder and harder to find. "Archie," she began, "what else turns you on, honey, besides movies and pictures." "Nuthin, much," he answered wearily; he was finding the questioning tiresome, and it was getting close to time for his favorite afternoon cartoon shows to start. "Well, then, my friend," she began with some reluctance, "I guess you're out of luck, cause I left all my porn pictures at home this morning. `Fraid it didn't occur to me they might come in handy at my luncheon with your mama today." Sarcasm, of course, is entirely wasted on Archie, as are most sentences of more than three or four words; he liked simple and declarative sentences, and, if you ever were to diagram one of the sentences he understands best, you better be prepared to limit yourself to one real short, straight line with nothing dangling from it. "You got pictures at your house?" "Right, Archie; most of them are framed, hanging on the living room wall right next to my mom and dad," she lied. "No shit," he exclaimed with genuine excitement, "that's really cool, Gene." "I'm so glad you're impressed," she answered flatly. It's not easy to be patronizing when someone has his hand on your pussy, even ineffectually, but I'm managing pretty well, she thought. "We got pictures and movies and all kinds of stuff," he said with enthusiasm, as though he had discovered a common interest. "Really?" she answered, playing along for the moment. "Yeah," he said, and then he lowered his voice and whispered conspiratorially, "We even got a video of you modeling." "Whaaaat?" she gasped in disbelief, but, then she remembered the bank of TV monitors in the dressing room and the obvious live feed from the cameras in the den. Oh my God, she thought recoiling in shock, Nancy, you evil bitch, you were taping me the whole time? Her head swiveled around, her eyes sweeping the room for evidence of cameras, but, of course, they were too well hidden to be detected. Her mind raced, agonizing, trying to recall her performance, how bad it was, how depraved; could she explain it, dismiss it as a prank or misunderstanding? And, and, ohmygod, if she taped that, she's probably taped this too, oh God, I was holding him, playing with him, talking to him. Shit, shit, shit. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 15 "Yeah, it's all on video tape. You want to watch yourself model? You can watch it with me?" "Archie," she protested. What in hell was she going to do now, she wondered as she struggled to deal with her initial shock. "Not all of it; just the nightie stuff," he responded. Imogene, for all her faults and shortcomings, ambition not being the least of them, was a pretty cool-headed and calculating woman in her own right, and it wasn't often that she got too rattled to think her situation through. She had faults aplenty, but she also had some virtues, and, among them was an overriding pragmatism, which inevitably came to her rescue in times like these. So what if she's got a tape, she rationalized, I came out here of my own free will; hell, I even sucked her pussy for her just for the privilege of coming out here to fuck her son, so what difference is a tape going to make to me now? I mean it's not like she's using it against me or to get me to do anything I didn't agree to do without knowing about the tape; I don't care, I made my decision already, didn't I. "OK, Archie," she said, collecting herself, "I'll watch your video with you." "No shit? Awesome!" he exclaimed, making no effort to conceal his delight. "Mom!" he yelled excitedly toward the ceiling. "Yes, son," Nancy's reply floated back instantly from an indefinite location. Imogene realized immediately that Nancy must have been observing them on the monitors in the dressing room, and she searched in vain again for the source of that voice. She surprised herself a little, being so calm about learning that Nancy was watching her seduce her son, but she figured they had become partners in that endeavor anyway, so it didn't make much sense now to object to Nancy's monitoring of her progress. "Run Gene's tape mama," he shouted. "All of it?" Nancy's voice boomed back from the ceiling. "Naw, just the nightie part." "Gimme a minute," she replied. Archie scooted over and spoke excitedly, "Here, Gene, sit down; it'll take her a minute or two to rewind the tape to the right place." He was patting the couch and tugging at her arm eagerly. She sat gingerly and waited expectantly for the show to begin. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 16 In a couple of minutes, Nancy's voice boomed over the hidden speakers again, "OK, Archie, I got it set up for you. I'll put it on the overhead." "Oh boy, Gene," he squealed happily, pointing toward the ceiling above the couch, "look." She stared up in amazement as a twelve by twelve foot section of ceiling retracted into the surrounding ceiling and an immense television screen, being lowered slowly by whirring electric motors, descended into the room. The giant screen lowered to within ten feet or so of the bed-like couch and hesitated. The bottom of the screen lurched once, then descended smoothly another foot or so, tilting the screen slightly. She gaped in amazement at the technology, and the expense of such an apparatus, and Archie laughed, "Neat huh? She tilts it like that so we can lay down and prop up on pillows and see it better. Come on." He pulled himself toward the back of the couch, crawling with his elbows, and she followed him. He picked up a pillow and handed it to her, saying, "Here, you can have this one," and he pulled another one and placed it under his head. She followed suit, placing her pillow next to his and laying back with her head on it. Archie was laying with his hands behind his head, all stretched out and comfortable, "Ain't this great," he exclaimed, just as the screen above them flickered to life. Imogene didn't respond; her eyes were glued to the suspended screen. A few indefinite lines zapped across the screen as the electrons energized. She looked beyond the screen and noticed the spotlights in the ceiling dimming, while the screen was illuminating. The room darkened and, suddenly, an image of herself, huge, a nine foot, nearly naked Amazon, loomed in the darkness above the couch. "God," she breathed softly as she recognized herself slinking out of the dressing room. "See! It's you; just like I said," he said with some satisfaction at having been proven right. She watched herself slither across the room, her image looming larger and larger as she approached the couch, and realized she was seeing herself as Archie had seen her earlier. Suddenly, just when she had that camera angle figured out, the perspective changed, and she was standing with her back to the camera. A moment later the perspective changed again, and she realized that she was watching a sort of montage of footage, that had been shot from different angles, from different places in the room. On some shots the camera zoomed in on her, zeroing in on her breasts, or face or crotch, and she was shocked at the detail she could see in a ten foot by ten foot close-up of her pussy. Archie lay quietly, obviously enjoying the show and scarcely moved a muscle. He stared trance-like at the whirling, undulating figure on the overhead, largely ignoring the live woman lying beside him. His eyes tracked the image on the screen as she moved from edge to edge and back. I don't remember crossing the room that many times, Imogene thought, but I guess I must have hung around cause it was making him so happy. She could hear his cheers and clapping on the soundtrack, as she made her fourth pass in front of the couch and headed toward the doorway to the dressing room. "Look, look," he whispered urgently, when he detected her attention wavering, "she always shows this part right after the first nightie." "Look at whaaaaaa...." she started to ask, then, gasped, "Oh, Jesus," when, just as her image disappeared into the dressing room, the camera panned to Archie, who was in the act of lifting the edge of his towel, and it zoomed in on the boy's crotch. He was fully erect and pointing straight up. The boy clasped himself with his hand, his fingers not nearly encircling the thing and shook it proudly in the direction of the zooming camera. The image approached, grew larger, and loomed in the void above her like the prow of a huge ship, and she felt like she was about to be overrun by the bow of the ghost of the Titanic. "My God," she said in awe. "That's me." "I know, I know." "I'm big, aren't I," he whispered proudly. "No kidding," she whistled, and stared goggle-eyed at his hand moving, rubbing himself, above her, and she could almost count the hairs on the back of his hand. Archie continued to lay still, content to watch himself stroking his cock in some weird voyeuristic ritual, while he waited for the model's return. Imogene inched toward the boy, and their hips touched. She watched his hand rising in the image above her and whispered, "Does it feel good to touch it like that?" "Yeah," he replied, but he sounded distant, mentally detached. "You didn't touch it while I was there, though." "I'm not supposed to show it to you till mama says." "Mama says? How'd she tell you? I was here all the time, and I didn't hear her say anything." "She says when you're ready to see it." "She told you when I was ready?" "Yeah." "How, Archie? How'd she do that?" "The light. She turns on the light." "What light, Archie?" "The green light over the door to the dressing room." Imogene raised her head and looked toward the dressing room, searching for the light. "You can't see it, cause its not on, now." "Oh?" "She turns it on from inside the dressing room, when she says you're ready." "I see." "Then, I can show it any time after I see the light come on." "How come the light's not on now?" "Means you're not ready." "The hell I'm not," the frustrated girl snapped; the steel spring of her passion wound another turn tighter, and her tension was obvious in her tone as she continued, "Tell her to turn it on, Archie. Tell her." "Won't do no good; she don't listen to me about that," he replied, matter of factly acknowledging his lack of authority. "Well, you listen to me then, Archie. I'm ready; I'm readier than I have ever been; ya hear me?" Reaching for him as she spoke, she let her lust choose her words and hissed hotly, "I'm ready for you to shove this big prick of yours up my hot, wet pussy and fuck me, now." "But, but," he protested weakly, "mamma's got to..." "Mamma's got nothing to do with it, Archie; this is just between you and me, baby; when a woman tells you she's ready for you, nothing else matters; not what your mamma says, not what you think you know, not even that the light's not on. Do you understand?" She rolled the boy's sex back and forth across his belly much like she rolled out the dough for a mess of Rufus' biscuits. Her fingertips pressed lightly into his soft flesh striving to coax a favorable response, and she prayed for him to strengthen for her. Her loins boiled and released a fresh flow of her juices, but he remained inert, and, of course, he had no idea what she was talking about. "But, mamma," he blurted, and his features showed the pain of his confusion. "Shit," she wailed in exasperation, and her nails raked him making him wince. "Ow; that hurt." "Be nice; you promised," Nancy's voice crackled from the speakers overhead. "I'm too hot to be nice, damnit," Imogene snapped back peevishly, "how's about turning on the fucking light, so's Junior here can wake up for me?" "The light?" "Hell, yes, Nancy, the light over the door that tells him it's OK to play. Evidently, you've turned him into Pavlov's dog with that damn light, and he can't get it up without it." "My son is not a `dog,'" Nancy boomed back taking instant offense to the unflattering characterization. "Nancyyyyy, not a dog, `Pavlov's dog,' it's a psychological term," Imogene responded trying to moderate her voice to a more patient tone. As she spoke, she nervously yanked Archie's member to and fro like she was the shifting gears on her BMW. Archie flopped back and forth on the couch trying to anticipate Imogene's tugs and jerks, following her hand to relieve the strain she was putting on his flaccid member. "`Pavlov, Smavlov,' what's the difference? A dog's a dog in my book," the older woman sniffed indignantly. "Nancyyyyy, please, the light!" Imogene cried out in near desperation, abandoning the attempt to explain conditioned responses. "The light's on, dearie; been on all along." "Noooo," Imogene protested, "there's no light, Nancy, really. Imogene heard a faint whirring noise as Nancy repositioned one of the traversable cameras, then a pause before the sound system coughed to life again: "You're right, honey, the damn light's out. It must have burned out in the last few minutes, `cause I didn't turn it off. That's too bad, `cause it'll be tomorrow before Jere can get somebody up here to fix it." "Nancyyyyy," Imogene cried out frantically, "can't you fix it, please?" The felicitous shores of Tahiti were fading into the distant skyline where the sky and water met, as though she was caught in some voracious rip tide and was being swept further and further out to open sea. It seemed like the harder she paddled, the further out she drifted, and she felt like she was drowning. She gripped Archie with both hands and kneaded his unresponsive flesh, clinging to him with all the desperation of a castaway clasping a piece of flotsam. "I don't do lightbulbs, honey, or windows, either; it's a status thing." Imogene's hopes sagged, and, for the first time since entering the room, she began seriously to consider the possibility of failure. The dark edge of desolate despair gnawed at the margins of her mind as she mechanically continued trying to ignite the flames of passion in her passive partner. She tightened her grip, wrapping her slender fingers around his mighty bulk and attempted to masturbate him, but he wobbled in her grasp, too soft to accept her caress, and she whimpered in her growing frustration. Archie stared upward intently and ignored the dialogue between the women. Imogene followed his eyes to the screen just as the image of the dressing room door coalesced in the darkness above the couch. She watched as the door opened and saw herself stepping through the doorway. She was wearing the spiderweb nightie, and its wetted panels clung to her strategic points, wickedly revealing her secrets. She was grinning seductively and looking directly at the waiting boy. She advanced in a sultry slink and licked her lips. Behind her, in the darkness on the wall above the doorway, a tiny, solitary green light blinked on and twinkled above her head like the Star of Bethlehem beckoning from the black void of heaven. "Archie, look," she whispered excitedly. "There's the light, right where it's supposed to be, and it's on." "No shit?" the boy replied eagerly, bouncing up on his elbows, and he squinted intently at the tiny green spot on the screen. For an instant the screen went black, and Imogene felt an overpowering urge to scream at Nancy, but, in the next instant, the picture returned, larger and brighter than before, and she realized the older woman had digitally zoomed on the image. Above them, the green bulb, enlarged to the size of a basketball, loomed against the darkened ceiling and gleamed steadily, it's light filling the room with an unearthly, greenish glow. "No shit, Archie," she replied hotly, and her fingers squeezed him to emphasize her desire. "Gene, I," he stammered, his eyes widening in wonder at the blazing signal. "That's not Kryptonite glowing up there and stealing your strength, Superboy," she teased, and ran the tips of her fingers up the sickly green surface of his penis. She felt the thumping pulse of his surging heartbeat, and her own heart quickened. "That's your signal, Archie. It's telling you I'm ready for you; ready for your big cock, baby." "It's so big," he grunted uncomprehendingly, referring to the immense, glowing, green ball that was hovering above them and nearly filling the screen. Nancy, she realized, must have enlarged the image a couple more times, guessing that more is better. And, of course, she was right; Archie was caught in the gravitational pull of that gigantic green moon and already was beginning to feel a surge of tidal forces in his loins. The boy pulsed again, and she felt him beginning to strengthen. "It's so big, cause I want you so bad, Archie," she mouthed hotly into his ear. "Gene," he moaned and lifted his hips. "And, because your mamma wants you to get big, bigger than you've ever been. Don't you see that, Archie?" "Uhuh," he gurgled, nodding eagerly in agreement, and she felt him swelling in her hand. Her tongue swept wetly through the shallow bowl of his ear and he shuddered. She glanced upward and saw that the image of her own barely clad figure had been superimposed on the glowing ball. She was dancing wantonly, utterly heedless of her near nudity, and was crooking her fingers at the boy enticingly. She ached watching the tight points of her nipples bobble with the rhythm of her movements. "Watch me dance, baby, and I'll make your cock all hard again. Would you like that?" Lust, quick and fierce, made her voice husky, and she mouthed the word, "cock" into his ear, like she was conjuring up the name of an elegant French desert. "Yes," he hissed, never taking his eyes from the figure undulating on the screen above him. She leaned toward the boy's loins and lifted his stirring cock to her lips. Palm fronds swayed in the breezes of her mind, and the outbound rip tide began to abate. I'm gonna blow this life raft up right now and, so help me God, I'm gonna ride the big bastard straight to Cancun, she declared to herself as her ovalling lips closed in a wet ring around the tip of the boy's dick. God, he is huge, she marveled as her lips failed to encompass their goal. She tried to relax her jaw and opened her mouth as wide as she could, but, still, she could accommodate only a fraction of the head. Her lips closed around the man/child, and her tongue swept in a wide circle teasing the semi-erect, sensitive tissue. "Ohhhh, Gene," he moaned softly. He throbbed under her fingers, and began swelling in her mouth. His softness expanded within the grip of her lips like a filling balloon, and she teased him with the fluttering tip of her tongue. Oh God, yes, she screamed in silent jubilation, when she felt him lengthen and harden for her. Her loins quivered with desire, and she longed to seize him and stuff him into her body. She lifted her head and whispered, "Does that feel good, baby? Do you like it when Gene licks your big cock?" Before he could respond, she stuck out her tongue and licked the length of him from the tip down to the top of his scrotum. "Yesss," he grunted and jerked his legs apart to allow her access to his balls. "That feels good." She cupped his balls in her palm and lifted them to her lips. She kissed them and licked them, and even tried to gently suck one into her mouth, but it proved to be too large for that, so she contented herself with sucking the loose skin of his sack, while her fingers probed and tickled the boy's perineum. His response was instantaneous and stupendous, and while her head dipped between his thighs, she felt his prodigious presence banging against her shoulder like a restless leg. Her own legs scissored in agitation as she knelt beside the boy and felt the advance of her own arousal. "Do me, too," she gasped, detaching her lips for a heartbeat to express her need, and she swung her leg over his head, straddling the startled boy's face. She returned her attention to his penis, capping the head with her mouth and stabbed the eye with the tip of her tongue, while the soft curls of her pussy brushed his lips and chin. "You smell good," he murmured between her spreading thighs, and she felt the hot wash of his breath on her belly as he spoke. She dropped her belly onto his chest and ground her lips against the boy's slack mouth. "Don't talk, Archie, lick me," she mouthed around the swollen head of his cock. His fingers circled around to the backs of her thighs and tugged to separate her legs. She opened for him, and her crotch settled on his upturned mouth. Her mouth engaged him, licking, chewing, sucking and nibbling his throbbing flesh, demonstrating for him the exquisite titillation her lust demanded in the fragile hope he would respond in kind. She knelt, almost crouching, over his face and guided him to her drooling opening with her hand. She sucked his glans, hollowing her cheeks with the effort like inspiring bellows, and masturbated the tense shaft of his manhood with wide-splayed fingers. The slippery lips of her sex pressed his face, wiggling desperately to entice his tongue. She felt him muttering, lips moving against her pressing flesh, but heard no sounds and was about to rebuke him, when she felt his tongue probing her delicate folds. She groaned happily as his tongue thrust between her thickening lips and nudged the hot button of her clitoris, and rewarded him by quickening the cadence of her stroking fingers. She opened for him, her flower eagerly unfurling its dainty petals to his assault, and he sliced through her wet resistance with his slippery tongue. She gurgled in sheer, primal delight and repaid his homage by licking the weeping eye of his cock till he squirted her mouth full of steaming precum. She gulped and swallowed and her hand rose along the shaft, instinctively expressing another spurt. His hands closed over the slender globes of her ass and pulled her closer to his lips. His tongue, rigid and erect, pierced her to the center of her passion, and she writhed on the penetrating point as his fingertips explored her cleft and teased the tender rosebud of her anus. He swept the length of her from top to bottom and, lifting his head to extend his range, he let the tip of his tongue trail sweet, wet fire across the valley of sensitive flesh under his fingers. "Ohhh, baby," she cooed, responding to the nuclear eruption building in her loins. "Fuck me now, baby. I want to feel what it’s like to have this big cock of yours in my pussy. Oh, God, I'm so hot for you." He gripped her ass cheeks so tightly she nearly squealed in pain, and his tongue gave her bottom another swipe that wetted her from her belly button to the base of her spine, and so sensitive had she become that all she could do was moan, "Oh my God, Archie, fuck me NOW." "OK, OK," he replied just as eagerly, "Let me up, and I will." She scrambled off his face and spun around on her hands and knees so her hips projected past the edge of the couch. "Come on, baby," she urged breathlessly, "Get behind me and give it to me. I want your cock; I want all of it in me, right now." Archie rolled off the couch and positioned himself behind the girl. Her ass bobbled enticingly in her excitement, and he put a hand on one cheek to steady her, while he pointed himself at her dripping slit. He took a step forward, and the tip of his cock nudged the lips his mouth had wetted. Green light glinted dimly off her spit on the head of his prick, and he thrust toward her recklessly, taking her by surprise. "Ugh, baby," she groaned disappointedly as his errant lunge slipped past her opening and expended itself, ineffectually, in the vacant space between her legs. "Open up," he wheezed as he recoiled and repositioned himself. Obligingly, she raised a knee and put her foot on the couch, widening her stance. "Hurry, baby," she urged, when she felt him touch her again, "I can't wait much longer. I want to feel you inside me." He held her with his hand and pulled her toward him till the tip of his cock touched her lips. She felt his urgency in the mounting pressure, and she moaned her desire, "Push." He pressed against her leaning over her back, and he moved his cockhead in little circles in hopes of widening her opening. The friction teased them both mercilessly, and, in desperation, she reached between her legs to spread her lips with her fingertips. Her fingers probed the spot where their bodies merged, and her heart unexpectedly skipped an anxious beat. Too much, she worried as her fingers reconnoitered the circumference of the massive presence pressing against her, and she hesitated. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 16 "Gene, help me, please," he moaned, and the gale-force winds of her arousal swept her fear away. She clawed at her lips, pulling them aside to clear his way. "Ugh," he growled as her curtains parted, and he felt the path before him opening. He looked down through the spreading cleft of her ass, and watched eagerly as she widened to swallow the fat, purple head of his cock. No longer concerned with his aim, he transferred a second hand to her haunches and pulled her toward him. "Oh God, Archie, it's huge," she squalled as the boy's prick bulldozed into her pussy, filling that hot cavern beyond her expectations. He mistook her exclamation and shoved harder, driving her hips forward and nearly toppling the girl onto the couch. She tried to lean back into his thrust to meet him, but gasped, "Oh, God, wait, give me a minute to get used to you." He steadied her and helped her regain her balance. He paused, panting, mentally pawing the ground between her legs like a stallion, and waited for her to recover. He was accustomed to this sort of reaction; they all said the same thing, sooner or later; something like, oh God give it to me, then, when you gave it to them, oh my God, wait, stop giving it to me for a minute. Mommy had told him to be patient. She had showed him how to go slow at first, so he could go faster later, and she had let him practice on her friends, till he got it right, more or less. Imogene was dazzled by the wickedly throbbing presence within her. Never in her life had she even imagined such a feeling, such filling sensations, of being extended far beyond the limits of her endurance, and, yet, also, an aching longing for more. She was incredulous, overwhelmed with the presence of the massive boy inside her, and she wiggled her hips tentatively to determine if she could move at all. He was huge, immense, gigantic, and he pressed against her wet walls like an expanding locomotive, and in her mind, her imagination enlarged him twenty fold. He stretched her tissues, and she tried to relax to accommodate him. Her brain was spinning with delirious passion, and she throbbed with a ravenous hunger to consume the boy in his entirety. She was woman, spelled, W, O, M, A, N, and she wanted a man, she needed a man to fill her voids, to occupy the remote, untested corners and folds of her space, to take her fully and completely, and she pushed back toward the instrument of her fulfillment and moaned rapturously when the shaft shouldered into her expanding aperture. Oh God, she thought deliciously as the huge ram battered down the doors of her resistance; the bigger the man, the better the woman who satisfies him, and one of her fingers slipped off her lip to stroke his progressing column of flesh. "Uhhhh," she gasped, "slow down, baby; take it easy. You're gonna split me in two if you go too fast." Archie grunted and ignored her pleas. Already, he could feel the walls of her vagina spasming along his cock; rhythmic rippling of secret muscles that disclosed her desires and contradicted her protests. He glanced down and estimated that a third of his length was buried in the girl. He pulled back, retracting a portion, and readied himself for a fresh assault. "Noooo, don't stop," she wailed as her vacated spaces deflated and collapsed. It felt like someone had pulled the plug on her and her lights were going out. She reacted instinctively, and her hand flew to his slippery shaft to stop his retreat. He laughed grimly, because he was into the serious part of the business now, and snorted, "I'm big." She buried her face in the cushion to muffle her wanton cries and moaned, "I know, I know," while her fingers frantically masturbated the exposed part of the boy's massive cock. She reached back further, between her legs, straining to extend her arm sufficiently, and smeared her juice and the Prolong cream along the length of his shaft. Sweet Jesus, she marveled, when finally she reached the base and felt his dangling sack, so much left, and, as she stroked him, she felt him thrusting slowly into her channel. "Yessss," she hissed, "I want it. I want all of it. Give it all to me, dammit." As she spoke, her fingers flew up and down, whipping her juices to a froth and stimulating the boy past patience. "Here comes cock for you, Mrs. Justice," the boy grunted, rudely reminding her of her husband. His hands gripped her jutting flanks roughly and held her pinned, while his massive cock, veins popping darkly purple along its distended length, bored into her vitals. It was like helping mamma thread a curtain on a rod, he recalled with a sneer of superiority. The pocket's too small, and the curtain keeps bunching up on the rod, so you have to pull the rod back a little and unbunch the curtain, before you can push the rod all the way through the pocket to the other end. He pulled back a little to unbunch the walls of Imogene's tiny vagina, and then pushed back, aiming for the depths of her tight hole. Then, he did it again, and again. Imogene gasped for breath. She felt like a worm being threaded onto a hook that was ten times too big. She gulped and looked toward her belly, half expecting to see Archie's progress bulging past her navel. God, he is huge, she exclaimed to herself, astounded at her body's ability to admit the boy. Her vaginal muscles were going berserk, jerking spasmodically, twitching erratically, totally unaccustomed to such stimulation and incapable of reacting normally to his presence. She pulsed and convulsed and throbbed, gripping and releasing the massive probe in an utterly debauched massage, and she tried to push the thought of Rufus toward the back of her mind. Poor Rufus, dear Rufus, she remembered vaguely, poking his thing at her like a kid poking a skunk with a stick, racing to his conclusion and running off to leave her, more often than not, spinning toward earth, out of control, like a kite without a tail. What had she been thinking when she first lifted her skirts for him; worse, what had she been thinking when, having lifted them once, she decided to stay around and lift them again? Of course, she acknowledged, as the final inches of Archie's massive shaft bored into her consciousness and shattered her reminiscence, I had to have a ring by spring. "Oh yes, yes, yes," she chanted as he pumped deeper and deeper into her vault. Her fingers teased him, coaxed him, and, then, suddenly, there they were, his balls, dangling in their sack, and she felt the gap between his base and the wide-stretched lips of her pussy closing at last. Her vagina pulsed a violent welcome to the intruder, and she nearly fainted from the sensation as they closed. Archie felt more than saw Imogene accept the complete entry of his throbbing cock. He shut his eyes and pushed until he felt the tight muscles of her butt smack against his belly, and he could go no further. He hung there, imbedded in the girl, feeling the relentless, spastic churning of her pussy, and he shuddered involuntarily. He was near to losing his grip; close to washing his cares away in a deluge of cum, but he knew his mother would be mad if he was too quick. He bit his lip and squinched his eyes tightly closed in an attempt to slow his steed to a gentler canter. From her station in the dressing room, Nancy watched the proceedings with intense interest. She had been amazed when Imogene coaxed another erection out of the kid; something that rarely happened, and, now, she was quick to realize that Archie, ever the hair trigger, was on the verge of emptying the six chambers in his revolver all at once in spite of the Prolong. She was determined to prevent that unfortunate result and reached for the microphone to give him some distraction. "Houston, Houston, this is Apollo Ten, we have docking. I repeat, we have docking." She turned her face from the microphone, so he couldn't hear her laughing, and watched the boy's reaction on the monitor. "Huh, huh?" he croaked, his head wobbling around like a ball on a spring. "I said, `we have docking, Houston,'" she repeated patiently and without a snicker. "Huh," the boy replied vaguely, then, catching on, "Oh, yeah, right, mamma, we're docked." "Take it easy, son, don't rush things. You remember how I showed you before?" "Yeah, but she's tight, mamma, real tight." "Shit, Archie, don't give me that `tight' excuse. They're all tight for you, sonny. You only know two kinds of women; them that's tight and them that's too tight. You know that, so just hold your horses in there." "But she's really tight; not like them others." "Get a grip on yourself, boy," Nancy snapped harshly. Imogene felt like a slab of cheap beef on a meat counter, but she didn't care. Her pussy was churning its way toward a cataclysmic orgasm, and she didn't care much if the boy was there or not when the skyrockets started going off. Finally, she thought, finally, after all the sexy talk about her Billy and her nude, erotic dancing and, of course, that thing she did with, no, to Nancy, finally, after all that arousal, she was going to get the relief she had to have. "OK, OK," he responded without concealing his growing irritation. "Did you cream her up like you're supposed to?" "Of course," Nancy answered smoothly. "Well, then," he began, and, to make certain, he withdrew till just the rim of the head remained in the girl, and he examined the exposed length of his cock for tell-tale streaks of the familiar cream, "what are you worried about?" "Who's worried? I just have about five or six minutes of tape left on the reel, and I don't want you finishing up with tape left. Understand?" "Yeah," he muttered in disgust at the pointless interruption, and, turning his attention back to Imogene, he whispered, "Hang on, Mrs. Justice, here comes cock again." "Oooooffff," Imogene whoofed as the boy slammed into her, driving his full length into her pussy in one fierce lunge. Immediately, without giving her time to adjust or recover, he withdrew almost totally and, then, he slammed her again. "Ooofff, oh my God, oooofff, oh my God, ooooffff, the girl chanted to the boy's driving rhythm. Her pussy was on fire, thrilling to the assault, squeezing, clutching, clinging spasmodically to the thundering, fat cock inside her, and she teetered on the brink of oblivion. Archie drove his spike into her like a demon; his hands, like claws, clamped onto her hips, jerking her toward him with tugs timed to the cadence of his thrusts. Jesus, her mind was reeling, images of organs colliding cataclysmically, enmeshing, consuming, were painted, vividly red and orange, on the blank canvass of her lust, and, in that moment, she gasped as the Truth revealed itself to her. Cock is Power, Cock is Power, the chant repeated itself in her brain in an endless cycle, as he filled her repeatedly, and the fullness of his presence in the deep void between her legs obliterated every sensation but the throbbing in her loins. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 17 Above her, mounting her like the vast stallion he had become, Archie took possession of Imogene's body and mind, heart and soul, and became one with her in the frenzied pursuit of ecstasy. His passion rose to a crescendo, and he stared at his cock, enthralled, as it vanished and reappeared, slick and shiny, dripping with the woman's juices. Shaking with the eager energy of his lust, he licked the spittle from his lips, and his thumbs dug into the crevice between her cheeks. He pulled her cheeks apart, exposing the wrinkled, brown opening of her anus, which winked an acknowledgement as each of his thrusts slammed home. Torrid images crackled in his dim brain as his eyes focused on that tiny, bobbing hole. "Whooooeeee, mamma," he called out excitedly. "She looks just like one of them Florida butterfly ballots, and I'm punchin the ticket for the second hole down." "That'd be Pat Buchanan, Junior," his mother replied, amused. "Darn, I thought so," the boy huffed in disappointment, then, having pondered the matter for a second or two, he continued brightly, "Can I fuck her in the ass, then? I wanna vote for Bush, mamma." "Well, I guess so, son. I can't think of any reason why you shouldn't. Can you?" She often encouraged him to think things through for himself. "I dunno. She might be a Republican, you know. Maybe you don't want me fucking no Republican in the ass, since it'd probably mess her up some." No kidding, Nancy observed wryly to herself, but she humored him and replied, "What makes you think she's a Republican, son?" "`Cause, first thing ole Rufus done when he got to Hardwick was to put ketchup on the menu as a vegetable. He'd put two bottles on every table, and when they gave us hamburgers and fries, he'd report it to the Department of Education as a meat and three lunch, and they'd send more money on account of him being so generous and feedin' us so good. You told me that'as a Republican trick to get by with fudgin' on the school lunch program for poor kids, so I figured Rufus and the missus, here, was Republicans." "Why Archie, you do amaze me sometimes with the way you figure things out," Nancy gushed in surprise. "I'm right, then, aren't I?" he crowed proudly. "You sure are," she answered. Her voice was tinged with pride for the boy and nostalgia for a time long past. "It was Ronnie, that did that, Archie; Ronald Reagan. He was the master ass fucker of all time, boy. Why, like you said, he even fucked millions of little kids outa a nutritious lunch by calling ketchup a vegetable, so he could cut corners on the school lunch program and help pay for the tax cut he gave your daddy and me. My God, when I think of all those no-a-count little shits that he fucked outta their lunch, and the heat he took for it, just to help out folks like us, I could hug his neck or, you know, give him a blowjob or somethin to show my appreciation, but I guess it's too late now, since he probably wouldn't remember what I was doin it for." "You want me to fuck Ronald Reagan, then?" the boy cackled a little incredulously, because he hadn't entirely followed his mothers drift, but he dutifully began to scan Imogene's crack for another suitable hole to lodge a vote for the ex-president his mother revered so much. "I don't think that'll be possible, son; you'll have to settle for Imogene today." "But, if she's a Republican..." the boy answered in a worried tone. "Hell, son, that don't matter. We're Republicans, too. I've told you a thousand times, Republicans assfuck any body, even each other, when they want to." "You mean, I can fuck her in the ass, then, right now?" the boy squealed eagerly, and to test the waters so to speak, he plunged his thumb into Imogene's anus to the first knuckle. "Iiiieeeee, that hurts," Imogene screamed loudly and writhed on the boy's thumb like a speared piglet. "It doesn't much look like it, son. From the sounds of things, she's so tight back there, I am afraid you wouldn't much more than dimple her chad. You wouldn't want that, would you? Your ballot not punched clear through, and your vote thrown out and not counted." "Naw, I guess not," Archie replied reluctantly, but just to be certain, he poked his thumb in to the next knuckle and produced another, louder, howl. Imogene writhed in agony as the boy's stubby thumb probed the nearly dry sheath of her rectum. Her hands clawed the couch desperately, as she tried to crawl away from the awful double penetration, but her pussy clung to the boy's cock so tightly that she couldn't dislodge him. Like a spitted pig over a barbecue pit, she hung from his massive cock, arms and legs dangling helplessly toward the couch, while he toyed with her butthole and the fragile shell of her composure. She snatched up a pillow and sank her teeth into the tasseled fabric, shaking her head like a dog tearing meat off a bone to divert her mind from this unexpected and horrifying onslaught. "Noooo, Archie, please, don't, you'll hurt me," she moaned into the pillow covering her face. He laughed and for response wiggled his thumb deeper into her tight rectum, as though testing the depth of her conviction. Instantly, her pussy convulsed in an uncontrollable spasm that clutched his cock like a pair of hands climbing a rope and telegraphed her depraved desires as clearly as if she had begged him to shove his huge cock up her ass. "Whooeee, mama," he bellowed when he felt her reaction to his probing. "This'un likes it in the ass." To demonstrate his discovery for the cameras, the boy withdrew his thumb to the nail and, then, looking up toward the cameras with a grin, he squealed, "See!" and drove his thumb into the helpless girl's trembling hole till his palm was wedged in her crack. "Don't, please," Imogene yelped, trying her best to sound disgusted, but her pussy massaged his cock with another betraying convulsion of approval, so she wrapped her arms around the pillow and buried her face to hide her shame. She felt his cock move inside her, and she chewed the pillow to silence the outrageous voices screaming in her head. Words poured out of her mouth, muffled and incoherent, in a torrent of vile babble into the pillow. "Oh God, yessss, pull your cock out of my pussy and shove it up my ass. Yes, yes, yes, fuck my ass, you bastard; fuck it with your giant cock. I don't care if it splits me open and I bleed to death. I want it, baby. I want to feel your cock filling my asshole, fucking me, shooting cum up my ass. Do it, do it, oh God, do it to me, now!" Archie was confused, of course, and so he mistook her shaking shoulders and her smothered cries for sobbing. For an instant, an uncharacteristic twinge of conscience vied with rampaging lust for his attention and, withdrawing his thumb a little, he glanced upward for guidance. "Oh, Archie, don't..." Imogene moaned through the side of her mouth, when she sensed the boy was changing course, but she had already lost his attention. He only glanced at her, before turning his face toward the sound of his mother's voice. "Better not, Archie," Nancy cautioned. "At least not this time. Why don't you just flip her over on her back, so you can vote for Bush all you want?" "Huh? Yeah. Right. Uh, OK," the boy stammered uncertainly, as he struggled mentally to invert his wriggling "Florida ballot." Forgetting Imogene, he yanked his thumb out of her bottom and scratched his head as he attempted to sort out the details of his mother's suggestion. "Archieeee," Imogene wailed, protesting the abandonment. "Shut up a minute, I'm trying to think," he snapped back impatiently, and he pumped his hips a time or two to mollify her. "Archie, Archie," Nancy interrupted with the patience of a mother confronting a five year old, who hadn't quite mastered the intricacies of potty training. "Roll her onto her back and her pussy'll be the hole on top." "Duh!" he snorted, only slightly self-consciously, when the concept finally jelled, and he returned his full attention to Imogene. She turned her head, looking back over her shoulder at the boy and started to speak, to give voice to depravity, but he was too quick. In one smooth but sudden motion, he jerked his prick out of her pussy, and, gripping her hips with both hands, he easily lifted her off the couch and flipped her onto her back. Imogene, dazed by desire and the abrupt turn of events, flopped on the couch like a rag doll. Her arms lay, where they landed, outstretched above her head, while looks of dismay, disappointment and desire rippled in successive waves across the tormented features of her face. Archie pushed her legs apart and stepped between her thighs, pointing himself toward the weeping, red gash of her pussy, and snickered, "Look out, Dubya, here I come." Her tattered, pouting lips still circled the memory of his presence, and, between them, the dark void of her being beckoned to be reclaimed. He moved closer, and the head of his cock slipped easily into her warm sheath. She sighed and blinked and reached for him, but he brushed her hands away, and, hooking his arms behind her knees, he lifted her to him and entered her in one long, gliding thrust. "Ohhhh," she moaned as he filled her, and she felt a hard knot in her throat, like she was choking, but she wasn't, because she could still breathe, so she gulped air and felt the steam of his hot iron smoothing the folds and wrinkles of her vagina. He held her up with his arms cradling her legs and pumped his prick into her in a flurry of quick, short plunges. Her lips clung to him like second skin and drug back and forth caressing her clit with each thrust. Her senses, again, crackled in conflagration like dry twigs tossed on hot coals, and she arched her back to engage him fully. "Oooo, baby, fuck me," she mouthed at him, but he needed no encouragement and slammed his thickness into her with the fury of a man possessed by demons. Her passion surged and swept her toward the glowing abyss. She imagined him as being "Pan," of the cloven hooves and spike-horned head, with his tiny flute and tree-trunk prick, dancing and piping between her legs for her pleasure and the throbbing cock within her made her feel like a pagan Goddess of Fucking. He dropped her legs and his hands encircled her narrow waist. His thumbs pressed into her belly, about where she judged his depth to be, and he squeezed her roughly each time his groin smacked against hers. She put her legs around his hips, locking them at the ankles, and added her power to his lunges with well timed jerks of her feet. He loomed above her, forging into her yielding softness with heavy, deep, relentless thrusts that plunged into the very core of her sanity. Her nerve endings blazed with consuming fire, and her fingers sought out the taut tips of her nipples. She rolled her flesh between thumb and forefinger, and the hot lava of her passion scorched her hands. "Yes, yes, yes," she intoned wantonly. "Give it to me. Yes, like that, oh, yes. God, it's so big. You're filling me up with your cock, baby. Deeper, ooooh, deeper, yes, like that. Oooo, God, you're so deep. Ohhhh, baby, that's... Oohhhh, ooohhh, uuugh. Higher, oh, please. Yes, higher, like that, baby," she begged, and she shifted under him to adjust the angle of his attack and sought his prick with her G-spot. "There, right there," she gasped, when the rim of his head scraped the swollen patch of her "spot." "Yes, yes, sweet, fucking Jesus, yes," she babbled irreverently, when he, like a coital savant, caught on to what she wanted and shortened his stroke to rub her with the hard edge of his cock. "Oh, fuck, baby, you're good," she cried encouragingly, and she reached to encircle his exposed flesh with her fingers to prevent him from abandoning her sweet spot and seeking her depths too soon. He trembled and shook as he fucked, and she felt him as she would a heavy trout on a tight line, transmitting every twitch and tingle up to her sensitive fingertips. His tongue played across his tightly stretched lips. Lust enveloped him like the tentacles of an octopus, squeezing him, crushing his chest and driving the very breath of life from his lungs. He entertained the notion to rip her hand away and plunge into her completely, but her wanton words and the nearly constant stream of shivers his short strokes were producing encouraged restraint. He held his breath and prayed for her to release him, but she just panted and gasped and wriggled around on the tip of his prick, teasing herself with a tiny taste of him like some kind of demented virgin. Her hips bounced in shortened little circles allowing her sheath to slip on him only an inch or, at most, two, and he felt the bile of frustration collecting in the back of his mouth. Archie's weak brain struggled for a means of retribution for this maddening delay in the attainment of his satisfaction. Tha bitch's just using me, he grumbled to himself, when, once again, he found her hand blocking his way. "Leggo, dammit, I want to fuck," he demanded, nearly screaming, and with amazing strength, he lifted the partially impaled woman bodily from the couch and held her in front of him a little above eye level. Shocked, her fingers released him and, she grabbed his shoulders. Her legs were tight around his waist, clinging to him to maintain position, and she looked like a lumberjack shinnying up a tree. He moved his hands under her haunches to hold her better, and grinned with grim satisfaction, when her eyes widened as she felt him begin to slowly reclaim her pussy. He let gravity do most of the work and studied her face as she slid onto his pole. He took possession of her again, inch by agonizing inch, slowed only by his desire to prolong his pleasure, because she was wet and open and yielded easily to his penetration. "Oh, baby," she sighed as his well-greased pole arched up to meet her descent. Her arms flew around his neck, and she buried her face in his shoulder. Her vibrant nipples, twin cherries of inflamed passion, traced smoldering lines of desire down his chest as she slipped lower and lower onto his cock. He hunched his hips, sending his cock coursing into her depths, and her brain short-circuited in a shower of white-hot sparks. Her legs tightened reflexively, and her clit was smeared against the rocky washboard of his tense abdomen. Her soft tunnel expanded and accepted him, and sweet waves of pleasure swept over her like the warm surf of Cancun. Her descent ground to a sloppy halt, when her thighs caught on his hips, and she clung to him for a moment taking deep breaths to still the quaking in her loins. Then, she relaxed her legs enough to let them slip off his hips, and she settled completely on the rising shaft of his manhood. His hands cupped and lightly lifted the smooth cheeks of her ass, but her weight was carried in the main by the huge cock arching up into her diaphragm. She shuddered as he burrowed into her, and her vagina again convulsed in unrestrained reception. "Ohhhhh, Archie," she wailed excitedly, her breath whistling through clenched teeth. His fingers slid easily over her slippery haunches and stroked the narrow cleft of her ass. "I know what you like, don't I, Mrs. Justice?" he whispered. His lips moved caressingly against the shell of her ear, and she shivered. "Archie," she breathed heavily against his neck, now much too engaged to mount even the pretext of a protest. Her crease was wetted and slick with her juices, and her cheeks had been spread by the huge cock in her pussy. She felt his finger circling her anus like a hawk preparing to pounce on a mouse and held her breath. Her pussy clutched him, squeezing and milking him frantically, while she anticipated him. Teasingly, he widened the circle, and his fingertip slithered out of her crease and across her buttock, tracing a wet heart-shaped line onto her skin. "Archie?" she whined when his finger left her. "You want your ass fucked, don't you?" "Archie, I..." she moaned, nearly gagging on her words, but she felt his finger return to swirl around the tight, gathered opening of her anus, and she pressed her lips against his shoulder in silent submission to his desires. "What you'd like is to have your tight little ass stuffed full of hot, hard cock, wouldn't you?" As he spoke, whispering conspiratorially to her, he pressed against her opening till just the tip of his finger entered her. His finger felt huge back there, and he moved it in tiny circles, stretching her, loosening the tightly clenching ring of her asshole. His cock probed into the very depths of her soul, inflaming her passion beyond endurance and her thighs, belly and buttocks tingled and burned with the bright, hot flames of her arousal. Every nerve ending, every fiber of her being from her throat to her feet was alive and aflame with her all consuming lust. She could deny him nothing. She could deny herself nothing. He teased her sadistically with his fingertip barely touching her seething hot skin, with the insufficient, shallow probing of her throbbing hole, and she lifted her knees in an unsuccessful attempt to slide down onto his upturned finger. "Cock up your ass, Mrs. Justice, just like this," he whispered evilly and gouged his finger into her asshole. "Oooh, Archie," she moaned, raising her legs even higher to open herself to his probing finger. She was nearing helplessness, approaching the point of total capitulation and was beyond caring. Her brain was being stretched on the rack of her passion like never before and any commitment to decorum, honor and self-respect succumbed to the straining cords of her lust. The boy's rigid finger plunged through the puckered ring of Imogene's sphincter, probing her hot rectum, and he felt her soft lips passionately sucking his neck. "That's what you really want, isn't it, Gene? To feel what it's like to take my cock up your ass and feel it jerking and squirting and filling your asshole up with hot cum?" "Archieeeeeeee," she mouthed against his wet skin. The penetration of his finger doubled, no, quadrupled the pleasure of his cock in her pussy, and she fluttered like a flag on a pole in a stiff gale. "Say it, Gene. Tell me what you want me to do to you." The boy whispered, coaxing her with unexpected sexual cunning, while he suggested the answer to her by wantonly fingerfucking her anus. Hot words proved too much to resist. In that instant, the fiery comet of her lust, it's tail a boiling caldron of white-hot emotion, reached apogee and exploded with the blinding flash of a thousand bursting suns. "Yes, yes, you bastard," she screamed, abandoning herself to her lust, "fuck my ass. Shove your cock up my butt. I want it, I want it." She arched her back, embracing the star-burst shell detonating in her loins, and he felt the shivering quake of her orgasm as she shook in his arms. The woman's pussy convulsed along the length of his prick as she climaxed, and the erotic massage brought him instantly to the edge of his own sexual insanity. "Unk, ass fuck," he groaned as his cock swelled with an onrushing flood of cum. "Yesssss, fuck my ass, baby," she warbled to him as the sweet tremors of completion coursed through her limbs and the dark curtain of unconsciousness began closing on her mind. He thrust into her, ramming her with his cock, and grimaced with the effort of standing with a river of cum rushing up his prick. The floodwaters gathered speed, and she milked him reflexively with the spasming walls of her pussy. "There, there, there," he chanted as thick streams of his cum spewed into her vagina. "Oh God," she gasped, blinking in amazement; it felt like douching with a garden hose she thought, and she slipped into a dead faint, while the boy's fabulous cock jerked and spewed inside her. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 17 * * * Later, after a few unsuccessful attempts to wake the girl, Archie and his mother cleaned her up a little, and Archie carried her out to her car and laid her in the passenger seat, before sliding behind the wheel. "You drive her home, Archie, and I'll follow you and bring you home," Nancy said as she tossed the girl's clothes onto the back seat of her BMW. "Don't you think we ought to put her clothes on her, mom?" the boy asked. "What the hell for?" Nancy retorted. "Duh, mom; somebody might see her neked, that's what for. Like her husband, maybe." "Serves her right for not being able to hold her liquor better. But, if riding around with her naked ass in the seat next to you makes you nervous, you can throw her dress over her." "That little ole thing she wore up here?" Archie replied skeptically. "It'll do." "We outta put it on her." "Too much trouble." "What if she don't wake up, and Rufus finds her like this in the driveway?" "He won't." "How do you know he won't?" "`Cause, we ain't gonna leave her in the driveway. You're gonna park on the street, in front of her house, and that's where I'm gonna pick you up." "On the street? Why?" "`Cause her driveway is muddy, that's why, and I don't want to get the Jag dirty on her account." "Jeez, mom, you'd let Rufus catch her neked and all fucked up, just to keep from getting your damn old car dirty?" "Certainly," she replied with total assurance, considerably amused by the boy's understandable consideration for the young woman, who, she could see as they talked, continued to leak copious quantities of her son's cum onto the seat cushion. "You got to keep your priorities in order, son." "Huh?" "Just remember, Archie, it don't mean nothin. Fucking don't mean nothin at all, you hear me?" "Yes'm, I guess so," he responded with little conviction. Imogene had been pretty spectacular, what with all her shaking and twitching and squeezing his cock with her pussy and begging him to fuck her asshole. "It don't mean nothin, Archie. You just stick them with your peter, and it feels good while you're doin it, but then you cum, and it's over, and it don't mean nothin." "But she felt really good, mom; better than them others." "Don't be stupid, boy. You're just thinkin thata way cause your cock's still wet with her. Fuckin don't mean nothin, and a wet cock don't change than none." "But, if she felt really good and I liked it a lot?" "Still don't mean nothin. She'll feel just as good the next time, or, if there's not a next time with her, then the one after her or the one after that will feel just as good or even better. You remember, boy, the fuck you just had don't mean nothin; it's the one you're gonna get next that counts." "Yeah?" he replied brightly, easily forgetting the woman passed out in the car beside him, "Who am I gonna fuck next, then?" "Hell, Archie, I haven't thought that far ahead," she lied; she always tried to stay five or six moves ahead of everyone. "You're not getting tired of me, are you?" she continued reprovingly. "I, uh, uh, no," he stammered, realizing that the ice under his feet was thinning dangerously. "That's my good boy," she laughed and, leaning in the window, she patted his hand. "Always keep your mamma happy." "Yes'm," he replied weakly; disappointment was written on his face as boldly as a Pearl Harbor sneak attack headline. "OK, buster," she smiled and winked knowingly at the perplexed boy. "Who you got your eye on this time?" "Miss Anne," the boy answered quickly. "The new teacher; the one I did the cheerleading thing with?" "Yes'm," the boy answered, bobbing his head eagerly. "OK, tiger," she grinned at him, "I'll work on it." "Really," he squealed happily, surprised at his unexpected good fortune. "Really," she answered evenly. "But now we've got to go; I don't want Rufus meetin us in front of his house this evening. He might get the right idea." The mention of Imogene's husband reminded the boy of where the conversation had begun, but his mind was already racing ahead to an encounter with the delectable new teacher and his concern for his most recent conquest was markedly diminished. "What if Rufus finds her passed out in the car like this?" He gestured casually toward the unconscious girl's nude figure as he spoke. "I guess we'll find out if she's as good at thinking on her feet as she is at fucking, won't we?" Nancy answered laughing so hard at the prospect of Imogene's compromise that the car shook. "Yeah, right," the boy snickered. "We gonna hide and watch? I'd like to see the asshole's face, when he finds her." "Nooooo, I don't think so," Nancy giggled, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "We'll just have to use our imagination this time. Maybe later, after she's broken in good, we'll let Rufus watch you fuck her in the ass, since she seems to want it so bad." "No, shit, mom? That'd be really cool. I bet the bastard would bust a gut over that." "He probably would. If he gets too uppity about it, I guess, I could let you fuck him in the ass, too," she replied serenely. Archie jerked away from the window and shot a look of disapproval at his mother. His euphoria was dissipating quickly. "Wait a minute, mom, I don't know about that last part," he sputtered. "Relax, son," she laughed. "I was just kidding. Let's get out of here before Rufus comes home and catches us dumping his slutty wife on the lawn." "On the lawn?" Archie shrieked in disbelief. "Joking," Nancy laughed again and turned to walk to her shiny, spotlessly clean Jaguar. * * * "You done?" Moon Dog croaked. The sky was ablaze with the colors of dawn. A small mountain of tapes was piled on the seat between the two men and Hunter had stopped speaking. "Yeah," Hunter replied. "That's it." "Good grief, man, can you believe that bitch?" "Which one?" "Right. You got me there." "Not a hell of a lot of difference between the two of them, if you ask me." "I see your point, but I think Mrs. Farber is the dangerous one." "No doubt about it; and her friends too, don't forget Cletus and Nadeen." "That's right! You just reminded me. You said earlier something about Cletus being dangerous. What was that about?" "He showed up at the Farbers' while I was watching tapes. He damn near snuck up on me, but I heard him stumbling around in the den and had just enough time to turn everything off, close up the console and get hidden before he came in." "Sounds like a close call." "It was closer than that, Dog. He just glanced around the room, not really expecting to find anybody, I guess. He was packing a pretty serious looking 9mm, though, and I sure didn't want him to find me in there. I stayed quiet after he left and gave him a few minutes to get out of that part of the house, before trying to let myself out. I slipped out of the den and was tiptoeing down the hall as fast as I could go, and, just as I turned the corner and started up the steps into the living room, here that bastard came, quiet as a mouse, and with that damn gun pointed straight at my head. He said something like, "Wha?" and I think he was as surprised as I was, but I wasn't about to stand around while he figured it out, so I reached out and punched the action on his pistol back with the heel of my hand to eject the shell from the chamber, and, as soon as I figured the gun wasn't going to go off, I threw my shoulder into his gut and flipped that sucker back down the hall where I had just come from. He sailed a pretty good piece for a big guy, and then hit and bounced once or twice and his gun took off on him, and I excused myself and shagged it through the living room heading for the front door. Unfortunately, he had locked it back up, I guess intending to trap me inside, and it took me a while to open her up again, and by the time the door was opening, I could hear him huffing up the steps behind me. I figured I had taken just a mite too long, `cause I could feel him drawin' a bead on my back and my neck hairs started standing up just like they used to do on ambush back in Nam when the VC were just starting to move into the trap, and then I heard her screaming at him, "Shoot, you gutless son of a bitch, shoot him." I guessed it was Nadeen from the sound of her voice, but I couldn't see her, and all of a sudden there was a little pop, pop, like from a 32 cal. or something, it sure wasn't any 9mm, and the edge of the door beside my head splintered and a bullet whined past my head about two inches from my ear, and I jumped through the doorway and slammed the door closed behind me. I headed for the woods across the driveway from the front door as fast as I could go and I had just about made it when they came out and started shooting. All I could hear was my heart beating and the cracking and popping of their guns, and I started bobbing and weaving, like I used to do when I was running with the football in college only a hell of a lot slower, and I finally made it to a stand of trees and dove behind some cover with bullets whistling all around me. For a bit, I thought I was back in Nam, but there wasn't any helicopter coming to lift me out, so I just made a strategic retreat and got the hell out of there." "You left your piece in the car, I guess," Moon Dog muttered almost absentmindedly; he was deep in thought, mulling the ramifications of Hunter's revelations. "Of course, I did, Dog; burglary's bad enough, but burglary with a weapon'll get you twenty-five years to life just about everywhere I know of." "Do you think they found you up there by luck, or did they know you were there?" "Hard to say, Dog. I hid the car pretty good down at the bottom of the hill well off the road and it hadn't been bothered, as far as I could tell in the dark, but I didn't have long to inspect it. I could hear them in the woods crashing around behind me when I got to the car, so I left as quick as I could. I suppose they could have found old Jackson working at the school, same as I did, and they could have forced him to talk, but I doubt it." "How come?" "In the first place, he didn't impress me as being willing to help someone like Caruthers, who was out to harm Miss Anne. He had a lot of respect for the girl, affection, even, and I bet he'd take an awful lot of persuading to rat her out. Besides, they wouldn't have any way of knowing I had talked to the old guy." "They wouldn't unless they had the school staked out and were watching when you got there. If they saw you go in, first thing they would do when you left is go looking for your man, Jackson." Moon Dog spoke softly but with authority; surveillance and counter-surveillance had been his life for forty years, and he knew his business well. "Shit, Dog, I checked the parking lot good. I even drove around the school twice to be sure nobody was there but me and the janitor." "Yeah, but there's no way you could check the woods and hills around the place; they could have been hiding anywhere." "But why? I mean, why would they stake out the school? The girl's long gone; what's to gain?" "`Cause, Hunter," Moon Dog began explaining patiently. "`Cause that's exactly what I would do under the circumstances." "You would?" "Sure, I would. I would do just like they did if I was looking to find her. I would hope she hadn't run too far at first and I would put out the word that I was looking for her, you know, at motels and gas stations, offer a little money for any information that might come along and then go wait for something to happen. I would give it a week or two, and if nothing turned up, I would figure she had skipped the country and that I would be wastin' my time looking close to home any further. Mean time, while I'm waiting to hear something, I would be sitting and watching the place she'd be most likely to come back to, and that, my friend, is good old Hardwick School." "Christ, Dog, after all she'd been through at that place, it would be the last place I would expect to find her." "I know, but you're forgetting that she's scared and desperate and that she probably needs help from somewhere. Where's she going to look? At school most likely, buddy, where she probably has some friends and maybe one or two even, who have some affection for her, like your Mr. Jackson." "I suppose…" Hunter mused. "Or, I might suspect that she still had some unfinished business with that Justice guy that could bring her back there," Moon Dog interrupted. "You can bet your last dollar that Nancy Farber tried to squeeze Justice for every bit of information he had on her, and that she didn't trust what he told her for a second. For all she knew, Justice was hanging on to the pictures and the girl. I got a pretty clear picture that he liked what he was getting off her and wouldn't be too happy about giving it up and you know the Farber woman was thinking the same thing. That's more than enough reason to stake out the school." "Yeah, but…" Hunter protested. "Not satisfied? Think about this, then; for the last week, we've been hopping around from motel to motel, town to town, like a flat stone skipping across a creek. By now, Caruthers is bound to have heard that some of his paid sources have been compromised, and he probably knows that somebody besides him and the Postal Service are looking for the girl. Hell, man, he might even know we've got her. If I were him, I would stake out the school just on the off chance that somebody, like you, for instance, would come sniffing around looking for information on her and would lead me right back to her, or, at the least, if I could get the jump on them, I could get enough information out of them to help me figure things out for myself." "They sure as hell didn't act like they were in a talkative mood when they found me; they didn't even say `stop,' Dog; they were shootin' first and askin' questions later." "They were out of their league, man, and probably scared shitless. Your friend Jackson might have told them you were a pretty bad dude, or they might have figured that out themselves from all the Judge's money we've been spreading around to turn their snitches. Whatever, buddy, you know how hard it is to lay the sights on some poor sombitch and squeeze off a round that'll go where you want to put it. They were probably shooting at your feet and had 'buck fever' so bad they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn." "Oh boy, now that's reassuring," Hunter replied sarcastically. "Where's your car now?" "You don't think they followed me, do you?" "Not if they were chasing you on foot through the woods, but, if they found your car before they came up to the house looking for you, they could have put a tracking device on it. You said you didn't have much time to check it over." "Yeah, well, I dropped it at the Holiday Inn about a mile down the street and left the key with the desk clerk. I walked the rest of the way." "Good man," Moon Dog declared with some relief in his voice. "I doubt anybody's going to pick up that trail for a while, even if there was a transmitter in the car, and, by the time they do, we'll be long gone. They'll play hell trailing us from here." "Sometimes, Dog, you make me feel like a goddamn rookie," Hunter said with a sigh of resignation. "It's not your fault, Hunter. What happened tonight could have been nothing but coincidence. But, even if it wasn't coincidental, there was no way we could have anticipated it. We started this mission a week ago, without planning, preparation or more than two minutes of reconnaissance; we were bound to make mistakes, buddy. Under circumstances like these, fuck ups are going to happen; they're part of the territory." "Maybe we should have stayed out of it, Clarence," Hunter said softly; he didn't often use the old spook's given name, and, when he did, it usually meant that he was entertaining serious doubts. "That would have meant breaking our word to the Colonel, Hunter, and you already said you weren't about to do that. You also have to figure that, fuck ups or no, things were going to turn out a whole lot worse without us being here." "I hope you're right, Dog." "I usually am, Hunter; now, you crawl into the back seat and get some sleep before the Judge gets here. I expect you'll be driving her car to Tennessee this afternoon." "How long have I got?" "It's eight now; four hours, five tops." "Great; good night, then. I'd offer to spell you on watch, Dog, but I figure you slept most of the night already," Hunter joked; if he had been recognized for his feats of memory, Moon Dog had been legendary for his ability to endure sleep deprivation without apparent effects, and it was that remarkable capacity that had earned him his odd nickname. "Go to sleep, Hunter," Moon Dog grunted with a smile. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 18 Caleb was punctual as usual. He pulled into the parking lot of the Acock precisely at 2:00 p.m. and spotted Moon Dog's car immediately. He was steering into the adjacent parking space when he noticed Moon Dog waving him toward a space at the opposite end of the lot. He was rolling to a stop when Moon Dog reached the side of his car and opened the driver's side door. "Hold on Moon Dog," Caleb yelped as the car rolled forward with his door open. He stomped the brake, and the tires screeched slightly on the slick asphalt as the car lurched to a halt. "Come on, Judge, we've got to leave, NOW. We'd be gone already if we weren't waiting for you and had no way to contact you." Moon Dog's voice was edgy, and his face was grim. "What's the matter, man? What the hell's happened?" Caleb sputtered as he leapt out of the car. "Somebody was killed last night, Judge," Moon Dog responded gruffly with his customary directness. "Wha? Who?" He gasped in alarm. "Not the girl was it, Dog?" "No, the girl's alright; she's just upset and scared out of her wits. It was the janitor over at Hardwick School." "What's the connection, Dog? I don't get it. "Walk with me, Judge, her room's over there in the middle, Number Six; I'll brief you on the way." Moon Dog recounted the events of the previous night in a crisp, clipped voice, conforming to the ingrained, business-like manner of a military scout giving a report of the night patrol, and, by the time the two men had crossed the parking lot, he had furnished Caleb with all of the essential particulars. "So," Moon Dog concluded, pausing a couple of doors down the walk from Number Six, "I was a little concerned and called the school this morning, first thing, intending to ask to speak to Jackson, just to make sure Caruthers hadn't gotten to him. The school secretary answered, and she was crying and sobbing to the point she could barely talk, and, when I asked to speak to Jackson, she broke down completely and said `accident, accident, there's been a terrible accident.' Finally, a teacher came on the line and told me that the janitor had been found floating face down in the pool early this morning. They think he slipped on the wet floor and fell into the pool. He apparently hit his head on the way down, because he had a nasty gash and there was a good bit of blood on the floor beside the pool." "You've told her, then?" "Yeah, Judge, I didn't think it was my place to keep something like that from her." "No, I guess not." "She's taking it pretty hard, I'm afraid," Moon Dog volunteered. "How come, Dog; I mean, I don't get the connection?" He was a little confused and tried searching his recollection of Moon Dog's report for a mention of the janitor. "She and Jackson were pretty close. He realized that she was alone, lonely and vulnerable, and he sort of took her under his wing. He and Mrs. Jackson didn't have any children, so they sort of adopted her, believe it or not; unofficially, of course. She goes, or went, to their house for dinner after church most Sundays." "Church?" Caleb croaked skeptically. "I didn't get the impression from your report that she was the church going sort." "Don't worry, Judge, not her," Moon Dog answered with a knowing smile. Not much missed his notice, and he was quick to pick up on Caleb's misgivings. "The Jackson's went to church; your girl came for dinner after. I don't think your 'honey in the hotel' over there," he said, nodding toward Number Six, "was doing a lot of praying when she got down on her knees, unless, that is, you think, ah, er… Well, you know what I mean." It was Caleb's turn to grin; Moon Dog's face was turning red with the effort of backing out of the corner he had painted himself into, and it occurred to him that Kenneth Starr must have reacted similarly when he handed his lurid report on the Lewinsky affair over to the House impeachment panel. Public recitation of sordid, sexual details was as out of character for Moon Dog's matter of fact military bearing as it had been for the straight backed, rock-ribbed religiosity of the Special Counsel, and the thought occurred to him that perhaps both Starr and Dog had poured on those very details in the hope they would serve to alienate their readers from the subjects of their respective reports. Could it be, he wondered briefly, that Dog had tried to turn him off to the girl by revealing all her secrets? If so, he laughed to himself, the effect was the opposite of what was intended, because the more he read, the more intrigued he had become. "Sunday dinner, huh?" Caleb continued noncommittally, and Moon Dog breathed an audible sigh of relief at having been let off the hook so easily. He had watched Caleb as a young lawyer and knew he could be relentless in cross-examination, when he sensed discomfort in a witness. "Yeah, Judge; Mrs. Jackson would sit on a stool and fry chicken in a big black, iron skillet, while Anne and Mr. Jackson, peeled potatoes or snapped beans from the garden, and, when the chicken was ready, Mr. Jackson would carry the Mrs. to the table and they would eat." "Carry her?" "Right. She couldn't walk; paralyzed from the waist down; hit and run driver crippled her about four or five years ago." "Good grief, that's tough, man. Did they ever catch the driver?" "Nope. I doubt they looked very hard, either; there's not a lot of concern around here for old black ladies, who take up too much space walking down the highway in the evenings. I believe the thinking goes something like 'they ain't got no business bein' out there in the dark in the first place, so what ever happens to `em is their own fault.'" "I know all about that thinking; things aren't a lot better back home, either, but we're working on it. "You know what your girl did, Judge?" "Probably not," Caleb replied with the resignation of one waiting for another shoe to drop, "I don't recall much more than a passing reference to Jackson in your report." "Well, hell, Judge," Moon Dog responded defensively, "You only gave me a week, for Pete's sake; I couldn't include every little detail of her entire life, could I? I gave you just what you wanted, without a lot of junk to fatten it up." "Speaking of 'fattening up,'" Caleb grinned, "I am reminded of the matter of your expense account, but we'll talk about that later. First, you tell me what she did." "Soon as she saw Mrs. Jackson and learned that she was paralyzed, and that Mr. Jackson had to pick her up and carry her bodily just so she could get out and sit on their porch, she called St. Louis and found a used, motorized wheelchair and bought it with her own money. The thing cost her $2500, which was a hell of a lot of money on her salary, but she figured she had gotten by on rice before, so she bought it and brought it back in the trunk of her car, and they were sitting on the porch when she pulled into the yard. The Jackson's were so grateful when she gave it to them, they broke down and cried, and Mrs. Jackson sent old Jackson into the house to fetch the shawl her great grandmother had knitted from raw cotton when she was a slave girl in Alabama, and she gave it to Anne, saying it was the only thing in the world she had to give that was worth to her near what that wheel chair was worth, but Anne wouldn't take it and told them that 'a gift of love requires only the gift of love in return.'" "I'll be damned," Caleb muttered in some astonishment as he tried to assimilate this new characteristic into his impressions of the girl. He processed the information briefly, and then, looking at Moon Dog suspiciously, he challenged him saying, "How in the hell do you know all this stuff, Dog; where'd all these details come from? I can't believe you know what Mrs. Jackson's grandmother's shawl was made from; you're making this stuff up as you go along, aren't you?" "Great grandmother," Moon Dog corrected him. "Huh?" "Mrs. Jackson's GREAT grandmother made the shawl from cotton that she had picked herself from the field. She picked it, carded it, dyed it, spun it into yarn and wove it all herself when she was sixteen years old." "Goddamn, Dog, how do you know THAT? I know damn well you didn't interview Mrs. Jackson." "You're asking me to reveal my sources, Judge." "You're damn right, I am," Caleb declared in disbelief. Moon Dog chuckled at Caleb's skepticism and relented. "Well, maybe this once, I could relax my rule a little." "You better, Dog, cause this whole story's got so many details, it's becoming suspicious for fictitiousness." "Now, Judge," Moon Dog grinned soothingly, "have I ever lied to you or told you something that wasn't straight?" "Hell, no, Dog; of course not, but, man, this just doesn't smell right." "Caleb," Moon Dog chuckled affectionately, "you're becoming more like your daddy every day. He would have said exactly the same thing, believe me. Of course, it doesn't smell right; it would take me and a team of ten operatives interviewing people twelve hours a day for three months to come up with half the stuff I put in my report." "That's what I thought, Dog," Caleb responded with no little sense of relief. "I got lucky, Judge; I got hold of her diary, and what it didn't tell me, my friend, I figured I didn't need to know. "Diary?" he questioned skeptically. "Yeah, you know, her journal." "Oh, hell yes, I remember; you mentioned a journal in your report, didn't you?" "I didn't just mention it, buddy; it IS my report." "How on earth did you come by it, Dog; I can't imagine she would just hand over something like that?" "Hell, no, she doesn't even know I saw it." "How'd you find it, then? Didn't she keep it pretty well hidden? I mean, if I had a journal like that, I would keep it in a safe deposit box at the bank." "Too inaccessible for her, I suspect. I found hers in her car." "You searched her car?" Caleb protested incredulously. "Certainly." "And, her journal was in there?" "Yep." "Good grief, man, if I remember right, she'd been keeping it for years; it must run into the thousands of pages. She wouldn't have room for anything else in there, right?" "Wrong, Judge, she had all of it stored on four little CD's. I had pretty well taken her car apart, looking for nothing in particular, when I noticed a pile of CD's on the front seat. I poked around in them for a minute and didn't see much but a bunch of that rock and roll crap that young people like nowadays, but then, I happened to notice that she had what looked to be four, identical, CD's of the Missouri University marching band, and it occurred to me that was an awful lot of band music for someone who was into rock and roll." "I don't think it's called 'rock and roll' anymore," Caleb corrected abstractedly. "`Shit,' then, if you want to call it what it is, if you ask me," Moon Dog grunted. "Guess she didn't have any of 'The Doors' stuff in her collection, then," Caleb joked. "The who?" "Naw, dude, 'The Doors,' 'The Who' came later." "What in the hell are you talking about?" Moon Dog growled in total confusion. "`The Doors,' of course, man. I thought you were in Viet Nam. Hell, everybody in Nam knew 'The Doors.'" "You damn well know I was in Nam, you impudent young whippersnapper, but I was near thirty at the time." "Oops," Caleb laughed, "I guess the music stopped for you when Buddy Holly's plane crashed." "Not quite; I made it to Simon and Garfunkle's break up," Moon Dog grunted, dismissing the digression. "You want to hear about the journal or what? If not, we need to get the hell out of here before that Caruthers bunch finds us." "Right. Tell me quick." "Not a lot left to tell. It was all there on the CD's. Thousands of pages, like you said. Everything she ever did, just about every thought she ever had, was in there. She would even go back and correct entries which she found out later were inaccurate or incomplete. I copied them to the hard drive of my laptop in ten minutes and left 'em where I found 'em." "And, you believed everything she put in there?" "Welllllll," he answered cagily, "pretty much. I think she had a pretty convenient memory for some things and put the best face on some of the stuff she talked about." "You mean, she lied sometimes and made herself out to be more innocent than she really was?" "Could be." "Could be? I thought you checked out all your sources and verified their accuracy. Did I get that wrong?" "I do usually; when there's time." "I see," Caleb observed wryly, "so my hot shot investigator cut corners on me this time, and here I was positive that you personally performed a pelvic exam on Miss Anne to verify for yourself that she really was too small to accommodate that Archie fellow like she put in her journal." "Oh shit, boy," Moon Dog laughed, "you know me a lot better than that; you want a pelvic done on her, son, you do it yourself." "I certainly hope to, Dog," Caleb answered with an evil grin. "You want me to introduce you to her first?" "That would probably be a good a place to start." "Come on then, Judge, she's waiting for you." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 19 Moon Dog led him to Number Six with a half dozen quick strides. He was reaching to knock on the door when Caleb caught his arm. "Hold on a minute, Dog," he said in a low, sort of conspiratorial voice, not wishing to announce his arrival prematurely. Moon Dog half turned toward the younger man and looked at him questioningly. Caleb smiled weakly and made a self-conscious attempt to brush his hair into place with his fingers. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt as dry as dust bowl sod, and he couldn't find enough spit to lick a stamp. His hands were shaking with a fine, barely noticeable, tremor, and he could feel his quickening pulse beating in the hollow just below his Adam's apple. His stomach fluttered nervously, and there was an involuntary warming rush in his groin. Goddam, he cursed silently as the unmistakable signs of anxiety began asserting themselves. What the hell's wrong with me, he questioned himself squaring his shoulders resolutely, and he took a deep breath as though oxygen could cure his nervousness. Why is it always like this, he wondered; why did he always react to the possibility of sex with a giddying burst of nervous excitement? It made him feel idiotic and inadequate; like a timid, overeager schoolboy; like that time when he was just a kid and the Thornberrys stopped by the farm on their way to a vacation in Florida. They brought their daughter, Diane, a gorgeous, sophisticated girl, who was a precocious two years older than he at the time. She quickly became bored with the adults' small talk and yawned a time or two without attempting much to conceal her disinterest in the discourse. Old Judge Montcastle recognized the girl's restlessness, and he suggested to Caleb, as an excuse to let her out of the house for a while, that she might like to go out to the barn to see their newest Arabian foal. The girl brightened some at that suggestion and eagerly allowed Caleb to lead her through the house and out the back door toward the barn. No sooner had they stepped off the back step and out of sight from the parlor and her parents, than Diane fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her blue jeans pocket and offered him one. "Here, Caleb, you want a smoke?" she said, while adroitly shaking a cigarette out of the package in his direction. "Uh, uh, no, thanks," the boy stammered, and, when she shrugged him off nonchalantly, tugged the cigarette out of the pack with her lips and lit it with a battered old Zippo lighter, he thought she was just about the most worldly girl that had ever spoken his name. He led her behind the barn, and she leaned against the paddock fence, blowing smoke rings into the still summer air, while he pointed out the coal-black stallion, Night Redeemer, which had sired the new-born foal. "He's big," she commented after her eye had followed the line from his pointing finger to the dark horse standing alone atop a small rise on the far side of the paddock. "He's actually pretty small for an Arabian," Caleb corrected, thinking the girl was pretty ignorant about horses in spite of living in Kentucky. "Not the horse, silly," she replied without taking her eyes off the stallion. "His dick. See? It's almost dragging the ground." Caleb was so shocked at the girl's casual reference to the horse's private parts that he jerked back from the fence and nearly tripped over his own feet. There was a tearing sound as the top strand of barbed wire snagged his shirt sleeve and ripped it open. He was blushing furiously at his awkwardness when she turned toward him, and, while grinding out her cigarette butt with a slow, deliberate twisting of the toe of her shoe, sized him up with an intuitive grin. "Oh, gosh, look what I've gone and done; made you tear your shirt." If she was sorry, he couldn't tell it from the sound of her voice, which wasn't in the least remorseful. "My own fault, I tripped," he replied tersely, but the deepening red on his neck and cheeks betrayed the lie, and she smirked at him knowingly. "I bet you've never done 'IT,' have you?" "Uh, huh, what?" he responded haplessly. 'It,' 'it,' what's 'it?' he wondered; darn girls always talking in riddles; did you bring 'it,' did you like 'it,' you think she would let you do 'it?' 'It' was nothing but an indefinite pronoun, he recalled from the lessons of his ninth grade English class and Mrs. Parrish's oft-repeated exhortation, "'it' doesn't mean anything until you put something with 'it' to give 'it' definition." Girls liked to use 'it,' he figured, 'cause it gave them the advantage over you; you never could be sure what they were asking, so if you said 'yes' and they didn't like that answer, they could just change the question without telling you, and get the answer they wanted in the first place. He found out about that trick the hard way once when Lizzy Morgenstern had asked him if he wanted to do 'it' with her, and he had said 'sure,' and, after he had kissed her a few times, he put his hand on her knee, and she slapped him so hard it brought tears to his eyes and she jumped up yelling that 'it' didn't include 'that,' after which he had been pretty skittish about discussing, much less attempting, 'it.' "'IT,' you know, with a girl," she pressed, and she sounded a little strident, like she thought anybody with any sense ought to know what 'it' meant. "I, uh, dunno…" he replied shaking his head in confusion. Whatever 'it' was this time, he was pretty sure he hadn't done 'it,' but admitting he hadn't done 'it' was another matter. "If you don't know, that means you haven't done it," she retorted smugly. He blushed redder, digging his hands into the depths of his pockets to conceal his embarrassment. "No, uh, no, I guess I haven't," he stammered, and she appeared to enjoy his discomposure. "Oh, hell," she sighed as though he was the biggest disappointment ever to have come along in her young life. "Come on and show me the stupid foal." He pulled the heavy, sliding barn door open enough so she could slip inside, and he followed her into the dim interior of the looming structure. Diffuse, slender beams of sunlight filtered into the darkness through a few narrow cracks in the siding and through an occasional gap in the loft flooring just above their heads. Their eyes gradually adjusted to the faint light, and he led her down the center of the barn toward a stall near the middle. The dark air was cool and smelled of hay, and horses, and of old, oiled leather. They were timeless and familiar smells, and they comforted him. They walked slowly, picking their steps carefully for the floor was rough and uneven, and she clung to his arm for stability in the darkness. As they neared the center of the barn, the hay loft flooring above them opened and a large, cathedral-like chamber complete with a vaulted ceiling loomed over their heads. Stacked bales of hay surrounded the edges of the loft opening and reached upward toward the peak of the roof. They stepped under the opening, and immediately heard a noisy flapping of wings in the deep gloom high up near the ridgepole of the barn as their presence unsettled a roosting pigeon. The noise startled her, and her fingers tightened on his arm. She stopped and looked up toward the sound. "What was that?" she whispered uncertainly. "Nothing to worry about," he replied with an air of authority. "Just a pigeon; barn's full of them." "Oh," she said with relief, and her grip on his arm relaxed perceptibly. He straightened his back some, proud, for once, to have regained a little stature in the girl's eyes, and swaggered slightly as he led her forward. "Where is everybody?" she asked as though the returning silence had suddenly become conspicuous enough to require an explanation. "Gone," he answered matter of factly. "Gone fishing or picnicking or visiting family somewhere; it's Sunday, everybody goes off on Sundays." Their progress had brought them to the middle of the barn, and he gestured toward a stall on his left where the upper half of the Dutch door had been left open. "Here we are, Diane; take a look." She stepped forward and peered over the lip of the half-door into the near total darkness within the stall. Squinting at the distant corner, she could just make out the shape of a mare standing protectively over another, spindly-legged shape that was wobbling unsteadily beside her. "She's beautiful," the girl gasped appreciatively when her eyes adjusted. "He," Caleb corrected. "It's a 'he.'" "Oh," she replied softly. "He, then," and she continued in a near whisper, " Can I go in and pet him?" Almost as though answering that question herself, the mare whinnied and shook her head at the faces in the doorway. "Better not," Caleb cautioned. "His mamma's a little too skittish for company just yet." "You think his mamma would mind if I went in and petted him just a little?" She turned toward him as she spoke, and he thought there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "I know she would," he replied with the assurance of experience. "When she foaled last year, it was two weeks before she would let anybody into the stall without kicking a board out of the wall." "Well, mammas can be protective like that," Diane replied reflectively glancing back toward the mare. She pushed away from the stall and turned toward him. She studied his face as though trying to decide if he was too insignificant to be worthy of her attention, and he thought she was just about the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his entire life. Her eyes narrowed provocatively, and she had a sort of dreamy look on her face, and when she spoke to him her voice was low and suggestive. "I bet your mamma's like that, Caleb, isn't she? Protective? She'd probably kick a plank out of the wall too, if I petted you a little, wouldn't she?" "I, uh, uh." The boy's confused response stumbled across his lips. He felt a quickening of his pulse and an abrupt rise in his respiration rate. He was close to panting, and there was a choking sensation in his throat; he felt lightheaded, nearly faint, and he tightened his hold on the stall door to steady himself. The girl's image swam unsteadily in the dim light, and her next words floated toward him like angels' breath. "You'd like to pet me, too, wouldn't you, Caleb?" she whispered suggestively, and she reached to place her hand over his on the stall door. The touch of her fingers was light and gentle, but it seared his hand like a branding iron. The barn floor tilted crazily for an instant and lurched upward. He reeled like a drunkard heading home after a long night, and he clung to the door as though it was the only lamppost on the street. His face burned with a crimson glow, which he felt certain she could see even if it was pitch black in the barn, and he tried to answer her, but his mouth was dry and the words wouldn't form on his lips. "You're not afraid of me, are you, Caleb?" She was smiling at him coquettishly, and her words were said with the faint hint of a challenge. He shook his head, ineffectually denying the obvious, and blinked at her. He felt like an idiot for his ineptness and inadequacy. "It's OK to be a little scared at first; I'll show you what to do, if you don't know," she said smiling seductively at him. "I, I, I," he stammered, and he wondered if she could feel his hand trembling under hers, and he thought she must think him a complete fool if she could. She felt his tremors and his fears, and his inexperienced shyness encouraged her to be daring. Boldly, she reached toward him and began toying with a button on his shirt, tugging it and pulling him closer. "I know what," she whispered, smiling reassuringly in an effort to broach the wall of his immature timidity. "We'll play doctor; I'll show you mine and you can show me yours." "What?" he gasped. She laughed softly and squeezed his hand. "I'll show you mine, you know, my pussy, and you can look at it, touch it, do whatever you want, and then you can show me yours. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Like that, like that? he shrieked silently and memories of the nudes in his brother's Penthouse magazines writhed tormentingly in his brain. Suddenly, 'it' had definition, a meaning, an identity; she had named 'it,' and 'it' was her pussy. Of course, he would like that; what fool wouldn't? He would like that because she was sweet and fresh and beautiful and experienced in the ways of things he had only laid awake at night and dreamed about, and the blood pounded in his ears like the hoof beats of a thousand galloping stallions, and his head bobbed eagerly. She grinned at him and tugged on his button again. "Good boy," she breathed and he was astonished by the deep huskiness of her voice. "Take me somewhere where I don't have to stand in manure up to my ankles, and I'll let you see my pussy." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 20 "Hay loft," he croaked and pointed toward a narrow ladder some distance away that led upward through another, smaller opening in the loft flooring. "Come on," she urged him, and he followed as she sprinted to the base of the ladder. She began to climb, and he fell in behind her, putting his hands on the rungs above him, as her feet lifted from them. He looked up to assess their progress and was thrilled by the site of the rounded slopes of her butt flexing and rolling above him as she climbed. He quickly followed her through the opening and stepped off the ladder to her side. "Gosh, this is awesome," she giggled when he joined her on the landing that was surrounded by mountains of hay bales. It was a tiny, cleared space with barely enough room for the two of them to stand, and he had to press his body tightly against her just to keep from falling into the hole he had just climbed through. She turned to give him more room, and he stepped behind her and instantly he felt her lush, soft curves melting into his body. She leaned backward, toward him, pressing her back to his chest, and her jeans caressed his groin as she ground her buttocks against the front of his pants. The contact, inadvertent though it appeared to him to be, sent a wave of disequilibrium surging through his body, and he threw his arm around her waist to prevent himself from tumbling through the open hatchway. She turned her head quickly, smiling at him over her shoulder, and the motion brought to him the sweet scent of her hair. His intoxication was instantly complete; the pressure of her body against his, the eager, open invitation of her smile, the scent of her delicate nectar made him drunk with unfamiliar, untried excitation, and he staggered under the weight of his burgeoning emotions. An odd, burning sensation filled his belly, and the tops of his thighs tingled with a spreading warmth. A strange, unsettling compulsion seized him, and he tightened his arm around the girl's waist, pulling her closer against the source of his heat. Sheer, vertical walls of baled straw surrounded them and towered above them nearly to the roof rafters far above. There was scant space in their little chamber on which to stand, much less to sit or lie down, and she tossed a doubtful look at him over her shoulder. "I can't move in here, Caleb," she complained when she felt his pressure from behind. "Through there," he said pointing over her shoulder to an insignificant looking gap in the straw walls that her hurried examination had failed to detect. "There?" she questioned, and she stooped to peer down the length of the narrow crevice. It would be a tight fit, she thought dubiously, barely fifteen inches wide, but she could see a reassuring patch of bright sunlight way down at the end of the crevasse. "Yeah," he said, "through there." "What's that light coming from," she asked uncertainly, thinking for a minute that he was leading her out of the barn and back to her parents. "That's just the door at the end of the loft, where we bring in the hay; we're not going that far." He stepped in front of her and took her hand. Turning his shoulders parallel to the walls, he inched himself into the tunnel and pulled her in behind him. The interlocking hay bales pressed against her front and back and loomed above her to the rafters. She was beginning to feel claustrophobic and laughed nervously, "This is just like Fat Man's Squeeze in Mammoth Cave back home." "Keep going," he urged, tugging her hand. "We're almost there." She wriggled a few feet further, and then, abruptly, the corridor widened, and she was relieved to see that, for a short distance anyway, many of the bales had been removed and those that remained had been formed into a kind of stairway that led to the uppermost reaches of the hay stack. "See?" Caleb said as he stepped up onto the lowest bale. "We can't fill the loft completely, or there'd be no way to get on top to get the hay down to the animals. So, we build a stairway with hay bales, and we can get up there and drop the bales down through the opening in the floor over there, whenever we need to." "You climb up there?" she asked skeptically, staring into the darkness at the distant top of the stack. Pinpoints of light randomly pierced the tin roof where the metal had rusted through and gave the effect of a starlit evening sky. "Sure, it's easy," he answered readily, demonstrating his confidence by stepping onto the next higher bale, where he turned and tendered his hand to her. "Come on up. It's really stable; we interlock the bales when we stack them, so's there is no danger of them toppling." Together they climbed the towering mountain of hay toward the roof. She could feel the heat building as they neared the top, and the air was becoming stifling. She was close to breathless and was about to complain, when he stopped on the step just below a shallow ledge. The ledge was a couple of bales deep and three or four bales long, and it was impossible to see until she had climbed right up to it. "Here we are," he said a little out of breath himself. "What's this for?" she queried. She could discern little purpose to the variation in the arrangement of the bales. "Me and the boys built it last fall while we were puttin' the hay up. Made us a place to take a nap when nobody's lookin. There's plenty of room for three of us to lay down and sleep a little without anybody missing us." "It's perfect," she said in a sultry voice, and she turned to face him. A fine sheen of perspiration covered her face and arms, and her skin tingled with excited anticipation. He blushed anew and tried to think of something mature to say, but his wits had already deserted him. He had exhausted his resources just thinking of a place to take her, and he had no idea of what was expected of him when he got her there. "I, uh," he began, reaching uncertainly for her, but she fended him off with a throaty laugh and a toss of her head. "Sit down," she said and pushed him gently toward the ledge. "You want me to show you mine first, don't you?" He backed into the low stack of bales and sat down heavily when his knees bumped the straw and buckled under him. He nodded his head and then gaped at her in awe as she reached behind her back and began untying her halter-top. She watched him watching her and in seconds she had untied the narrow ends of her top and was lifting it over her head. He gulped in astonishment at her brazenness as she slipped her top off and tossed it into his lap. Her pert, smallish breasts were milky white, almost pearlescent in the dim light, and he thought they were the most beautiful breasts he had ever seen. A film of perspiration had made them shiny, and she inclined her head toward her chest and blew on them, one after the other, too cool her hot skin, and her nipples puckered and stiffened immediately in her wind. She grinned wickedly, because his mouth had dropped open, and he was staring at her breasts like he hadn't ever seen one before, which she knew wasn't far off the mark, and she moved her hands to the clasp of her jeans and unfastened the button at her waist. His eyes followed her fingers like the children followed the Pied Piper, and he nearly fell from his perch when she unzipped her jeans and flashed him with a glimpse of her lacy pink panties. He sat like a stone statue on the ledge of soft straw and watched as she hooked her thumbs into the waist of her jeans and began to wiggle her hips to help her shuck her jeans like she was shedding an outgrown skin. She was bending over and pushing her pants down, and all he could see was the top of her head and the points of her breasts dangling down, but then, she shook her butt again, and, suddenly, her jeans were sliding down the smooth columns of her legs toward her knees. He twitched his head to get a better view, but it didn't help, and he was too nervous to move further for fear that she might notice him and put her clothes back on. Her jeans were just to her ankles when she staggered unsteadily. "Damn, I forgot to take off my shoes," she yelped, straightening to regain her balance. He was dumbstruck and dumbfounded. He had never seen a naked girl, live and up close, before, but there she was, beautiful and naked, or nearly so, with her pants around her ankles, and her lush curves bared and on display for him. He gulped and felt the hot coil of anxiety in his belly tightening, and he was at once eager and delighted, but he was confused and frightened, too. She giggled at her predicament and reached out for his hand. "Caleb, give me a hand while I take my shoes off, would you?" He jerked toward her and grabbed her hand. She was standing next to him, close by, close enough to touch, to smell, to feel her presence in the short hairs on the back of his neck and the proximity of her overwhelmed him. "Thanks," she grinned sheepishly as she took his hand, and, clinging to him for balance, she quickly stripped off her tennis shoes without troubling to untie them. Then, she looked straight at him, fearlessly, without a wisp of self-consciousness, and, tightening her grip on his hand, she bent, and, lifting one leg at a time, she pulled her jeans off and dropped them on the hay by his feet. He watched her in stunned silence, the meaning and purpose of the events he was witnessing barely registering, and he was lost in the splendor of her nudity. She was still holding his hand, when she straightened up, and it occurred to him that, for the first time in his life, he was touching a naked woman. His heart raced and the hot rush of his blood throbbed in his throat so insistently that he feared for a minute that he might strangle on his own pulse. She pulled him toward her and pressed the back of his hand against the soft, white skin of her belly, and he could feel the indentations her jeans had made in her flesh. She was hot to the touch and damp with perspiration, and she closed her eyes and moved his hand with hers to caress the slippery expanse of her tummy. She moved slowly, swaying to some primal rhythm, as she used him to stroke herself, and he let his arm go limp so as not to interfere with her desire. Her hand rose as though directing him toward her breasts, and his breath caught in his throat. He blinked and gulped and stared at her breasts, hoping against hope that she wouldn't stop the progress of his hand, although he had no clear plan for what to do if she took him there. He was fascinated by her breasts and, most especially, by the revelation of the tantalizing shape and texture of her nipples. They were tiny cones of soft pink, nearly the color of her tongue, and not at all like the huge, flat, dark disks that covered a third of the breast like he had seen in the girlie magazines. No, no, hers were little pear-shaped breasts that sloped upward and terminated in tiny points at the tips of her little rounded nipples. He had been intrigued before by breasts just like them in his father's poorly secreted collection of Louis Icart erotic etchings. And, when he looked closely, leaning toward her while her eyes were still shut, he could see that her nipples had puckered and hardened, and he could sense the eager tension in her tissues, but he dared not act upon his observations. Unfamiliar, foreign urges surged through his young body; his eyes drank in the exquisite beauty of her upturned breasts, and his mouth watered hungrily for the taste of her pears. "You have nice hands," she said softly, lifting his hand from her body and rolling it over with her own. She had opened her eyes and had caught him staring at her breasts. He was confused, bewildered, and, worst, afraid that she had become angry with him for looking at her. He nearly gagged in disappointment, when she moved his hand away, and he could almost feel tears of frustration filling his eyes. "I like a man with nice hands. Yours are strong but gentle; they're not hard and callused like some are, that hurt you when they touch you or go up inside of you." She spoke in nearly a whisper, and he strained to hear her despite the deep silence in the barn, and, while she spoke, her fingers stroked his fingers and palm as though she was measuring him for a glove. He caught the words "inside you" and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. Thoughts, delirious daydreams in the main, swirled in his brain, and his fingers twitched under her touch. "Your hands wouldn't hurt me, would they, Caleb?" she whispered coyly. He shook his head emphatically. He didn't have a clue what he would do to her with his hands, but hurting her certainly wasn't one of the possibilities that suggested themselves to him. "If I let you put your fingers inside me, you'll be gentle, won't you?" she asked softly while stroking his extended finger suggestively and studying his reaction. He could scarcely trust his ears to hear her words correctly. The barn was spinning crazily, tilting on a weird axis and bringing him swiftly to the brink of collapse. The lurid eroticism of her words jolted him, and he reeled in sickening excitation. She was offering herself to him, to HIM, for God's sake; offering herself and telling him she was going to let him touch her, feel her, do things to her, before he had even asked, as if he could ever have asked someone so beautiful for so great a gift, and the awesome promise of her offer shook him to his roots. A wave of heat flashed through his face and chest, and it was followed in the next instant by the rush of the blood draining from his head and a cold, clammy feeling nearly like the dread of impending doom. His chest constricted, his lungs refused to expand, and he felt overwhelmed by breathlessness. Inadequate, unworthy, insignificant, the words sprang out of the confusion in his mind like wood nymphs conjured up by wicked witches to remind him of his shortcomings. He gulped for air and gaped as she made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and slipped it, like a ring, back and forth on his finger. "You wouldn't hurt me, even if I let you put your finger in me this deep, would you, Caleb?" She spoke with a husky voice that was thick with sexual tension, and she slid the circle of her fingers down to where his finger joined his hand as she breathed the last few words. He stared at her circling fingers in slack-jawed wonder and worked his lips to respond, but his words, had he any, he knew, would have perished in a meaningless gurgle in his throat. He was speechless and nearly thoughtless. He was but a captive sprite, a slave to her whims and pleasures. He was hers to do with as she pleased, and he would endure her pleasure willingly. She held him now; as surely as his hand lay in hers, she held his heart and soul in thrall to her will. She could be pitiless or kind, sweet or cruel, as her needs directed her, and he would abide her desires. Time slowed to a stop. He could see the barn from the outside like in a painting with the sun suspended over its shimmering roof, perpetually in the two o'clock position. Pigeons roosting on the rafters above hushed their cooing and billing and settled in the high reaches to observe. Far below, in the stalls, the mares and colts, the fillies and the geldings ceased their neighing and pawing and fell silent. An air of hushed expectation hung over the barn, waiting, trembling, shivering with excited anticipation as Diane's fingers worked their suggestive magic on the boy. "Or, like this?" she said with an even more sultry smile, and her thumb and four fingers closed around his two middle fingers like a sleeve, and she squeezed his fingers with her hand in a rhythmic milking motion. He was sweating, of course, and trembling, and patches of perspiration were beginning to appear on his shirt. Beads of perspiration were gathering on his forehead and temples, and he brushed them away with the back of his arm and blinked to flush the sting from his eyes. He stared at her hand holding his fingers and foggily shook his head. His groin burned and throbbed disquietingly, and, between his legs, he felt a sudden, insistent, unexpected urge, almost like he needed to pee. "No, no, I won't hurt you, I swear," he promised, and he fidgeted hopefully on his bench. "Don't forget; you promised," she smiled, taking a step closer. "I know, I know," he replied with his head nodding in confirmation. "Do you like my breasts?" she asked without releasing his hand. He nodded; his promise not to damage her had exhausted his vocabulary for the moment. "They're sort of small, I know, but they are really firm, see?" and she placed his hand directly on her breast so he could judge it for himself. Oh, Lord, he thought as his hand settled timorously on her breast. His fingers skated in the film of her perspiration like feathers floating on still water and barely indented her skin. The soft pads of his fingertips burned with the nuclear fires of discovery. She arched her back, lifting her breasts toward him, and let him grapple with his ignorance for a moment. Then, she took his hand in hers and positioned it beside her breast with his thumb beneath and his fingers above the tender cone. "There," she said when she had him properly placed. "Now squeeze it a little and feel how firm it is." He pressed his fingers into her flesh, gently, of course, and was amazed at the resilience of her tissue. Smooth, incredibly soft skin concealed dense, firm flesh that resisted compression like his biceps did when he flexed his muscles, and he was intrigued by the texture of her. He pressed into her flesh, and she sighed in pleasure at his touch. "Yes, that's it, Caleb, that's nice," she murmured as he kneaded her flesh. He squeezed her tighter and her nipple poked toward him through the closing ring of his fingers. It darkened as his grip compressed her breast, forcing the blood into the tip. "Oh, Caleb," she gasped quietly, "do both of them like that." He reached for her instantly and seized her with eager talons, pouncing on her upturned titties like a hawk taking a rabbit. His hands closed on her slippery flesh, fingers curving, clinging, thumbs lifting, and she clasped her hands behind her neck and turned her face upward toward the starry blackness above her, while the boy fumbled toward the loss of his innocence. "Touch my nipples, too," she urged. "They're sooooo sensitive." He groped her, covering her nipples with his palms in an attempt to comply, and continued his massage from the front. The hard points of her nipples scraped his palms. He pressed her awkwardly, flattening her cones against her chest, hoping to please her. "No, " she corrected him patiently, "do it like this," and she demonstrated with her own fingers how to take her nipple and hold it between his thumb and forefinger. "Now, you do it," she said, removing her hand and replacing it with his. She studied his fingers for a moment, satisfying herself that he understood, and then, she put her hands again behind her neck and looked away. She stood motionlessly, outwardly unresponsive, while he held her nipple lightly and assimilated this new tactile experience, and she let him find his way alone for the time being. He copied what she had showed him and took her nipples between his fingers. Rubbery, he thought, almost stiff, and they reminded him of the tension in his penis when he became aroused looking at the pictures. Her puckered pink flesh peeked at him from between his pressing fingers, and he held her, uncertain as to how to proceed. Diane savored the boy's novice, tentative touches with a relish that belied her own tender years. His fingers tripping timidly over her skin was thrilling her beyond her wildest imagination. She was starved for more, but he could give her only what she asked him for or showed him how to do, and his reticence was the catalyst for the accelerating combustion in her loins. She adored his stammering innocence and his halting progress toward maturity. She loved the control his inexperience gave her over him and his capitulation to instruction, but most of all, she was consumed by the certainty of his virginity. The slender fingers nipping at her nipples had touched no other, ever, and the sensations, the thrills, the wonder those fingers were experiencing were as new and pure as the morning mist on bluegrass, and that knowledge flooded her with a rapturous yearning. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 20 "Pinch them a little," she encouraged him when his imagination failed him. "Yes, do that," she whispered as his fingers dug into her exquisitely sensitive nipples. She closed her eyes and let his trembling fingers worship her flesh and warmed to his touch. She felt the pull of his fingers in her loins, and her pussy throbbed with desire. She remained passive and endured the lesson for as long as her growing passion permitted, but her needs quickly surpassed his capabilities. "Pull them," she urged him, and her voice sounded strained to him. He pulled her nipples, but, of course, his tugs were tentative and feeble. "Harder, pull them harder," she commanded, but he thought her teeth were clenched in pain, and so, he barely increased the pressure at all. "It's OK, Caleb, do it. You won't hurt me, I promise. I want to feel it," she demanded, and he detected a sense of urgency. He dutifully increased the pressure of his fingers on the girl's tense nipples and stretched her tough little pears upward with a steady pressure. She arched into the pull, following his hands with her titties, and he lifted her toward the stars. "Oh, God, yes," she panted when she had risen on tiptoes, and he continued to exert pressure on her nipples. "Like that, yes, hard," she cried excitedly. He mashed her nipples and worried that he might do her harm, but she allayed his fears with blandishments and encouragements and sought to teach him the wide breadth of passion's broad boundary. "Twist them hard while you're pulling them," she insisted, and he complied, rotating his hands like he was wringing out a rag, until she groaned with pleasure. "Oh, yes," she exhorted as her passion rose. "Do it." Her hands fluttered over his like birds robbing a nest, pecking his fingers and pinching her flesh where it peeked through his fingers, abetting his intuition with her knowledge, and carnal fires flamed in her belly. "Use your fingernails on me," she cried, nearly begging in her urgency, and he dug into her flesh from top and bottom, and the pain blended with her passion and flowed with a steady current into her loins. "Oh, God, yes, yes, yes," she chanted as the quickly learning youth tugged and twisted and raked her titties with his claws. She danced for him in the throes of her exquisite torment, crossing and uncrossing her knees, hopping from foot to foot, as the agonizingly sweet pressure on her bosoms refracted through the glittering prism of her passion and swept through her loins in a rainbow of sexual sensations. She endured for as long as she could, delaying her departure to extend her delight, but quickly her passion ascended, and she required more of him. She covered his hands with her own and gently pulled them away. Her white flesh was streaked with the marks of his fingers, and he looked dismayed at the sight of what he had done, but she just smiled at him and said, wickedly, "They like to be sucked, too." He looked at her blankly and gulped, and she pressed on, "You'd like to suck my titties, wouldn't you, Caleb?" When still he couldn't answer, she teased him mercilessly by wiggling her fingers through his hair to the back of his head and pulling his face against her chest. She wagged her shoulders, dragging her nipples across his pursed lips, while pressing his face into her bosom, and he nearly bolted, because it almost reminded him of the revolting hugs he got from all the old ladies after Sunday services. The boy sat rigidly, and he passively allowed her to brush his mouth with her breasts. His lips burned and his mouth watered to the power of her suggestion. He felt saliva pooling in his cheeks and gulped again. "Girls like having their breasts sucked and licked," she said, coaching him soothingly, but then, she jarred him by taking a step back and asking him directly, "You know why, don't you, Caleb?" He was dumbfounded. He looked at her imploringly, searching her face for a hint of the answer and dreaded appearing foolish in her eyes. He didn't know this would be a question and answer session, and he felt like an unprepared schoolboy at a pop-quiz. "Because it makes our pussies wet, that's why," she said, answering her own question. He gulped again and the mention of her pussy drew his eyes to her loins. She watched his gaze fall and stood still for his inspection. "You can't see the wetness, Caleb; you have to feel me with your fingers to tell if I'm wet," she advised him patiently. He jerked his head away, embarrassed that she had caught him looking at her again, and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "I'm already wet a little, Caleb. You made my pussy wet when you were playing with my titties, but I'll get a lot wetter if you suck on them, too." He looked at her blankly, and she could easily read the anguish of ignorance in his face. "Girls need to get wet first." He blinked uncomprehendingly. "On the inside, inside their pussies; they need to be wet." He stared at her and wrung his hands uncertainly. "The wetness makes us slippery, so it doesn't hurt when you put your fingers and things inside us." He blinked again, but the cloud of his confusion seemed to be lifting. "Lots of things make me get wet, Caleb," she continued, instructing the boy like she had all the experience in the world. "Kissing, playing with my breasts like you did, licking and sucking, touching me all over; all kinds of things make me wet and some things make me get really wet." His face brightened, and she could tell he was beginning to get the idea. He was a willing and eager pupil, she'd give him that, and she adored him all the more for his aptitude. "You promised you wouldn't hurt me, if I let you put your fingers inside me, remember?" "Yes," he said, nodding affirmatively. "You do still want to put your fingers inside me, don't you?" "Yes, yes," he answered quickly; his fingers were plucking nervously at the seams of his jeans. He sort of bounced excitedly on the bale as he gave his assurance, and she smiled with satisfaction at his eagerness. "Then, you'll have to get me really wet, first, won't you?" "Yes, yes," he gasped as though those were the only words he knew, and she could tell he was more than ready to proceed to the next lesson. "It's easy, Caleb, and fun; you'll like it too, I promise," she said in her most sultry voice. She stepped closer to him and her legs brushed against his knees. Her breasts were at his eye level and were pointing expectantly at his face. She leaned toward him, moving slowly to give him time to adjust to her advance. He wet his lips expectantly, and she caught the star-lit glimmer of his pink tongue. She shivered in excited anticipation of the caress of that tongue. Her voice, soothing and distant, floated to him like that of a coach admonishing a batter to keep his eye on the ball. "All you have to do is open your mouth and let me put my breast in; I'll tell you exactly what to do." Obediently, he obliged and opened his mouth. She leaned closer and brushed his wet lip with her nipple. His heart thumped; her touch was electric and it jolted him. She moved, and her nipple swung in a circle, brushing his lips as it moved. His lips burned, and he was surprised at the amount of sensation he felt there. She drifted off, slightly, and he followed. His mouth opened further, and he sought her. Her fingers raked through his hair, directing him, positioning his face to receive her, and they touched again. Her breast centered and pressed slowly, insistently into the moist enclosure of his virgin mouth. His head was spinning again. The taste of her was extraordinary. He was astonished to discover that his exploration of her breasts with his fingers was wholly inadequate to prepare him for the experience of feeling her on his lips and tongue. Her texture was indescribable; sweet, rubbery, soft, hard, smooth, wrinkled, and he thrilled to the discovery that her taut flesh could actually throb as it lay on his tongue. "Lick my nipple with your tongue," she said, and he circled the tip with the end of his tongue. "That's it, yes," she breathed excitedly, and her fingers twisted in his hair. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, nearly taking in the entirety of her breast and lapped the underside from her chest out to the tip of her nipple. "Oh, yes, that's good," she moaned. "Now, close your lips and suck me like a baby." He complied, sucking her enthusiastically, and in sucking her, he stroked her tense nipple with the flat of his tongue and heard her gasp with pleasure. "Play with my other one, too," she implored him, and her hand groped for his to direct him to her needs. He obeyed, and, remembering his lessons, he pinched her nipple and pulled it toward him. "Oh, yes," she mouthed to encourage him, and she instantly felt his quick response in the congested flesh of her nipples. "Use your teeth," she suggested feverishly. "Scrape my nipples with your teeth when you suck me." He closed his teeth on the throbbing point of her breast and raked her. Then, lifting his mouth, he quickly switched breasts and repeated the caress. "Ohhhhh," she sighed, and she grasped his head between her hands and swiveled his mouth back and forth from one breast to the other, plunging them into the sweet purgatory of that sucking well. "Oh, damn, that feels good," she squealed, and she placed one foot on the bench beside his leg so she could bring her breasts closer to the inferno of his lips. "Caleb, Caleb," she gasped as he sucked her, and for the first time in his life, he heard a woman whisper his name in the exquisite throes of her pleasure, and the wonder of it shook his heart. "The tips," she moaned. "Use your teeth on the tips." He let the slippery cone of her nipple slip through the vise of his teeth till only the hard, rubbery, tip was still caught in his grip. He closed his teeth, pressing her tender flesh and, in a flash of erotic inspiration, he began flicking his tongue back and forth across the swollen end that bulged between his teeth. "Yes, yes, that's it, that's exactly it," she breathed in ecstasy, and to his amazement he felt her body begin to quiver. Her fingers twisted his hair and pulled his mouth against her, and he nibbled and nipped her nipples and sensed a restless motion of her hips. She swayed in front of him, undulating her hips in the space over his lap and clasped his sucking lips to her bosom. "Oh, Caleb, Caleb, that feels so good," she panted when he began alternating between chewing and pulling, pinching and sucking, switching from one to the other suddenly and unexpectedly so she couldn't tire. "Don't stop, don't stop," she wailed softly when her gyrations inadvertently caused her nipple to slip from his lips. He could feel her hands wandering across his shoulders, then his upper arms, then the back of his neck, as her rising passions inspired her to return his caresses. She kneaded his muscles with tugs and squeezes, some hard, others less so, and he came to understand that those touches were the guideposts of her pleasure. If he bit too hard, she squeezed him hard; if he sucked too gently she pulled him with her fingers, steadily increasing her pressure until he understood her needs and responded to her. He was caught up in the wonder of her body. It was as though they were performing a fantastic tango in which she led and he followed, and, as his understanding grew, they melded and flowed into one another, and she led him through the intricate twists and turns with increasingly subtle gestures, until, in his time, he learned to anticipate her moves before she made them, and she soared on the gossamer wings of her passion. "Oh, God, you suck me so good," she groaned as she yielded herself to the boy's intuition. He chewed her nipples, and she mewed her pleasure to him in long sighs. "Ooooooooo, Caleb, yes," she gasped as his teeth scraped her breast from base to tip. "That's makin' me sooooooo wet." The mention of her moisture reminded him of his purpose, and he became acutely aware that her naked loins were grinding obscenely in front of his chest. She had bumped his arm repeatedly with her knee as she writhed, and once or twice, in delirium, he had inadvertently brushed the soft skin of her inner thigh with his hand. "Don't stop," she complained immediately when he paused for breath and to collect his wits, and, when he resumed, she gurgled and said, "Give me your hand; I'll show you how wet I am." He couldn't move, so she groped for him and plucked his hand off her breast. "There," she gasped as she thrust his hand between her legs. "Feel me. See how wet I am. No, no, keep sucking; you don't have to look. Here, I'll help you." She grabbed his hand with both of hers and held him tightly against her body inviting him to explore her wetness, but he knew nothing of the geography of vaginas, and his spirit, under the circumstances, intrigued though he certainly was, was not inclined to spontaneous adventure. She moaned and rubbed herself against his inert, flexible fingers. The friction was tantalizing in its incompleteness, and her loins churned with desire. His fingers drug slackly against her swelling lips without intention or purpose, so she slipped her hand under his and positioned her fingers under his, thumb under thumb, index under index, ring under ring, and guided his hand with her own. She circled his neck with her arm and breathed toward his ear, "Relax your fingers, Caleb, I'll show you." He suckled her breasts and went as limp as he could, and he could feel the soft, moist hairs of her pussy brushing his palm. Her heat scalded him, but he yielded to her pressure and cupped her mons with his hand. Her gently sculpted mound filled his hand with a throbbing, downy soft presence that made him think, fleetingly, of squirmy ducklings. She pressed his hand hard into the center of her mons and held him there while she rubbed her pussy along his fingers. Her pussy lips, fattened with lust, splayed open, and she oiled his fingers with her essence. "There, Caleb, do you feel it?" she gushed excitedly when she felt her lips separating for him. He was all confusion and wonder, and the heat of his hand was nearly a match for the heat in her loins, so the transition from outside to not quite inside wasn't all that clear to him. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to imagine what he was supposed to feel, but he had no reference to guide him, so he shook his head in bewilderment and lapped her hot nipples. Oh, God, he is too sweet, she thought as he allowed her to press his hand into her flesh, and she felt there the awkward fumbling of his untutored fingers. His inexperience was kindling for the flames in her loins. His virgin fingers upon her body were like steel striking flint, and wherever he touched her, erotic sparks showered onto the dry tinder of her lust. "Like this, you sweet boy," she said heatedly, and she lifted his middle finger with her own and, guiding him between her pouting, slippery lips, she brought him to the bright dawn of a new day. Every day, from this day forward, she thought as she held his virgin finger to her opening, every thing that he does, every girl that he touches, every experience that he has, will be measured against this moment. For all time, for the remainder of his days, every feeling, every sensation, every thought, every sound of this moment will be etched in his memory like an epitaph chiseled in stone, and he will not draw another breath without the remembrance of me and of this day. He felt her and sensed her depths opening before him, and he gazed in awed wonder at her face. His jaw dropped and her nipple slipped from his lip, but she let it pass. She lowered her hips slightly to widen the gap between her legs, and licked her fevered lips with delicious expectation. "See, Caleb? You see how easy it goes in me when I'm really wet," she said softly, and, as the honeyed words spilled from her lips, she slipped their fingers into the flooded, wildly churning void of her passion. "Oh," he gasped in wonder as a multitude of mysteries revealed themselves in that single, penetrating instant. She was small and tight down there, as was appropriate for her youth, and one finger fitted her snugly. Two fingers filled her, and her delicate tissues swelled to surround and envelop their layered fingers. "Mmmmmm," she moaned with pleasure, and she gently withdrew her finger to let the boy explore her on his own. "Do you like that, Caleb?" she asked huskily, when she felt her muscles contracting around his finger. He nodded and gulped, and didn't dare move his finger for fear of harming her. "I like it, too," she said in a low, confessional tone. "I love to feel fingers in my pussy like that. I love it so much, sometimes I even fingerfuck myself." She was playing with his head again, and it worked. Her choice of words shocked him, and he jerked like she had poured ice water down his back. She smiled dreamily and wiggled her hips suggestively, but his shallowly penetrating finger remained maddeningly fixed inside her like a gyroscope, neither advancing, nor retreating nor drifting side to side. "Am I shocking you? Do you think I'm bad just because I fingerfuck myself?" she asked smiling innocently, and she lifted his chin so she could look into his eyes. He blinked at her helplessly, and she loved him all the more. "I bet you jack off, too, don't you?" she teased him with mock sternness. "That's probably why that finger of yours is so short; it's shrinking from all the jacking off you've been doing." He glanced away, unable to meet her gaze, because, of course, she was right on the money, and she grinned knowingly. "Deeper, I want it in me deeper," she said, returning her hand to his and advancing his finger slightly, while a look of deepening consternation flickered on his face. "Look at me," she said, and he obediently lifted his eyes to hers. "You jack off every day, don't you, Caleb." He blushed, and she pressed on. "I bet you even come up here to do it, don't you." His blush deepened; his eyes widened in amazement at the canniness of her intuition. "That's why you built this little bunk up here, isn't it, Caleb? So you would have a nice quiet place where you could jack off without anybody catching you." He sputtered in embarrassment, because she was right, and in amazement, for the more she talked, the tighter she squeezed him. "I'm right, aren't I?" she asked him pointedly, and he couldn't bring himself to lie. "Yes," he whispered. "Do you bring pictures of naked women up here to look at while you do it?" "Sometimes." "So, you lay up here in the dark all by yourself and look at pictures and jerk off, is that what you do?" He couldn't deny it, but he couldn't admit it either, so he let his embarrassed silence speak for him. "Don't you think the real thing would be better?" "Yes," he conceded sheepishly. "Do you like me, Caleb? Don't you think I'm pretty?" "Oh, God, yes," he gulped emphatically. He had never been more certain of anything in his life than he was at that moment of his love for her and of her beauty. "Then, why don't you move your finger inside me, instead of just holding it in there like you're afraid to touch me? "Cause, I'm afraid I'll hurt you or something," he answered reminding her of the promise she had extracted from him. "Oh, Lord, you are a sweet boy, Caleb Montcastle," she chided him gently. "But, you aren't going to hurt me with your finger. My pussy's so wet you could fingerfuck me with three fingers and it wouldn't hurt me. Can't you feel that?" "But, it's so small." "I stretch; try me." "Are you sure?" he questioned doubtfully. His finger remained poised indecisively at her threshold exactly where she had abandoned him. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 20 "Of course, I'm sure; I've done it about a zillion times." There was "it" again, he thought, but his confusion was less than before, and he understood, so he wiggled his finger a little and tried to advance into her hot wetness. He was timid, though, and inexperienced, and he failed to put the backbone into his finger that was required, so it sort of collapsed on him the minute it encountered the resistance of the girl's very narrow passageway. "Oh," he moaned in disappointment when his finger failed him and his palm bumped into her mons. "It's OK, Caleb, let me show you," she said patiently, and she took his hand in hers again and told him gently, "Now, straighten out your finger. No, no, just the one that's already inside me. Yeah, that's right. Now, keep it straight and make it real stiff, OK?" "OK," he replied, doing as she told him. "That's right; you're doing just fine," she encouraged the boy, and she began directing his hand toward her crotch. "There, there" she panted when his finger began inching its way into her vagina. "Do you feel that?" "Uh-huh," the boy croaked, for indeed, he felt her; he felt the cloying wetness of her envelop his finger as she slid him into her depths. She put one hand on his shoulder to steady herself and lifted his hand higher with the other. His stiffened finger advanced into her heat. He watched his finger disappear with open-mouthed amazement and wonder. Her body shimmered in the hot air in front of him, and her pussy floated before him, at eye level, a scant six inches from his nose. He tried to focus on the girl's body, to examine the sparse tangle of pubic hair that covered her sex and the delicate fleshy lips that were clinging to his finger, and to explore the wonderful mysteries of her secret places, but rational thoughts deserted him completely as she yielded her secrets to his touch. "Oh, Caleb, that feels so good," she moaned when he had entered as deeply as her stance would allow. "Can you feel how deep you are?" He could only nod in reply. "Relax your wrist so I can move your hand a little. Yes, that's it. Now, keep your finger stiff, while I pull it out some. Just a little further, just, just… No, no, don't take it all the way out, leave a little inside me, so you don't have to hunt around for the way back in. Yes, yes, that's right, right there. Oh, that's perfect. Now, keep it stiff, while you slide it back in. Yesssss, that's right, slowly, slowly, just relax for now and let me do it." She was panting. She rested her head on top of his, and he could feel her breath on his neck. He relaxed as best he could, and let his wrist flop, so she could move him like she wanted. He stared between her legs at his emerging finger as she withdrew him, and tried to see the wetness he had felt inside her, but, when she leaned toward him, her shadow made it too dark to see much no matter how hard he squinted. "Ohhhh, yesssss, Caleb," he felt more than heard her whisper as his finger reentered her. He felt the steady, slow pressure of her fingers on his hand, and realized his finger was advancing, but almost before he knew it, he was inside her again and was feeling her moist heat along the length of his finger. Gone, miraculously, were the resistance and the clingy stickiness of her lips, replaced by a wondrous silky slipperiness that embraced his finger with an exquisitely pulsating pressure. "Mmmmm," she moaned softly as she pulled his hand, withdrawing his finger again. Her cheek was resting on the crown of his head and one hand was kneading the muscles in his shoulder with anxious fingers, while the other was leading him on a quest of discovery into the depths of her loins. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and tried to focus his thoughts, but the bright quick flames of her arousal flared and he was blinded in the light. She lifted his hand toward her loins and drove the stiff spike of his finger deep into her steaming void in a single, smooth thrust. "Yessss, yessss, oh, Caleb," she groaned and she increased the pressure of her fingers on his shoulder as, immediately, she led him into another withdrawal. He bit his lip and forced himself to concentrate on keeping his wrist flexible. His mind was a spinning vortex of astonishing discoveries and awakening emotions. The disquieting gnawing sensation in his loins had expanded a hundred fold in the instant that he touched her there and it was rapidly beginning to rival his finger for the focus of his attention. He felt himself lengthening, hardening, and squirmed to quiet the rising voices calling him to manhood. Her hips were undulating restlessly, and he sensed a growing tenseness in her body. Her hand moved faster, plunging his finger into her wet softness and withdrawing it with breathless urgency. She panted "Oh's" to every plunging thrust, and, there in the thick, hot air of the loft, she taught him the swift cadence of love's quick march to ecstasy. Her grip on his hand relaxed, and her fingers went slack as he learned her needs and responded to her desire. Her hand floated beside his in the space between her thighs, encouraging him, guiding him as necessary, and she coaxed him to pleasure her with words of sweet seduction. "Oh, baby," she cooed as she relinquished control of his finger. "That feels so good. You know what you're doing to me don't you?" "What?" he muttered into the valley between her dangling breasts. He knew what he was trying to do and that was to maintain precisely the pace she had set for him to follow. "You're fingerfucking my wet pussy," she breathed huskily into his ear, and her hips lurched toward his entering finger. He gulped and blinked furiously and lifted his finger into her void and held it there for an instant, fully embedded in hot flesh, while her buttocks quivered with an ecstatic tremor. "Oh, God, yes, Caleb, fuck me like that," she moaned as he pressed his finger to new depths. "Use your finger and fuck my pussy." Her hands clasped his head and pulled him toward her breasts. He put a hand on her hip to help him judge her movements, so he could match her thrusts with his own and heard her gasp. "Yes, yes, touch me, put your hand on me while you're fingerfucking me; touch me anywhere you want," she begged him, pulling his face to her chest. His fingers skittered across the wet skin of her hip, circling her waist to the small of her back, and slid into the shallow groove at the base of her spine. The tremors in her buttocks slowed and gave over to a slow, sensuous roll of her hips as she began thrusting herself toward his penetrating finger. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," she chanted as she hunched to meet his thrusts. She was lurching forward and backward, wobbling unsteadily on uncertain footing, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to match her movements. Once or twice she rolled too far and nearly dislodged his finger and a bubble of anxiety wormed into his throat. He was afraid of losing her, because he couldn't be certain of finding her again if he did, so he did what every good horseman does and determined to take the filly under hand while he could. His hand slipped down to the jutting slope of her butt and rested there, lightly, for a minute, riding the exuberant rolling wave of her building lust. She bucked and rolled under his hand, and he chased her with his stiffly pointed finger, until she nearly bounced away again, and then, he cupped her ass, pressing the deep cleft between her cheeks with his palm and tried to rein her in, but she was a wild thing and her cheeks were wet and slippery, so in the end the best he could do was just hold on and use his hand as an aiming point for his stabbing finger. "Oh, Caleb," she moaned hotly. "Your finger's fucking my pussy sooooo good." Praise is a powerful aphrodisiac, and it is especially so to the uninitiated. His cock surged in his pants and pulsed with excitement. Instinctively, he increased the pressure of his hand on her ass and quickened his thrusts. Her puffy swollen lips opened for him as he skewered her pussy, and he explored her with an inquisitiveness that left her breathless and melting on the tip of his finger. He probed her depths, and then amazed her by crooking his finger to measure her width and accidentally scraped the coarse oval of her most sensitive spot. "Oh, my God," she wailed ecstatically when he repeated the movement three times in rapid succession. He paused so she could breathe, and she moaned, "Again," so he curled his finger again in a series of come hither flicks, and she sagged helplessly against him in a state of near collapse. He felt her hand on his cheek, and then, her fingers were groping for his chin. She found him and held him, her hand cupping him and lifting his face toward hers. "Kiss me, Caleb; kiss me when you touch me like that," she moaned euphorically while his finger dug into her loins. He opened his eyes and a cold terror of inadequacy spread chillingly through his limbs. Her lips, soft, pink, half-opened and pouting were puckered expectantly just a half-inch from his own. Her breath, sweet and warm, smelling faintly of cigarettes and bubblegum, poured over him in heavy, gasping waves, as she waited for him to gather the courage to erase the space between his lips and hers. His heart raced in his chest as the icy waters of timidity surged into his veins, and his finger clawed mechanically at her insides. She moved toward him. His eyes widened, but he froze as the fear of failure surged to rob his ardor of its virility. "Kiss me," she murmured as her lips brushed his and caressed his open mouth. Her lips moved against his, softly seeking, and he sensed the gentle insistence of her tongue. Impulsively, he opened himself to her, and, in that instant, the knowledge of her flowed into him, and they blended together like the waters at the convergence of two great rivers, merging in the roiling eddies and undertows as two became one. She poured into him a fiery brew that was at once pure and sweet like sunlight borne on a blossom scented breeze but also dark and clouded with the deep umber and crimson of carnality's most primitive compulsions. Primal mysteries were revealed and explained in the waters of her mouth, and the boy was swept like rose petals cast onto a rushing stream toward the Niagara of innocence lost. "Hmmmm," she mouthed against his lips as her tongue charged into his mouth to fence with his. "Fingerfuck me," she reminded him, mouthing with her lips around his searching tongue, after his attention became divided and his finger-curling ceased for want of instruction. He explored her at both ends, and she encouraged him by mimicking the caresses of his finger with her tongue upon his lips, and he knew she had to be the sexiest woman on the planet. He sucked her tongue and scratched her spot with his fingertip, while she responded by growling, "Fuck me," in the back of her throat and writhing on his finger. He persisted and she indulged his curiosity until she could endure no more, and then she pushed him away, gently, but insistently. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 21 "Oh, Caleb, you are a fast learner," she panted, pushing his hand away from her crotch and extracting his finger from her dripping slot. "What, what's wrong? What did I do?" he cried in dismay. He didn't know exactly where all the kissing and fingering was leading, but he could almost hear the crashing cataract of his Niagara, and he desperately wanted to see it for himself. "Nothing, not a thing, sweetie, you're wonderful, " she reassured him. "That just wasn't going to get me where I wanted to be, is all; it's time to try something else." Her words afforded him little relief. He slumped on his little bench of straw and looked dejected because he was just beginning to get the hang of things and was feeling pretty proud of himself when she stopped him so abruptly. He cast his eyes downward in embarrassment and felt that some how, in his ignorance, he had failed to please her. She smiled knowingly, and snapped him out of his misery with an abrupt command. "Take off your shirt." "What?" he gulped glancing up in surprise. "Take off your shirt, so I can sit on it, Caleb; I think that straw would be pretty scratchy on my bare skin, don't you?" Oh, Lord, she was right about that, he nodded emphatically; damn hay on sweaty skin like hers would make her itch all the way to Florida and back. He began tugging at the tails of his shirt, trying to extract them from the waist of his pants, and she stepped toward him, reaching over his shoulders to grasp his shirt from the back. He tugged and she pulled, and after a brief struggle, because the material was clinging to his wet skin pretty tightly, she succeeded in pulling the shirt over his head and off his arms. "Whew, brother," she teased him, while she shook out his shirt and spread it on the ledge beside him. "You sure don't like having your clothes taken off, do you?" He was about to protest and defend himself, when she laughed and bent to kiss him on the mouth again. He was prepared this time and ready for her, and when her lips touched his, his tongue sprang into her mouth seeking her tongue with feverish darting that signaled to her the spreading flames of his ardor. He reached up for her and ran his fingers through her hair and urged her to kiss him harder. Her fingers slipped from his shoulders to the expanse of his chest, spreading, sliding across his flesh in the heated wetness of his perspiration and circling his nipples with her fingertips. They tantalized each other with tongues and lips and fingers for a few moments, but then she broke away with a gasp. "Oh, man, you're turning my knees to jelly," she moaned. "If I don't sit down, I'm gonna fall down." "OK…" he began agreeably, but she had already turned around and was sitting down beside him with the full, rounded cheeks of her ass right in the middle of his shirt. She grinned seductively at him and crooked her finger, saying "Come here, big boy." He leaned toward her, pursing his lips to resume kissing where he had left off, but she put her hand on his chest and pushed him away with a throaty laugh. "Stand up and come over here between my legs," she said, moving her knees apart to make room for him to stand. She was sitting, leaning back with her arms behind her, and she watched him bounce up off the ledge and quickly position himself between her legs. She squinted and moved her head around like she couldn't see him hardly at all in the dim light, and looked him up and down for a minute. He was feeling perplexed and a little self-conscious, since he didn't know what she expected him to do next, when he noticed her looking at the bulge in the front of his pants. "My, my, Caleb, what ever could that be making your pants stick out like that?" she said with a sly smile. "Oh," he gasped, recoiling in embarrassment. His hands flew to his crotch as he modestly tried to conceal his erection. "Don't hide it," she coaxed him sympathetically, while prying his hands away to uncover his bulge. He let her place his hands at his sides and closed his eyes while he endured her inspection. The pressure of her eyes on him was excruciating, and he wanted more than anything to bolt, flee, run like the wind through the fields behind the barn and hide until she had left, but her voice, gentle and seductively suggestive, held him rooted, as it were, to the spot. She reached toward him with one hand and supported herself with the other. Her fingers touched his chest and burned him like tiny torches as they trailed down his belly toward his belt. "My goodness, just look at you, Caleb Montcastle," she whistled admiringly, and he squeezed his eyes even tighter. "I think you have something down there for me, don't you?" she said without touching him, and heavy beads of sweat began trickling down his back between his shoulder blades. He gulped, swallowing his answer, and felt a rush of crimson in his cheeks. "Is all that just for me, Caleb?" she asked in a whisper, and he felt her fingers brush his thigh through his pant leg. He gulped again and bit his lip and felt the pressure of her fingers climbing on his leg. "Is your dick all stiff and hard for me, baby?" she asked with the answer pointing her straight in the face. His face glowed with his shame, and he turned his head away from her, because erections were something you weren't supposed to let anyone see. His shyness thrilled her, of course, and wetted her appetite for him all the more. Her hand drifted upward on his leg, and she could feel his thigh muscles twitching anxiously. "It's alright, baby," she whispered reassuringly. "You're supposed to be like that. I'd be disappointed if you weren't, because it would make me think I was ugly, or something." "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever known," he muttered adoringly without looking toward her. "I think you really mean it," she smiled tenderly as her hand found him and her fingers pressed into his strength. He gave a sharp intake of breath when she touched him, and his heart leapt into his throat. Her fingers moved over him with practiced ease, like she had done it a thousand times before, stroking, caressing him through his pants, and he trembled with excitement. "My, my, my, Caleb," she said with a surprised, sultry chuckle as her fingers traced the rigid ridge of his manhood to its tip. "I think you've grown up some since we were here two years ago. You were just a kid then, but I do believe you've become a man while I was gone." His cock throbbed to her touch despite the pang of recollected misery he felt at the mention of her last visit. Oh my, how he had wanted her to notice him then, he recalled, but she had ignored him, treated him like he didn't exist, and he spent the entire two days feeling as though he was invisible to her. "Ooo, it's so big and so hard," she said stroking him through his pants. He wobbled unsteadily and chewed his lip while she fondled him. His hands worked themselves frantically at his sides; his finger kneaded his palms like he was milking a goat, and all the while his mind was dissolving in the wonder of her touch. She pressed her palms together, sandwiching his thick shaft between them and massaged him suggestively. Her knees spread wider as she pulled him closer to her, and she hooked him behind the legs with her ankles so he couldn't run. She held him tightly and teased him with her palms and fingertips, and his erection grew under her touch. "I know what you want, Caleb," she whispered excitedly when she felt his cock jerk. "You want me to take your big cock out and let you fuck me, don't you?" "Diane!" he sputtered, but his eagerly twitching cock revealed the impurity of his thoughts. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, you bad, bad boy?" she murmured rhetorically, as though contemplating that possibility, and, as she spoke, she leaned her face toward him and pressed her cheek against his rising bulge. "You'd just love to stick this big, hard dick of yours into my wet little pussy and fuck me, wouldn't you, Caleb Montcastle?" "Oh, Diane," he moaned, because her hands had deserted him and had circled around his waist and were pulling his hips toward her. He felt the movement of her cheek on his cock as she spoke and torrid images flooded his mind. She caressed his rigid bulge with the side of her face, whispering words he could scarcely hear much less believe and said, "You can, Caleb, I promise; I want you to. I want to feel your cock inside me, fucking me, but not yet. We have to go slow, to make it last, so you'll remember me after you cum." My God, he thought, nearly recoiling in disbelief, "remember" her? Like there's any way on earth I'm ever going to forget her. Good God, I haven't forgotten about her for a minute since her last visit. Well, nearly, there had been that business with the Morgenstern girl, but that didn't really count, he hoped. He was about to protest the utter cruelty of her misjudgment and declare to her his everlasting love, when she turned to face him and gently bit him through his pants. Lightning flashed through his brain as she nipped playfully at the throbbing bulge. She nibbled him, working her way toward the tip, muttering "Mmmmmm," as she chewed, and when she reached the head, she mouthed him through the fabric, and he tottered on the brink of unconsciousness. She caressed him with her lips for an eternity while he flirted with a spell of insanity, but then, reluctantly, she pushed him away, chiding herself aloud, "Slow down, girl, or it'll be over before you even get started." "Diane?" he burbled when she retreated, and the frustrated boy attempted to climb onto the bale astraddle of her to fulfill the promise of her lips, but she held him off with her hands, restraining him until his passion subsided. He panted and grunted and his chest was so slick with sweat that she nearly lost her hold on him, but after a minute or two, she felt him relax a little and, when she was sure he had calmed enough, she let him go. "You're an eager one, aren't you?" she teased, grinning wickedly at the wet oval circling the prominent bulge in his pants. "You haven't even had a good look at mine, and here you go wanting to show me yours already; I think you're way too fast for me." She watched him for a minute just to be certain he wasn't about to topple backward down the haystack and congratulated herself for her self-control. Her pussy was absolutely on fire with lust, and that last stunt of hers had almost been her undoing. She had been a heartbeat away from unzipping his pants and, well... She leaned back on her elbows while he regained his breath, and regarded him with an increasing measure of respect. He must have grown a foot, she thought, recalling the skinny little kid who had trailed her around like a puppy and the insignificant little bump she had noticed in the front of his shorts that time they went swimming together in the watering trough. No, that runty kid was history, she smiled, replaced by a full grown man with a man's dick and a rage to use it. It had been all she could do to fend him off, and her hands still burned from the touch of his rippling chest muscles. "We're playing doctor, remember? And, you haven't finished your examination," she reminded him when he seemed calm enough to resume. He looked at her a little blankly and his eyebrows lifted, as if to say what's left to examine? "My pussy, silly," she smiled, responding to his unspoken question. "You haven't actually seen it yet, have you?" His eyes dropped to the shadowy darkness between her thighs, and he thought for a moment recalling the wondrous revelations he had just experienced, and then he shook his head in agreement. "Well? Do you want to see it, or what?" "Yes," he croaked with his eyes still riveted to the impenetrable shadow. "I thought so," she replied, and then, she lay back, spreading her legs and lifting her heels to the edge of ledge, and giggled gently, "Take a look, bad boy." He towered over her, standing between her wide-spread thighs, and ravished her with his eyes. She was beautiful lying there on a pallet of straw with patches of dancing light dotting her flawless skin. His gaze swept restlessly across her body, assessing the charms against which he had no measure, and approached her loins. She followed his eyes, and her skin tingled under the visual caress of his love-struck inspection. His eyes dropped lower, and she obligingly widened her legs. Her hands, palms down, rested lightly on her thighs while she patiently waited for him to begin his examination. He stared into the matted tangle of hair covering her mons and squinted. She was wet there, he could tell; her hair stuck to her skin like the hair on his head did after a shower and it was several shades darker than he expected. Deliciously delicate, fleshy lips protruded from the thicket of hair, and he followed them down to the point where they seemed to merge into the cleavage of her butt cheeks. Moisture, slick and shiny looking, glistened in her hair and along the edges of her lips. Her cheeks and the insides of her thighs were wet as well, and he thought, momentarily, that she must have been really hot to have sweat that much, but then, he remembered the wetness inside her, and he wondered if some of it might have escaped to the outside. She guessed his thoughts and led him through the myriad wonders of her body like a Gray Line hostess on bus full of Music City tourists. "That's juice from my pussy," she explained to erase his confusion. "It usually stays on the inside, but when I'm really hot, it just goes everywhere. That shows you how wet you made me when you were sucking my titties and fingerfucking my pussy." He nodded vacantly, lost in the memory of those touches. "You can get closer if you want to." He nodded again and leaned closer. "Kneel down between my legs, Caleb," she suggested helpfully. The boy dropped to his knees and crouched between her legs with his face just level with her pussy. She looked toward him, through the twin towers of her thighs, and smiled at his eager attention. He licked his lips and bent forward till his eyes were just inches from her body, and she knew he could feel on his cheeks the steam rising from her loins. "What do you see?" Silence, punctuated only by the sounds of his breathing, hung heavily in the air. "Tell me what you see, Caleb." "Your pussy." He sounded distant, like he was lost, deep in thought. "I know that, silly; tell me what it looks like to you." "Beautiful," he sighed as though a single superlative would suffice to compliment all the treasures of the Louvre. "Thanks, sweet boy," she smiled indulgently, "but tell me what you really see." "Hair." "Pubic hair," she corrected. "I had to wait a long time for that to grow and it's still not very thick." He eyed her triangle of damp hair and replied skeptically, "It looks pretty thick to me." "It's not, trust me. What else?" "Uh, uh," he muttered, struggling for a descriptive noun. "Lips, I guess." "Describe them to me." The boy was sweating again and he rubbed his eyes with his fists. "Well, uh," he stammered, "they're wrinkled and wet." She smiled again, and her fingers began a tantalizing journey across her belly to the object of his examination. "That's my vulva you're looking at, and the lips you're describing are the 'labia majora.'" "Huh?" he muttered. "'Labia majora,'" she repeated. "Now, you say it." Her fingers had entered the field of his peripheral vision and had slowed at the fringes of her pubic hair as though she was waiting for him to respond. "Libya majors," he responded, doing his best to please the teacher. "Close enough," she giggled, "Muammar Kadaffi, would be thrilled, I'm sure." Then, she continued. "What color are they?" "Red." "They're red because you've gotten me so hot and wet," she said, and her fingers lightly brushed along the sides of her labia majora as she spoke. "Usually, if some naughty boy hasn't gotten me all worked up, they're just soft pink, like my other lips." "Oh," he said lamely, and he stared at the progress of her fingers. "They're closed, aren't they?" she asked, but she had already confirmed that diagnosis with her fingers. "Yeah," he said, leaning closer to be certain. "They're closed mostly, but sometimes they just open up and you can see right inside, like when I use my vibrator or put something big in there." "Oh," he gulped like he knew what she was talking about. Her fingertips had met at the narrow, closed crease that separated the halves of her labia majora, and she twitched them restlessly in her wetness. "Do you want to see the inside, Caleb?" she asked, but, already, her fingers had dipped into her crease and were spreading her lips, and he didn't answer. She spaced her fingers along the divide, from top to bottom, and pulled her lips apart. She moved her feet to open herself further, and felt the weight of his eyes on her body. "Have you ever seen the inside of a woman's pussy before?" she queried, knowing full well the answer as she spread her sex for his inspection. "No, no," he whispered, but he had bent so low and close to her that she could barely hear his answer. Her fingers slipped through her moisture, stroking her inflamed tissues, skating for his pleasure on the slippery rink of her loins like half a dozen twirling Nancy Kwans at the Winter Olympics. Her fingertips slithered toward her core, and she could feel his hot breath on the backs of her hands. "See that?" she asked, splaying herself and pointing with all of her fingers. "Uh-huh." "More lips; 'labia minora.'" "Lib, lib," he stammered to repeat the unfamiliar name, but his focus was on her fingers as she teased herself. "Never mind," she panted; her fingers and her mind were racing through the galleries, eager to point out yet another masterpiece. Her hands slid lower; fingers following her crease toward her bottom, gathering lips like the hem of a skirt, and just above the crack of her cheeks, she pulled herself open widely. "There, there, Caleb, do you see it?" Her voice was edgy with excitement like she couldn't sustain the position for long, and as she spoke his name, her fingertip circled a deep, dark opening that was visible inside her folds. "Yes," he whispered in awe, hunkering down between her thighs to gain a better view. "What is it? Do you know?" she gasped, and her fingers began to drift purposely around the target. "I, uh, well, your pussy?" he guessed ignorantly. "Uh, no, baby," she gushed as she slid two fingers into the dark void. "That's my vagina; that's where your finger was when you were fingerfucking me a little while ago. That's where your dick'll go in when we fuck, and, if my diaphragm lets me down tonight, where the baby'll come out next winter." He gulped and stared as she inserted her fingers and then, slowly withdrew them. They were shining and wet with her juices, and he wanted her so badly that his mouth was watering again. "Now, you do it," she said, holding herself open for him after her fingers had withdrawn. He pointed his finger toward her dark hole and touched her lightly. "Put it in me," she groaned. He pressed and she swallowed him instantly. He gnawed his lips and watched his finger penetrate the void between her stretched lips. He felt her closing about him and pushed into her depths. "Give me two," she gasped when one finger proved insufficient to fill her needs. "Diane, Diane," he said, whispering her name in awe, and he presented two digits at her portal. "Do it," she urged, and her fingertips tugged at her lips to encourage him. He pressed into her and she sucked him in. The walls of her vagina closed in around his fingers and he felt like they were shrink-wrapped in her tissue. She gurgled in her throat and lifted her hips to him. He remembered his lessons and withdrew till only the tips of his fingers remained within her, and then he paused for delicious seconds while she shivered in anticipation before plunging them in again to the hilt. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 21 "Oh, baby," she sighed as he thrust his fingers into her. "You remember." He probed her, plunging and withdrawing in rapid succession, and she lifted to meet his every thrust. "Fuck me hard, like you did before," she urged him, and he rammed his fingers into her wetness till his knuckles were wedged in the crack of her ass and he could penetrate her no deeper. She arched her back, quivering in sheer pleasure as he skewered into her, and hung there in midair for a moment, but then, unexpectedly, she pushed his hand away and lowered her hips. "Wait, wait, there's more," she panted, cautioning herself more than him, and he looked at her like she was crazy, because things had been going along pretty well as far as he was concerned. "Look," she said, pulling her lips apart again. "See that?" She was pointing her finger toward the top of her labia, but all he could discern were the pubic hair and lips he had viewed earlier in the tour. He squinted and blinked, but the light was poor, and his eyes were burning with the sweat pouring into them, so he could detect nothing significant that he hadn't already seen. "There," she insisted eagerly while tapping her slit with the tip of her finger, "there it is." He blinked again and shifted his weight on his knees, and, when he moved, a little shaft of light fell across his shoulder and illuminated her vulva like a tiny, timely spotlight. He leaned closer, being careful to stay out of the light, and peered at her pointing finger. "There," she moaned hotly, and her finger nudged a tiny, insignificant little stalk of flesh, causing it lean to the side, "can you see it, now?" "Yeah," he said indifferently. Fingers in her pussy he could understand, but this, this seemed to be pretty pointless. "It's my clit," she hissed, and her breath whistled through her teeth like she was killing herself with her finger. "I see it," he reported helpfully. He was eager to conclude this part of the exam and get back to fingerfucking since he felt certain he was getting the hang of that pretty good. She confounded him, however, by continuing to point to the little thing and pushing on it. She had spread herself open with two fingers and was pressing on her whatever with a fingertip, pushing it back and forth for a minute and then, up and down, and, every few strokes, she would slip her finger into her trough to wet it some more, and then resume stroking herself. She pulled her lips wider and the little stalk stood by itself, kind of wobbly, and looked like a little bitsy dick sticking up. She circled it with a wetted finger making it bend in a circle and moaned. He studied her movements in amazement, and it occurred to him that she was enjoying this a lot more than anything he had done previously. "It's my clitoris," she repeated with what sounded to him a lot like a squeal. "It's what makes girls cum." "You're kidding; that little thing?" he replied in complete surprise. "Yesssss really, I promise," she gurgled breathlessly as she excitedly massaged her clit. She slipped one hand off her pussy and placed it on her breast, letting her labia majora close over the circling tip of her finger. Her fingers wetted her nipple when she tugged on it, and she watched him with glassy eyes while she stroked herself toward the bliss of her nascent nirvana. "Do you know what I'm doing?" she wheezed like she was winded. "No, yes, uh, you're rubbing your clister," he stammered like a bumbling fool, but he was watching and learning. "I'm masturbating; it's how girls do it, how we jack off," she gasped, and her finger feverishly circled the nearly hidden little stalk. Ah, the power of suggestion. The mention of the term, jack off, sent his mind on a sensual odyssey, and his hand groping for the throbbing cock in his pants. He had nearly forgotten himself in his inquisitiveness, and he was disconcerted to find his lust stridently asserting itself again. "Oh God," she groaned aloud as her finger completed another circuit, and half-sitting up, she reached for him and snatched his hand off his cock. "Here, Caleb, here, please," she pleaded with him breathlessly as she pulled the startled boy's hand toward her crotch. "You do me first, and then I'll do you. I promise, I'll jack you off good." He was in a state of near shock as he allowed her to place his hand on her cleft; shocked by the spate of knowledge she was sharing with him, shocked by her wanton, lewd words and promises, and shocked by the pounding, overpoweringly insistent force in his own loins. He touched her, and he blazed with awakening awareness. "Oh, yes," she chirped when his finger dove into her crease and immediately located her clitoris. He mimicked her movements and caressed her with little circular strokes of his fingertip. He was tantalized by the size and silken smoothness of her clit; it was like one of her nipples only smaller, and he sought to pinch it as he had done her titties with considerable success, only it was slippery, and it eluded him. "Oh, baby, do me gently," she cautioned him when his nail scraped her accidentally. "Sorry," he said and lightened his touch. "Hmmmmmm," she sighed, and then, she shifted her body and said, "Come up here beside me, so you can reach me easier." He scrambled up onto the ledge and dove into the hay beside her. First, she took his hand and put it between her legs, and then, she pulled his face to her, directing his mouth to her breast. "Suck my titties while you rub my clit, and I'll cum for you like you won't believe." He required little encouragement at that point and eagerly fell onto her bosom with his mouth open. She allowed him to suckle for a while, until he established a rhythm that pleased her, and then, she placed her hand over his and pressed him to her cunt. "Just hold your finger on it," she instructed, referring to her clitoris which was pulsating under his finger, "and let me move for you." She steadied his hand, pressing it with her own against her body, and held him there while she rolled her hips upward into the pressure. He felt her open under his finger, and his fingertip grazed her clit. "Oh, yes, oh, God, yes," she moaned as her hips rolled under his stationary hand. "Suck my tittie like you did before." He sucked her nipple hard, nipping it with his teeth, and felt her jerking under his hand. He sucked harder, and she grunted, "Ugh, ugh," with every surge of her hips. She drew her knees up towards her shoulders, cocking her ass up toward the roof, and he would have lost possession of her clit had she not been holding him tightly to her body and directing his caresses with all the precision her consuming lust demanded. "Oh, oh, oh, Caleb," she mouthed sweetly as the exquisite friction propelled her quickly toward climax. "You're about to make me cum." Her nipple was hard as handball rubber in his mouth, and he scraped her with the sharp edges of his teeth because he had learned to please her with his mouth that way. "Yes," she shrieked shrilly when her clit tripped over the tip of his finger, and pigeons throughout the barn fluttered anxiously at the sudden noise, but she ignored them and ground her crotch against his stiff fingers. "Oh, Caleb, Caleb," she chanted, calling his name as the sweet torment of her passion reached a burning crescendo. "You're doing me so good, good, good; aargh, there, yes, yes, that's it, oh yes, I'm cumming, oh God, I'm cumming." She rocked under his hand and clutched his wrist with a vise like grip, while her body convulsed in a series of violent, wrenching spasms. "Ooooo, baby," she moaned in the midst of her climax. "Your fingers feel so good." But then she fell silent and stopped moving for a minute or so, and he would have feared having killed her or something if her chest hadn't been heaving so much and if the pulse in her pussy hadn't been beating so savagely. He sucked more gently and gradually he felt her passion subside. She released his wrist, but he continued to cup her mons, and he marveled at the heat she generated there. She lowered her legs and lovingly squeezed his hand with her thighs. Her fingers stroked his temples briefly, in an almost listless gesture, and then, moved on and held one of her breasts to his lips as he continued to suckle. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 22 "Oh, mercy, Caleb Montcastle, you do know how to get a girl's motor running," she murmured, but his lips were occupied and he didn't respond at once, so she squeezed his hand again with her thighs and snaked her hand between his legs. "Oooo, you're still hard for me, baby," she cooed happily when she found him to be rigid and tense, and her fingers closed around him. "Diane?" he groaned defensively at her touch. The memory of her mouth teasing him through his pants burned in his mind, and he feared the torment of another ruse. "Shhhhhh. Don't talk, sweet boy; you made me cum, and now it's your turn." She held him in her hand while she spoke, and squeezed him with her fingers. She moved her hand, sliding it upward and pushed the stiff cloth of his jeans along the shaft of his cock. He moaned quietly and tried to keep her breast in his mouth with the thought that the connection might inspire her to keep her promise, but her fingers consumed his attention and he lost her. He shivered in the boiling heat as she provoked his passion with deft, knowing caresses. "Roll over," she said softly, pushing his shoulder with her free hand. He allowed her to roll him onto his back without resistance, and she followed him with her hand clinging to his cock. She snuggled into the crook of his arm and laid her head on his shoulder with her breasts pressing against his ribs. Her arm lay across his belly; her fingers toyed with him. He was hot and sweating, and she could feel with her cheek the heavy thump of his heart as it raced in his chest. She looked down, across the broad expanse of the boy's wide, hairless chest and his flat belly to the bulge lifting his pants at the crotch. She stroked him with the tips of her fingers, and felt the urgent quake of his desire. He stared straight up, memorizing the random arrangement of the holes in the roof, his body nearly as rigid as his dick, while she tugged to release his belt buckle. She had only one free hand to work with and the going was slow, but she persisted, and, after a minute or two of awkward fumbling, she had loosened his belt and was unzipping his pants. As she opened his pants, his cock sprang up through the opening under the cover of his thin cotton briefs. She freed him of his jeans as best she could without asking for help and succeeded in pushing the front, at least, down to the tops of his thighs. "Help me get your jeans down," she said, and he raised his hips for her and held them up while she pushed and maneuvered his pants down to his knees. The bleached white of his jockey shorts seemed to gleam in the half-light of the loft like one of the great pyramids bathed in the faint glow of a crescent moon. His manhood lifted, straining the cloth, and pointed toward her like a tent-pole under a sheet. She touched him through the fabric with the tip of a single finger, stroking lightly, tracing the outline of him with her nail, and she could feel the pulsing eagerness of him. Her tantalizing fingers trailed across his sheltered flesh, and wherever she moved them, exquisite sensations blossomed in their wake. She stroked the length of him, taking sweet time to complete the journey, and felt his cock lurch upward seeking the rapture of her embrace. He groaned again in agitation, and clacked the toes of his boots together like a clumsy cowboy at a high school dance. "You like that, don't you," she mouthed with her lips pressing lightly against his nipple and her fingers tickling his rigid shaft through his shorts. "Uhuh," the boy gasped. "You like this better, though, don't you?" she breathed against his hot skin as her fingers and thumb closed around him and squeezed. "Yes, yes," he whispered eagerly. "And this?" she said suggestively pumping his flesh within the circle of her fingers. "Oh, God," he gulped, and she teased him by relaxing her grip and letting her fingers slip up and down the soft fabric in a loose circle producing almost no friction. She released him and heard him whimper softly in dismay as her hand slid to the firm surface of his belly. She rubbed him there, letting her palm ride the tensed ridges of his abdomen, dipping her fingers into his navel and teasing him by occasionally brushing, as if accidentally, just the tip of a finger under the tight waistband of his shorts. She lifted her head and stretched to put her lips on his while her hand described lazy "S's" on his damp skin. She pressed her lips upon his mouth and sought to entice him with her tongue, but his lips were slack and his tongue was nearly inert, and she knew that he had raced ahead of her and was lost in the thickening mists of his arousal. His feet shifted restlessly, and his knees jerked spastically against the restraint of his pants as she prolonged the exquisite torture of his frustration. Her fingers advanced and retreated without really touching him where he wanted her most, promising relief, then denying it, and his hips bounced with hopeful little hops whenever she touched his shorts. He moaned her name again and again, remembering how she had spurred him by calling out his name, and she responded by licking and sucking his nipple and reaching down to stroke the tops of his bare thighs. "Diane?" he whined in disappointment when her fingers passed across his shorts without making contact with him and settled on his leg. "Shhhh, baby, I know what I'm doing," she mouthed against his wet nipple to quiet his protests. Indeed, she did know exactly what she was doing, she thought, congratulating herself albeit somewhat prematurely. She knew how to please boys; how to make them pant and shake with adoration for her until they begged her for the salve to cure their frustrations. She knew, had always known, by intuition or by self-instruction, or both, she knew exactly how to hone the blade of a man's passion, hour by hour, until it reached that level of razor sharpness beyond which only dulling could be achieved, and she knew that, for the moment, Caleb's sword had reached the limits of its ability to hold an edge. Diane brushed his thigh with listless fingers for an agonizing minute longer, and then, she plucked his waistband off his belly and raised the tent flap to peek inside. His cock was ablaze, flaming like a Ku Klux Klan cross on a share-croppers lawn at midnight on Jubilee Day, and the hot air of the loft rushing in through the raised flap of his shorts felt like the icy blast of a Blue norther to the boy. "Ugh," he gurgled mindlessly when the cooling sensation wormed its way into his consciousness. She paused, her eyes lingering on the pale, pristine protuberance of the boy's turgid manhood, and her heart swelled with emotion. He was new and pure and unsullied, and he was exposed to her in all his blushing virginity. Her eyes swept his length and breadth, discovering the untried veins and vessels, the rigid, untested shaft and the unruly, untouched head, and a surge of excited privilege coursed through her limbs. She was the first, the first woman to see him as a woman sees a man with his arousal on display and his ardor thrusting toward her like the point of a saber. No woman before her had touched him as he was then, none had felt the thick, throbbing heft of his erection or the wild, surging power of his sexual excitement. No one, ever, had given him the gift of rapturous bliss that only a woman can give to a man. He twitched and shivered under her gaze, and she licked her lips hungrily for him. Her pussy burned with a nearly irresistible yearning to take the measure of him, but she quelled her passion with the assurance that she would go to him in her time, that she would receive him then and that the postponement of that moment would serve only to magnify the pleasure of their union. Her fingers ached with the desire to touch him, feel him, to stroke his quivering flesh. She lifted the edge of his shorts and freed him from the clinging restraint of the fabric. He moaned and threw his arm across his eyes, shielding himself from the embarrassment of his exposure. She inched his shorts off his hips till they were below his crotch, brushing his bobbing manhood with her arm deliberately as she worked, and she could feel the boy gulping and gasping with every touch. "My God, your cock is beautiful," she murmured with a soft note of awe that was calculated to allay the discomfort of exposure. He groaned and gritted his teeth to fortify his patience, and she felt the growing rigidity of his muscles against her body. "May I touch it, Caleb? Will you let me feel your cock?" The boy made a gurgling sound in his throat that would have sounded like the death rattle of a dying man to her had she any experience in such matters, and he mashed his forehead with the crook of his arm. She reached for him, her fingers dancing across his chest and belly, brushing away the thin strands of pubic hair adorning his groin, burning him, touching him, teasing him to the point that his world compressed into nothing but the movement of her fingers toward a heavenly rendezvous with his prick. She touched him, barely, with her fingertips just brushing the surface of his cock, and she felt him jerk beside her. "Ohhh gosh, it's so hard," she gasped approvingly as her fingers pressed into him to test the power of his excitement. He moaned, and she stroked him lightly, casually, almost as though she was ignoring the immediacy of his passion, and his cock lurched upward seeking the solace of her fingers' embrace. "I know you want to fuck me, Caleb," she whispered, lifting her face and turning toward him, "I want you to fuck me, too, and you can, just like I promised. Tonight, after everybody's gone to bed, I'll put in my diaphragm and come to your room if you want me to, and we can do it then, as much as you want, but right now, I just want to jack you off. I want to rub your cock and stroke it with my fingers and jack you off till you squirt out your cum for me. I want my fingers to feel your cum rushing through your hard, throbbing cock, and I want to see your cum shooting out, spurting everywhere. I love doing that, Caleb, I love feeling a cock in my hand shooting cum and watching it squirt. I'm good at it, too; I know how to do it and make it feel really good, even better than when you do it yourself, a lot better. Will you let me do that, Caleb? Can I jack you off now and let you fuck me tonight?" She, of course, had not the slightest doubt about his acquiescence, and, before she had extended the offer to come to his room, her fingers circled the quivering boy's hot flesh and began a gentle, slow masturbation. His breathing was heavy and raspy, and his chest was already heaving with excitement when she laid her head on him facing her fingers so she could watch the effects of her stimulation. He's so cute, she thought to herself, sliding her fist to the base of his cock to get a better look, and, pausing there, exposed the shaft and head, which protruded a couple of inches above the circle of her thumb and pointer finger. Her hand encircled him fully, despite his tumescence, and formed a perfectly fitted sheath for his erection. The head was swollen and red and was nearly half again as big around as the shaft, and she thought it was just adorable with its circumcised helmeted shape and the slit in the crown. She lifted her hand toward the tip, letting him slip through her loose grip till the head was enclosed and only the very tip remained above the circle of her fingers. She tilted him toward her, squeezing the head till the slit gaped open and she could see the deep crimson lining of the orifice. The skin of the head was indescribably smooth and soft, and as her fingers pressed his skin, she foresaw the sublime sensations that skin would produce when she rubbed it on her clit. The boy gagged, choking on his spit in his excitement, and she spoke to him soothingly, "Your cock feels so good in my hand, Caleb; it's just wonderful. It's so big and strong, and it's so hard, I know it's going to fill my little pussy up and stretch it like it's never been stretched before when you fuck me tonight." Her hand moved on him while her lustful words spilled off her lips, and she replicated the act of coitus to near perfection with her fingers as she spoke to him of fucking her in the approaching night. He squirmed and groaned, and the heels of his boots kicked up little clouds of straw from the bale beneath his feet, as she maneuvered him with devilish expertise through conflicting emotional currents toward the thunder of his Niagara. "Ooooo, baby, it's getting harder; you're really close, I can tell. You like that, don't you, Caleb; you like me to use my fingers to rub your dick and make it hard. It feels good, doesn't it, just laying there, not having to do anything but feel my fingers jacking you off. Doesn't that feel good for you? All you have to do is let yourself go, baby; just feel my fingers playing with your cock and let your cum go for me." "Diane," he moaned, whispering her name again, only, this time, it was an involuntary utterance snatched from his lips by the divine wind of his passion, and he lifted his arm so he could witness the magical feats she was performing. She quickened her movements, and her fingers flashed like dervishes on his throbbing skin. She altered her grip, taking him just below the head between her thumb and her curling forefinger and jerked him with rapid little strokes that brushed her finger across the head. She heard him gurgle and felt his hips rise to her caress as she rubbed him, and she increased the tempo a beat or two. "You like that better, don't you, baby; just my thumb and finger touching you right there and rubbing the underside like that." "Unhuh," he gulped. "Is that how you do it when you jack off? Is that how you hold your cock?" "Diane?" he whispered in a pleading tone. "Show me how you do it, Caleb. Show me what you do, so I can make you feel good." "Oh God," he groaned in desperation; his mind was caught between the hedgerows of unbearable shame and irresistible lust, and he lurched there indecisively for a split second before he took her hand in his and repositioned her fingers on his cock. "Like that?" she questioned to confirm his demonstration as she made a "C" with her thumb and forefinger and curled her three remaining fingers into her palm, before slipping the "C" onto his cock and pressing the lower fingers lightly against the side. It was a firm grip and secure, because it held the shaft on three sides, and she had used it many times with pleasing, sometimes spectacular, results. "Yesss," he breathed hoarsely as she tested the configuration with a couple of bobs of her hand. "Is that how you do it to make it cum good?" she asked picking up the pace of her dancing fingers. "Unhuh," he answered in a barely audible whisper. Her senses were alive and awake, and her body hummed with the awareness of the trajectory of the boy's passion. Sensory knowledge flowed from his trembling cock through her flying fingers and into her heart, and she coaxed him dexterously up the stairway to the stars. Her fingers quickened and beat his responsive flesh like she was whisking egg whites in a bowl, and she pressed her body against him to better feel the awesome rumble as the tectonic plates of his climax ground against each other in the depths of his loins. He throbbed between the pincers of her fingers, and she could feel the adamant pulse of his orgasm beating in the throat of his cock. "Cum for me, Caleb," she crooned watching the tip of his cock for a telltale ooze of precum. "Ooooh, Diane," he gasped. The continuous friction of her fingers heated his cock to the verge of combustion. Nothing he had ever done to himself down there even approximated the wildly soaring, exhilarating sensations her hand produced as it moved on his body. She said that she could do it better, and she was right, he thought in awed amazement. His hips seemed to float upward of their own volition, thrusting the head of his cock into the halo of her fingers and her touch consumed him. His legs jerked against the shackles of his pants and his feet twitched as his lust took command of his limbs. He shuddered and bit his lip and thrashed on the hay while she stroked his flesh, until her words returned to him. "Let it go, Caleb; let your cum go for me, baby," she repeated her earlier admonition with impeccable timing. "Oh God!" he yelped when the first surge of his orgasm ignited a tingling spasm in his loins. His hands were restless, like anxious birds in the leading edge of an approaching storm; one flopped at his side, jerking reflexively, and the other wandered like a lost child along her side from her ribcage to her hip and back. She stroked him eagerly, building his lust with her fingers and he opened himself to her. His cock pulsed in her hand and the tiny slit gaped at her. He pulsed again, with a gasp, and a thick, shimmering stream of clear fluid drooled through the slit, down the head and onto her thumb. "Cum, baby, cum for me; I want to see it shoot," she mouthed triumphantly. She felt the instantaneous, spreading rigor in his limbs as he tensed for the coming eruption. She expertly swept her hand over the head of his prick, scooping up his lubrication with her palm and fingers, and then, she wrapped her thumb and fingers around his dick and squeezed him tightly. Her hand pumped him, lubricating his shaft with his juices. The head of his cock retreated into the tight tunnel of her fist, reappeared, then retreated again as her hand manipulated him. "That's what a pussy feels like when you're fucking, Caleb." Her pace quickened; her hand blurred with the speed of her movements. She sheathed him with her hand and her fingers kneaded his tense flesh like the rippling walls of an orgasmic vagina. "Oh, Diane, Diane, Diane, Diane." Her name dribbled off his fevered lips in an unbroken stream of interlocking syllables. His cock-head swelled, thickening, and turned deep purple. His hand slid up the rise of her hip and drifted, wobbling, to the rounded cheek of her ass, and jerked in little twitching movements that signaled his desire with sympathetic vibration. "That's what my pussy will feel like tonight when you put this cock inside me," she mouthed as she squeezed him suggestively. "Oh, God, Diane!" he shrieked as his body lurched under her. "Cum, baby; shoot it for me," she commanded him although she knew he was well into the process of carrying out the order. She lowered her hand, uncovering the head of his cock, and shortened her stroke, confining her caress to the space just below the rim. The purple head swelled like a fat man holding his breath, and he throbbed in her hand. She felt a deep pulse that coursed up the length his cock, through her fingers, and echoed in a shiver in his limbs. He pulsed again and a thick stream of cum shot from the tip and splattered on his belly in front of her face. "Oh, God, oh God," he chanted as his cock throbbed again. "Oh, you sweet boy, cum for me," she urged, and her hand pumped his cock to express another squirt. Passion seized his mind, closing in from all sides, until his vision was compressed to a narrow tunnel and at the end of that tunnel, in the hot glare of his orgasm, all he could see were her fingers fucking his spewing cock. He clutched at her, groping for a handhold to steady himself in the churning sea of his climax. His hand fell and he grasped the nearest life ring he could find. His hand dropped to her butt and clutched the higher of her cheeks. He kneaded her flesh, while she coaxed him to spew, and instinctively his fingers followed the crease of her butt to the sopping entrance to her pussy. "Caleb!" she hissed passionately when she felt his fingers probing in her wetness, and she moaned, "You missed," when a fresh jet of cum spattered on her chin and throat. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 22 She wiggled her butt, so he could reach her and felt his fingers teasing her lips in a blind, feverish quest for her opening. She pulled up her knees, pushing her butt back toward his hand, and she could feel his wrist pressing into the crack of her ass. His fingers flirted maddeningly with her lips for a second or two, and then, he entered her. "Oh, God, yes, Caleb, fingerfuck me while I suck your cock for you," she moaned loudly and scrambled to her knees to crouch by his side. She knelt over the boy like a priestess in a satanic ritual and brought his quivering, spewing cock to the hallowed circle of her lips. Her hand pumped his dick once, then again, and a rush of cum shot upward into the open cavern of her mouth. She pumped him again just as her mouth engulfed the flaming head, and she tasted the salty, sweet stickiness of his cum in her throat. "Jeeeeeesuuuussss Chrrrrristtttttttttttttt," the shocked boy gasped in amazement when the warm, wet walls of her mouth surrounded his cock, sucking his cum from him with exquisitely tantalizing gulps and licks. Her ass bobbled excitedly beside him, and he drove his stiff fingers into her wet hole with all the fervor his passion would permit. He plunged two fingers into her wiggling tunnel, and then, remembering her words, withdrew the two and returned with three, just to test the truthfulness of her boast. "Mmmmmmm," she moaned with the boy's spewing cock deep in her throat and his rapidly learning fingers probing her weeping slot. Orgasms are like yawns; they have a way of spreading and Diane found the beckoning suggestion of Caleb's climax too irresistible to ignore. She masturbated his dick and sucked the boy's cum, and her loins flamed to his probing with resurgent fires. "Umph, umph," she gurgled as she gulped, swallowing the boy's sword and circling the base with her stretched lips. His cock swelled as she sucked him deep, and she felt the hot flood of his cum erupting in her throat. Caleb jerked and writhed, and he put his hand on the back of her head, pressing down to bury himself in the gaping wet maw of her mouth. His fingers stroked and probed and, like an "A" student with total recall, he remembered her clit and sought the girl's throbbing little erection in the slippery pleats of her slit. He rolled her clit under the broad pad of his thumb while his three fingers spread and stretched her vagina. "Go—d, G—od," she gasped, disarticulating the word with quick plunges of her mouth onto the upturned, spurting sword of the boy's lust. Her fingers danced on his soggy shaft in the flickering instants she unsheathed him, but she could not endure his absence long, and so she left it to the fluttering of her lips and tongue and the gentle massage of her gulping throat to coax the final squirts of his virgin's cum into her mouth. Her buttocks wriggled, thrusting her wet hole onto his penetrating fingers, and when he found her clit and caressed it with heavy swipes of his thumb, her consciousness coalesced around the blinding eruption of her orgasm. "Arugh," she gurgled, gargling cock and cum and the soft moaning sounds of her climax together in her throat and the loft went dark as rolling waves of pleasure blackened her vision. She shuddered and fell on her lover's uplifted sword like a Masada martyr and lay across his heaving belly in a stupor. * * * "Caleb! For God's sake man, are you alright?" Moon Dog's voice was calling to him across the years, and he sounded perturbed. "Yeah, I'm OK," he answered groggily, but he wiped his face with his hand as though sweeping cobwebs out of a corner. "You're white as a sheet; maybe you ought to sit down for a minute or two," the older man suggested. "No, no, I'm OK, really," he protested shaking his head weakly, but he was gasping like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. "What's the problem, son, buck fever?" Moon Dog asked paternally, referring to that peculiar malady that sometimes afflicts deer hunters causing their trigger finger to malfunction at the moment of truth. "Nothing's wrong," Caleb replied. "I was just lost in thought for a minute." "Must have been some doozie of a thought you were lost in, son; you damn near stopped breathing on me." "Just a memory, Dog; from a long time ago." "The Thornberry girl again?" The old man's voice was level and calm, and he delivered the line as casually as he might if hazarding a guess about the afternoon's weather forecast, but he watched Caleb for signs of stress and they were plentiful. "Who?" Caleb squeaked whipping his head toward Moon Dog and blinking in disbelief. "You heard me." "What the hell made you think of her, Dog; that's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard." "Having the Judge send me to track you down three times in one summer after you ran away from home, and every time finding you up in Kentucky hanging around the Thornberry's house, for one thing, Caleb." "That was twenty years ago, Dog," he protested again. "Yeah, right; but who knows about all those times since then, when you'd disappear for a week or two and nobody could find you, and then you'd just show up back home without a word of explanation?" "I had to get away, Dog; it wasn't easy growing up in that house." "Maybe not, but where'd you go all those times?" "Different places; nowhere special; I just went where ever my feet took me," Caleb lied. "Yeah, well, buddy, you can feed that bullshit to somebody else; I always had a pretty good idea where you were and why, but you just got a little better at not getting caught, and I'm pretty sure it was your dick that was leadin' you around, not your feet." "She was special, Dog," he admitted, averting his eyes to avoid looking at the older man. "That's what I told the Judge, son. Sometimes a woman just marks a man, you know, with her scent, and from then on he can't get her out of his mind. If the scent's strong enough he'll do anything to get to her, climb mountains, swim rivers…" "Run away from home?" "Yeah, that too, son. But the Judge said you were just a kid and that you would outgrow it in time." "And, you agreed with him?" "Some, maybe; well, no, not really. You have a soft side to you, Caleb, that scent sticks to pretty easy, and things were tough for you, tougher than most, what with your mother going off like she did after Hiram died and doting on your sister like she was the only pup left in the litter." He was close, Caleb thought, but he kept his silence because he didn't like to think much about those things. It hadn't just been Hiram's death; she, his mother, had been like that since the 'little princess' was born, ranting and raving at him about his imperfections and the perfection of girls, in general. He had been raised in an out of kilter world in which girls could do no wrong and he could do no right, and where affection was reserved to reward those who earned it, a class that never seemed to include him. He grew up believing that all girls, every one of them, made straight "A's" in school, and it wasn't until he got to law school and saw the grades posted on the wall that he realized that there were things he could do better than some girls did them. He had spent his life looking for acceptance but never quite finding it, until, that is, that summer afternoon when Diane Thornberry led him into the hayloft. "Her scent's still on you, isn't it?" "Yeah, it is, Dog," the younger man sighed, and he remembered the agony of waiting for her in his room that night, sitting on the side of his bed with his stomach so knotted up he thought he would throw up and waiting and waiting. She had gotten turned around in the darkness and couldn't find her way to his room in the servant's quarters. His mother had moved his things there after the cook quit in a huff on account of one of her demeaning, name-calling, hissy fits about nothing, telling Caleb, after he took up for the woman, "If you like them so much you can just live with them." Of course, that had happened during the years between the Thornberry visits, and by the time Diane had come back, his mother's tirades had run off all the remaining help and any potential replacements, and he had practically the entire third floor to himself. When she finally found him and came to his bed, softly, on her bare feet, he had been overwhelmed and failed her at first, but she was patient and skilled beyond her years, and so, long before the sun had risen, he crossed the threshold into manhood and she had shown him the acceptance that his soul had craved for all those many years. "Some men'll tell you that's a curse, Caleb; having the memory of one woman stick with you like that forever, like you were under some kind of spell, but you know what I think?" "What?" he replied cautiously. "Most of the ones that think that way would give up an arm just to have known one woman in their lifetime who could mean that much to them." "Ya think?" he answered skeptically. "Yeah, I do, and I think something else, too." "What's that?" "You have a honey in here," he said motioning toward the door to Number Six with his thumb, "whose scent's so strong she could make you forget all the others in under five minutes." "Yeah, I know; I read your report. Maybe that's what I'm afraid of." "What's to fear, Luke Skywalker? The Force is with you. Either you knock on the door and find out or you live in ignorance for the rest of your life." "Luke Skywalker?" Caleb grinned. "You are one cool old dude, Obi Wan Kenobi, you know that?" "Sure, I know it; I just keep my modest side turned out, that's all," Moon Dog grinned back. "You ready?" "I guess so." "Let's do it, then," he said, and with that he knocked loudly on the door. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 23 The door opened immediately, but cautiously, just a crack at first, while identification was established, and then, after a moment of hesitation, it swung open. "Hi, Clarence," the girl in the doorway said speaking directly to Moon Dog and ignoring Caleb. She had a sort of quizzical look on her face, and her eyes were reddened, like she had been crying, which Caleb suspected was the case given all that she had been through in the preceding few hours. "Miss Noble," Moon Dog began a little self-consciously, and, summoning his manners, he placed his ham hand on Caleb's shoulder as though singling him out of a crowd, and continued, "May I present Judge Caleb Montcastle?" Anne's head whipped toward Caleb, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh!" she gasped, and she covered her lips with her fingers in an attempt to mask her astonishment. Oh, shit, what's wrong, Caleb thought in a panic, and, as he fought the impulse to recoil, he glanced down to check his fly and then looked toward Moon Dog. "Is something wrong, Miss?" Moon Dog asked solicitously, and he looked Caleb over out of the corner of his eye just to be sure the young fellow hadn't sprouted horns and a tail. "I, I, uh, no, no, of course not," the girl stammered, recovering from her initial shock with a crimson flush in her cheeks, and extending her hand toward Caleb with an embarrassed grin, she explained, "I just expected you to be much older." He shook her hand and obvious signs of relief spread across his face despite his best efforts to conceal them. The firmness of her grip amazed him nearly as much as the steady, level gaze she sized him up with as their handshake proceeded through casual to friendly and then to engaged. He pumped her hand with boyish eagerness, recognizing instantly the gravity of the injustice that had been done to her by comparing her looks to Gweneth Paltrow. "Hi," she said, tugging her arm gently to extract her hand from his. "Hello, Miss Noble," he replied seriously, but then, he wowed her with a grin that she guessed could charm the panties off any girl in his hometown, and said, "If you prefer, I'll leave and come back in twenty years or so." A smile flickered across her lips and she shook her head. "That won't be necessary, Judge, just step into my room; it must have something to do with the décor, but I get the feeling I've been aging at the rate of about two years an hour in here. Come on in, and you'll catch up to expectations in twenty minutes or so." She stepped back into the room, and he bent forward at the waist sort of reluctantly leaning through the threshold, and looked around. The furnishings were sparse in the extreme. The double bed was covered in a frayed, cotton chenille spread that sagged in the middle like the back of a broken down plow horse, and an open, but neatly packed suitcase was sitting on the foot. There was a cheap, motel-grade nightstand that was missing most of its veneer beside the bed, and it was supporting a lamp that was wearing, crookedly, a shade that looked to have been flattened and straightened about twice every week since Lee's surrender at Appomattox. A rickety looking desk with the center drawer missing was leaning against the wall in the far corner, and above it hung one of those God-awful paint on velvet paintings of Elvis Presley, the sort that you could buy all over Juarez for a quarter apiece, and, for another quarter, you could screw the vendor while she held the painting over her head so The King could watch while you did your thing. The carpet, which he speculated might have been shag at some point in the distant past, was worn clear through to the concrete flooring from the doorway to the foot of the bed, and, between the bed and the front wall, it was ripped for about three feet as though a previous tenants had tried to wrestle a three thousand pound safe into the bed. "I was wondering about the "décor" at the Acock," he muttered shaking his head. "Don't even go there," Anne moaned. "Your buddy, Clarence, here, said we were on a tight budget, so I've spent the last three nights rappelling just to get from one side of the bed to the other." "Dog, this flea bag looks like a three dollar special in Saigon back in the old days," he complained. "I thought the budget could handle something a little better than this." "Security, Judge, couldn't beat it," Moon Dog replied with an air of authority. "One way in; one way out. Eight rooms, none facing the street, and a ten foot security fence at both ends of the parking lot." "Sounds like you boys were just lucky the State legislature wasn't in town this week," Anne interjected. Caleb's eyebrows lifted, and he looked at her questioningly. Moon Dog peeked around the doorframe and asked, "How's that, Miss?" "'Cause," she grinned impishly, "the clerk said this room goes for three hundred a night when the legislature's in town, but that I could make two thousand a night, easy, if I wanted to." "You mean legislators actually stay HERE?" Caleb gasped incredulously. He didn't hear Moon Dog's cough or his feet scuffling on the walk outside the room, because the Dog had turned his back to him and was bending over looking at his shoes. "Well, no," she replied without a hint of humor except for a twinkle in her eyes which Caleb failed to notice, "Actually, I didn't mean that at all." "Well, wha…" Caleb began, but Moon Dog had managed to right himself and yanked on his arm to get his attention. "Judge!" he gasped, sucking in air and nearly choking on the word. His face was beet red, and Caleb could have sworn there were tears welling up in the corners of the tough old warrior's eyes. "What, Dog?" he asked, forgetting for the present his curiosity about legislative sleeping accommodations. "We've got to check out of here, or we'll owe another night's rent on the whole place." "Jesus Christ, right; when's checkout?" "He gave me till two thirty for an extra fifty." "Must be his off-season rate," Caleb grumbled. "What time is it, now?" "Two twenty-one and thirty seconds." "Damn," Caleb grumbled, "I thought Miss Noble and I would have more than nine and a half minutes to talk." "Nine minutes, now, Judge, and counting down fast," Moon Dog responded glancing at his watch, "But take as long as you want, another thirty minutes'll only cost you fifty more." "That's OK, Judge Montcastle," Anne said, "I'm all packed and ready to go." She turned and leaned over the end of the bed to close her bag, and it was then that he noticed her legs. Her skirt was short, almost too short for the season, and it rode up her bare thighs as she bent. Her shoes were low healed, red pumps with sling backs that exposed her heels, and she wore a tiny gold ankle bracelet around one ankle. Her movements stretched her legs and her toned, athletic muscles rippled as she worked the clasps to secure the suitcase. Her skirt pulled tightly across her butt and revealed the prominent rounded globes of her firm cheeks. In his mind, erotic visions of those cheeks, bared, parting, warmed from within, began lifting off the pages of Moon Dog's report to dance like children around his stirring maypole. "I'll take that, Miss," he heard Moon Dog say behind him, and he blinked to chase the images away. "Caleb, please, just call me Caleb," he said, sounding a little distant. "Alright, then, Caleb, it is," she replied agreeably, and she reached around him to pass her suitcase to Moon Dog. "I'll put this in the car, while you two get acquainted," Moon Dog said with a knowing smirk. "Miss Noble," he began awkwardly when the sounds of Moon Dog's foot steps had faded. "Anne," she corrected him gently. "If I can call a judge by his first name, he surely can call me by mine." "Anne, then," he nodded, "There are things we need to discuss; I had hoped…" His voice trailed off like he had lost the handle on what he wanted to say. "What's to discuss, Caleb?" she answered matter of factly. "Your friend Terrell told me your terms, and I accept them. My mind's made up, if that's what you're wondering about. I'm outa here; where ever you're taking me, that's where I'm going. I don't know why, but you and your spooky friends out there in the parking lot are saving my life. If it hadn't been for them, I'd probably be dead like Jackson by now. If I hang around here another day, I will be like Jackson." He remembered her friend and felt in his pocket for the bikini Moon Dog had handed to him in the parking lot, but he thought better of returning it to her then. "I'm sorry about your friend," he said with genuine sympathy. "Me, too," she said softly and a fresh tear rolled down her cheek. "He was a good man." "I'd like to be your friend," Caleb proposed solemnly. He pulled a Kleenex tissue out of the box on the bed and handed it to her. She dabbed at her eyes for a second or two, and then let her arms fall to her sides and turned to face him. She drew herself to attention with languid grace, bringing her feet together, squaring her shoulders and lifting her firm breasts toward him. Her chin rose resolutely, and her eyes, soft, yet absolutely determined, never left his face. She inhaled a deep breath as though calling upon some hidden reservoir of strength, and began speaking in low, measured tones that left no doubt about her decision. "You can be what ever you want to be, Judge Caleb Montcastle. The way I see it, you're holding all the cards, and my life is in your hands. I'll do what ever you want me to do; be what ever you want me to be. Terrell says you're a good man, and I'm willing to bet my life on that assessment." "What if he's wrong about me?" "He's not; he's one of the good guys, too." "How could you possibly be sure about that?" he questioned with a mildly puzzled look. "Oh, girls have ways," she responded vaguely. "But, you don't even know where we're going," he protested. "Do you think that matters, Caleb? Where ever it is, it's got to be better than where I've been, but I suspect you know that already, don't you?" "What do you mean?" he answered defensively. "Your friends out there, Clarence and the other one, uh, Hunter," she said, gesturing toward the open doorway. "They've been asking me a lot of questions, personal questions, and taking notes and tape recording everything. And, they talked to Terrell about me, too; I know about that, because he asked me if it was OK first, but God knows who else they've talked to. Rufus Justice, maybe? He could give them an ear full, that's for sure, and one look at them would have him spilling his guts like a tipped over mop bucket. Neither one of them looked like they were gathering information for a novel about the life and times of little Annie Noble, school teacher extraordinary, so they had to be reporting the information to somebody, and you were the only choice. By the way, Judge, your friends are a couple of pretty sinister guys, in case you didn't know it, and they carry guns, everywhere." "You're right, of course," he replied candidly. "I apologize for the intrusion into your personal life, Anne, but when I'm asked to help someone, I have to know what I'm getting into before I agree to do it." "So, now you know," she said unflinchingly. "Now, I know." "And, you're here?" "I'm here," he answered, and she was struck by the gentleness of his voice and the kindness in his eyes. "Where are you taking me?" "I'm not 'taking you' anywhere, Anne," he corrected her. "You and I are going to Tennessee, because that's the best way I can help you today. What you do tomorrow or the day after that, is up to you." "Do you think so, Caleb?" "I know so." "Easy as that? Just pick up and go whenever I feel like it?" "Easy as that." "We'll see," she sighed softly and without challenge, but he thought he saw in her eyes, or maybe in the set of her jaw, some of the coolly calculating, world-weary sort of hapless wisdom that he had seen before in the faces of convicts who were coming for the umpteenth time before an unfavorably disposed parole board. There was a moment of awkward silence while she searched his eyes for the warning signs of insincerity, and he tried to make himself appear to be as innocent as his knowledge of her would permit. He was awe-struck by her, of course, but Moon Dog's report had prepared him for this moment, and he passed her inspection with flying colors, or so he thought. He had transcribed Moon Dog's words onto the pages of his brain, and the litany of her attributes glowed there like the Runish writings on Frodo's Ring: resilient, resolute, self-reliant, resourceful, capable, competent, canny, determined, defiant, undefeatable, strong, self-assured, poised, powerful… The list was nearly endless, and to it, now, he added, beautiful, sensuous, sensitive, seductive, curvaceous, divine, delicious and delectable. "Am I riding with you, with them, or driving myself?" she asked with the tiniest hint of a smile, interrupting his mental note taking and leaving him to consider whether she might have been reading his last notes over his shoulder, as it were. "With me; Moon Dog and Hunter'll take your car, if that's OK with you," he said, and he worried for a minute that he might have been subconsciously licking his lips while he was jotting down "divine, delicious and delectable." "I'd like that, Caleb," she said, smiling warmly and patting his arm as she stepped toward the doorway, "that'll give me a chance to find out all about you, so I'll know what I'm getting myself into." "Touché," he whispered after she had passed him, but she was already gone, walking across the parking lot toward Moon Dog and Hunter, and only the swirling vapors of her perfume lingered to hear him speak. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 24 Caleb Narrowly Avoids the Mann Act, Interstate Transportation of Female Persons for Illegal or Immoral Purposes, a Federal Felony. Acting on Moon Dog's advice, Caleb and Anne agreed to separate from the two investigators on the odd chance that someone might be watching Anne's car. Moon Dog and Hunter drove the rental cars, back tracking to Terrell's office, and dropped them there, and then, switching to Anne's car, they headed north along US 65 toward I-70 and St. Louis. Meanwhile, Caleb and Anne drove south in the general direction of the "boot heel," intending to cross the Mississippi into Illinois at Cairo. By the time they had cleared the outskirts of Jefferson City, it was late afternoon, and the light was already beginning to fade. Low clouds were scudding in from the west, bringing with them, a cold, misting rain. Caleb turned on the windshield wipers and adjusted the heater, and pretty soon warmth and the hypnotic "schlop, schlop…schlop, schlop," of the wipers were lulling Anne into a feeling of cozy security that she hadn't felt in days. "There's a map in the glove compartment, Anne," Caleb said, pointing toward the dash in front of her. "How about getting it out and finding me a back way down to Cape Girardeau." "I don't need a map for that," she replied with assurance. "You don't?" "No," she answered. "You're only about forty-five minutes out of Rolla right now. I went to college there and know this area pretty well. Just stay on this road till it takes you through Rolla, and then I'll show you a short-cut through the Mark Twain National Forest that'll put you out an hour west of Cape." "Amazing," he said appreciatively. "We'll probably get home before Moon Dog and Hunter." "Don't count on it," she cautioned. "The road through the Mark Twain is awful, narrow, winding and hilly as all get out, and it'll be pitch black dark, so the going will be slow. Best thing about it, though, is that, this time of year, it'll be deserted. I can guarantee you won't see another car once we get in there." She looked at the darkening window beside her and watched droplets of accumulated mist streaking past, driven by the rush of wind across the glass and she felt a pang of emptiness in her heart. "Home," she thought, he spoke of "home" as a destination, like a place that really exists and not some fairytale castle in a child's fantasy, and he said it so naturally, so casually, that she wondered if he knew the meaning of the word. Could he possibly know how a young woman could lay awake at night, alone, and yearn till her heart nearly burst from the ache for the home she had lost as a child. Even the home she had known in the awful months after her mother died, while her daddy slipped away into the blackness, had been a sanctuary, where the memories of love and joy had brightened the rooms long after the sounds of the laughter had faded, and she could find tranquility in the sunlit corridors. "Home," she thought, the word has a soft but solid feel about it, a comforting presence, like a warm blanket she could pull round her shoulders on cold winter nights to ward off the chill of the outside world, or even duck her head under if the boogey man got too close. "Home," she murmured softly, closing her eyes and letting the fantasy transport her for a moment, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt safe and protected. "Did you say something?" he asked over the slap of the windshield wipers. "Where's home?" she asked cheerfully, turning away from the tear streaked window to look at him. "Little town in the northwest corner of the state, right up against the Mississippi River; you probably never heard of it." "Try me." "Sure, why not," he answered with a smile. "How does Posey's Bend sound to you." "Like I never heard of it in my life," she laughed. "You're kidding me though, right?" "Judges don't kid," he pronounced sternly. His smile suggested to her that he was only jesting, but she wondered if the reference to the title of his office hadn't been intended to remind her of his authority. "Pretty funny sounding name for a town, if you ask me," she responded innocuously. "It's named after the twenty mile loop the River makes around it. It's almost a complete circle, but the town's on a high rise with scarfs that the River can't cut through. Leviticus Posey was the first permanent settler in the area, so the bend was named after him. When the town came along a few years later, they just took the name that was already there." "How long have you lived there, Caleb?" she inquired with interest. The stories of other people's lives had always held a special fascination for her, perhaps because of the uncertain turmoil of her own, and she was genuinely interested in what she could learn of this young man. "All my life. My family's been there practically forever. My great, great grandfather moved into the area the year after Posey. He built a forge there, and we've been there ever since." "Gee, it could have been Montcastle's Bend, then, if your great, great grandfather had arrived a little sooner." No wonder he called it 'home,' she thought, and she could almost sense the roots spreading from the base of his family tree, branching through the soil, becoming as much a part of the earth under the town as bedrock and humus. "It very nearly was anyway. Well, they came close to calling the town Hiram's Forge, that was my great, great grandfather's name, and there was some discussion about it at the time." "Some discussion?" she quizzed him politely. "Argument, then," he responded, correcting himself. "Some of the folks didn't think much of Posey and his kinfolk, 'cause they had built a little cabin down by the River on the lee side of the bend, where flatbottoms could put in out of the current, and they were selling liquor and gambling and doing God knows what all down there. For a good many years, it was a regular little Natchez under the Hill, if there's any truth to the tales about it, so most people felt like they didn't want to associate the town with that kind of activity." "But they wound up doing it anyway?" "Commercial interests prevailed, namely Grandpa Montcastle, and he was against calling it anything besides Posey's Bend, because that name was pretty well known all over the country on account of the 'Cotton Queen' tragedy." "The 'Cotton Queen' tragedy?" "A sternwheeler named "Cotton Queen" that blew up her boilers in a race from St. Louis to Memphis. The boilers blew about a mile upstream from the Bend and over 700 passengers were blown to bits, scalded to death or drown. Bodies washed up all along the Bend for a week afterwards, and there were so many of them that they had to cut a new road from town over to the River so the wagons could bring them out." "That sounds gruesome," she observed empathetically. "It was, but it put 'Posey's Bend' on the front page of every big newspaper in the country every day for a while, so Grandpa convinced everybody that they ought to take advantage of the notoriety and stick with 'Posey's Bend,' especially since they were trying to bring in the railroad at the time. He figured that the fame would bring new people and businesses into the area, and that the railroad would want to lay a line in there, so pretty soon Posey's Bend would become a busy little river port and a transportation center like Memphis or Natchez." "Was he right?" she asked, though she already knew the answer, but it comforted her some to know that his ancestors hadn't been slaves to principle, whether their own or others, and they knew how to compromise when the situation required. "You never heard of it, right?" he asked sardonically. "I see your point," she acknowledged with a grin. "Just a matter of bad luck. Two months after they voted on the name, the 'Sultana' blew up about thirty river miles south of Memphis and over 1500 passengers went down with her. There were more lost on the Sultana than went down with the Titanic, believe it or not, and news of the Sultana's sinking pretty much knocked 'Posey's Bend' out of the news. After that, everybody, including the railroad, just forgot all about Posey's Bend." "Couldn't they just change the name to 'Hiram's Forge' later?" "It would have been too much trouble and too confusing. The Articles of Incorporation had already been sent up to the capitol and approved, and the townsfolk didn't want to look like a bunch of backwoods hicks, who were going to be changing the name of the place every time a paddlewheeler blew up, so they just left it like it was. Anyway, Grandpa told them he would be happy to let Posey have the name, and the Montcastles would take everything else, and that's pretty much been the way of it ever since." "What's 'everything else?'" she questioned. Her curiosity was growing, and he was proving to be remarkably open about him family history. "Public offices, mostly, mayor, city council, judgeships; there's been a Montcastle on the bench in Posey's Bend for five generations now." "Sounds to me like you all have done pretty well in Posey's Bend, Judge, but how about the Poseys?" "Like us Montcastles, they've mostly died out now, and what few are left have become respectable enough. My father even married one of them." "That sounds like an interesting story," she replied trying to draw him out. "It raised a few eyebrows among the older crowd, they tell me, so it probably is interesting enough for some, but I'm not going to be the one to tell it," he declared decisively, and she couldn't dismiss the possibility that there was also a note of defensiveness in his response. He was frowning at the windshield, almost glaring, she thought, and his fingers tightened on the wheel as he spoke, so she tactfully changed the subject. "So, how big's this Posey's Bend, now, Judge?" she asked, repeating his title a second time so he would know she had gotten the message. "About eighty-five hundred, give or take a few; if you count the chickens and sheep," he responded. "You include the sheep in Posey's Bend?" She chuckled skeptically. "Only for the census, I'm afraid. It brings in more federal money for the schools if we boost the population a little. They can't vote or hold office or anything like that; well, not usually, anyway." "You've had sheep to hold office in Posey's Bend?" "Naaaaaaaaaaa," he brayed with a lighthearted laugh. "Whatever gave you that idea." "You're a pretty funny guy for a judge," she laughed, a little relieved that his humor had returned. "I feel good," he responded without looking at her. He was watching the road in the lowering dusk and didn't turn his head. She studied his profile in the glow of the instrument panel lights and realized that he was more attractive than she had originally thought. Maybe it's the unruly shock of hair hanging across his forehead, giving him an impish, boyish look, that's doing it, she thought reflectively, or maybe it's the kindness in his eyes when he looks at me, or the easy-going way he speaks, she couldn't be certain, but she had a feeling of growing attraction to the slightly backward knight who had ridden to her rescue. "I feel good too, Caleb," she replied thoughtfully. "And, I thank you for that." "Thanks aren't necessary; I'm glad to help." His hands shifted restlessly on the wheel, and the car swerved slightly. "Why are you helping me?" she asked him with a tone that was as non-accusatorial as she could make it. It was a question that had been plaguing her mind since Terrell first mentioned the name Montcastle. Altruistic men were an unknown commodity to her, and she judged them to be about as plentiful on the planet as virgins at a Caruthers' Home picnic. In her experience, with only a single exception that she could remember, when a man offered to help he usually had a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with being nice and everything to do with being stiff. It was a truth she would just have to live with, she shrugged pragmatically, because she surely wasn't in a position of picking and choosing her benefactors, and in her predicament there was only one thing she could do and that was to take whatever help was being offered and pay whatever the asking price was for it. "Because you were in trouble with no where to turn, and it was the right thing to do," he answered disingenuously. He really wasn't being deceitful, he rationalized; he really wanted and intended to help her, and to help her without strings or conditions, but, he told himself, if things happen to work out, and if she likes me, well… But, no blackmail and no coercion; no quid pro quo, sex for food, no siree, he just wasn't that kind of man. "That's what judges are all about, isn't it, doing the right thing? Do you always do the right thing, Caleb?" She asked him pointedly. Skepticism crept into her mind like evening fog over a stream; men who claim to be too good to be true never ever are, and sooner or later, usually sooner, they expose their sanctimony for what it is. "Girl," the voice inside her head called in warning. "Soon as this dude tell you he's just hepin' you ouda the goodness of his heart, you better go ahead and hook yo thumbs in yo panties and shuck 'em suckers off'n you, 'cause he's gonna be tryin' to stick his pecker in you fo' you be three miles into them woods you leadin' him to." His fingers massaged the leather covering the wheel. "I always tr…" he said, but catching himself in mid-declaration when he sensed the hubris thickening in the cabin like mustard gas, he corrected himself with a shrug, "No, no I don't." "That makes you human, then, doesn't it," she observed with a wry tone. "Well, what do yo know," her inner voice chirped in surprise, "at least he got the sense not to bullshit you totally, girl." "Depends on how you define the terms, 'human' and 'judge,' I think. You make the combination sound like an oxymoron," Caleb complained, tugging the shoulder harness to give his chest room to expand so he could breathe. He couldn't be sure if she was joking or needling him to puncture some perceived pomposity, and he worried that things were beginning to go badly. "They're not mutually exclusive, not entirely; some judges are more human than others, I expect. I think you're probably a lot more human than you are judge," she assessed charitably, shrewdly ending the exploration of his motives on a high note. "I'm beginning to feel a little like a character from The Planet of the Apes," he laughed nervously. "But don't be too quick to count me among the humans, young lady, you haven't seen me in action in the courtroom yet." "Oooh," she said with an easy laugh that dissipated whatever tension he still felt. "Are you mean?" "Stern," he growled playfully. "The iron fist of the law, you know." "Tempered with mercy, of course?" "Maybe, occasionally." "I've never been in a courtroom; at least not that I can remember. I always thought it sounded intriguing." "It usually is." "Could I come to court and watch some time?" "Sure, as soon as the Christmas recess is over, court'll be in session every day." "Gosh," she gulped. "I completely forgot about Christmas." "I'm not surprised to hear that, but it's just around the corner." "So, what do judges do for Christmas?" she asked, sensing an opportunity to examine his human side. "You mean when we're not being the Grinch and breaking up families or sentencing innocent defendants to sit a spell on 'Old Smokey?'" he laughed. "I didn't mean it like that," she protested with a grin. "I know, you didn't." "Well?" "Well, what?" "What do you do for Christmas?" "Oh, that, uh, nothing much, I guess. Watch TV, read, fix myself a grilled cheese sandwich, that sort of thing." "That sounds really festive, Judge; I bet you don't even put up a Christmas tree." "To tell you the truth, Anne, I can't remember the last time there was a tree in the house, and these past few years have been so busy, I haven't had much time for anything but work. The holidays give me a chance to catch up on old cases and clear off my docket." "No family to visit?" "No, not any more; both parents are dead now, and my sister moved to Seattle right after her mother died, and we've lost contact." That was an odd manner of expression, she thought, but she decided to pursue the explanation for it later. "How about the wife and kids?" She asked, gliding effortlessly into the question that was second in importance only to the issue of his purpose in rescuing her. "Nope, can't help you there," he answered easily, in an almost off hand manner, and she congratulated herself on the smoothness of the segue. "Divorced, then?" she probed. "Nope, never been married." "Girlfriends? Surely, out of eighty-five hundred people and who knows how many sheep, a good-looking, successful judge would have five or six of Posey's Bend's prettiest girls begging him to come over for Christmas dinner," she asked, cutting to the chase with a couple of compliments calculated to lower his guard by stroking his vanity and by giving the impression that she assumed him to be spoken for already. "Well," he laughed self-consciously. "If you're talking about me, I get invited sometimes, I guess, but I don't go very often, and as to the first question, no, there's no girlfriend." "Jeez," she moaned theatrically. "You're not gay or anything are you?" "Hell, no," he barked nearly howling with laughter. The car swerved briefly into the on-coming lane, which fortunately was vacant. "What makes you ask that?" "You know what us girls say about guys like you, don't you?" she responded coyly. "I do not, but I suspect you're about to tell me." "We figure that by the time guys reach your age, the good ones are already taken and all that's left are the creeps and the gays." "That's probably not a bad rule of thumb," he acknowledged after a moment of reflection. "It's not, believe me," she replied ruefully with a voice that sounded to him to be weary with experience. "It just happens not to apply in my case, unless, of course, you think I'm a creep of some sort." He glanced hopefully in her direction as though anticipating a quick denial. "Not a chance; you wouldn't have friends like Terrell and Clarence, if you were a creep," she answered obligingly. "Or, gay either," he pointed out helpfully. "I never had a question about that," she answered mysteriously, like she was gifted with second sight. "Oh, really?" he said, laughing a little uneasily, "Why not? You had questions about everything else." "Radar, Caleb; don't you know all girls have radar that can pick up a signal from across the room?" "Signals? What signals?" he scoffed. He figured he had been as cool as Minnesota Fats was in his heyday, sinking the eight ball into the corner pocket, straight on, from two feet out. He hadn't been sending signals to anybody, he was certain of that, but still, he worried, somehow girls always seemed to be two or three steps ahead of him. She watched him thoughtfully, pretending to be thinking about her response, and, while the wipers kept track of the seconds, she allowed the suspense to build in his imagination. Then, she said, "Oh, you know, like the way you shook my hand in the motel back there, and the way you looked at my legs when I was locking my suitcase." Her voice was low, almost throaty, and smooth as satin, and her tone conjured up an image of Eve offering an apple on a silver plate to a dumbstruck Adam. He gulped and squinted his eyes nearly shut so she wouldn't see them pop open in astonishment. "Gay guys don't look at my legs like you did," she continued in the same voice, and while speaking, she put her hands behind her head and stretched like a cat on a windowsill causing the hem of her skirt to ride a couple of inches up her thigh, and she crossed her legs at the knee. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 24 Her legs, bared to mid-thigh, shone in the soft green glow of the dash lights, and her breasts, full and rounded, lifted her blouse, filling the loose folds of sheer fabric like a couple of ripe honeydews in a see-through plastic produce bag. His eye darted from the road and swept her curves from her chest to her ankle and down to the sloping arch of her foot. A red shoe dangled from the tips of her toes, rocking gently as she kept time with the beat of the wipers. He lost track of time for an instant or two and let his eyes stroke her soft skin and supple curves, while she pretended to look away. Suddenly, a tractor-trailer roared past, inches away, in the on-coming lane, air horns blaring, filling the cabin of the car with the glare of its headlights and throwing a blinding spray of soupy road grime across the windshield. "Jesus!" he gasped and jerked the wheel to the right to avoid the truck barreling by. "I can't see a damn thing." "That was close," she observed calmly. She smiled at him while he brought the car under control, because she knew he had been watching the wrong curves, and she had to check her tongue to keep from saying "See what I mean." "No kidding," he answered with relief, glancing in the rearview mirror at the rapidly receding tail lights. "Slow down, the turn's not far ahead," she cautioned. "Where? I can't see any place to turn." He squinted at the windshield trying to penetrate the gloom with eyes that were yet to recover from the glare of the truck lights. "Right there," she said pointing generally in the direction they were heading. "The Highway 72 sign; don't you see it? He had slowed the car to a cautious crawl, while he searched for the nearly invisible sign. "No, damn it," he grumbled, "It's too dark." "I'll show you," she said casually, and she scooted across the seat toward him so he could sight down her finger as she pointed along the right of way some distance ahead. She slid one arm along the seatback behind his head and leaned toward him, while he futilely searched for the turn in the road ahead. Her heavy breast brushed his arm as she moved closer, leaning helpfully to point over the steering wheel into the black night. "There, up ahead on the right, about a hundred feet; can you see it, now?" It's real low to the ground, dark wood with white lettering and an arrow pointing to the left," she said softly, ignoring the light pressure of his arm on her bosom. "I still don't see it," he replied in a voice laden with a faintly excited tremor. He could feel her on his arm, her sweet breath caressing his cheek when she spoke, and her perfume filled his senses with the earthy scent of musk and pheromones. She scalded his arm with the pressing curve of her breast, and he struggled to keep the car on the road. If she was aware of his arm touching her, she gave no indication of it, and continued to lean against him, pointing into the distance. "It's one of those Park Service signs. It says 'Hwy 72, Mark Twain National Forest, Entrance 200 Feet,'" she advised him, reciting the legend on the obscure sign from memory. She leaned closer to compensate for the shortening distance and continued to point. "Yes, yes, I see it," he gasped with evident relief when the car rolled to within forty feet of the sign, and he could finally make it out. "You must have eyes like a hawk to be able to see that sign when you did," he continued, turning toward her as he spoke. She turned and looked into his eyes without moving away. Their lips were only inches apart. Her lips separated with the suggestion of a smile, and her eyes held his with easy confidence. Her breast lay against his arm lightly, and he brushed her rounded firmness with the tensed muscles of his forearm as he maneuvered the wheel, steering toward the sign. It was just one of those inadvertent, accidental, meaningless touchings that happen when two people are in close proximity, he rationalized, but he found his concentration wavering nevertheless. "It helps if you've done it before," she said smiling, and then she glanced out the back window and said, "You can turn now, there isn't anyone behind you." He swung the big car onto the narrow side road mechanically, because the weight of her breast on his arm consumed his attention. The misty darkness swallowed his headlight beams, obscuring the margins of the roadway, and he felt the car lurch as the front wheel wandered from the pavement. "Careful, Caleb," she warned gently. "This road's awfully narrow, and there's no shoulder at all." She stayed beside him, totally calm and relaxed, pressing into his arm as if her closeness might improve his performance, while he acclimated himself to the abrupt transition from major highway to a minor backroad. Just ahead, a few feet off the road, a large, brown wood sign proclaimed the actual entrance to the Forest. There was a narrow strip alongside the road in front of the sign that had been paved so visitors could park for photographs. He guided the car onto the strip and braked to a stop. His action surprised her some because she didn't take him for the tourist type, and she glanced at him inquiringly as the car began to slow, but she didn't move away. He stared at the sign for a moment, and she could feel the anxious tension in his body where she touched him. His brow knitted in a frown, and a look of indecision clouded his eyes. "Here it comes now, you prick teasin' little cock sucker," her inner voice crowed derisively. "I guess you know exactly what you're askin' for by rubbin' your fat tits all over him and breathin' on him heavy, like you was about to cum." "I was only helping him find the turn, you dirty minded old pervert," she rebutted her inner voice innocently, and she studied Caleb expectantly as he turned toward her to speak. "Anne, I'm, I'm, really sorry, but I just have to stop." She sat motionless, supple and relaxed, without a wisp of nervousness, and said softly, "That's OK, Caleb; you're the driver, you can do whatever you want." "OK, varmint, that does it, that's just perfect, ain't it?" her inner voice railed at her, and she visualized the voice morphing into Yosemite Sam and scampering around in her brain like a crazed cartoon character. "'You can do whatever you want,' huh?" he repeated, mocking the sultry invitation. "Why don't you just spread your legs for him, pull your panties aside and tell him he can fuck you if he wants to?" "Oh, you are a nasty little man," she scolded inwardly. "I didn't say it like that and you know it, and besides, what makes you so sure I'm even wearing panties? You know I hate the lines." "My God, you are a slut, aren't you?" her Sam screamed in her brain. "I know what, you could suck him off first? Don't you want to see what he tastes like? You could suck his dick, and, you know, get him hard and slick at the same time. Why don't you just reach over and put your hand on his prick and show him how hot you are for a hard cock to suck?" "Now, that's really sick, you pipsqueak," she hissed, bending down and shaking her finger at her red-faced tormentor. "Just because I'm not wearing panties doesn't mean I want to perform fellatio on every man I meet." "Uh-huh," Sam sneered sarcastically. He had crossed his arms across his chest and was bowing his back defiantly. "I hears yo, girl; yo jes needs to tell that to, ah, hum, les see, ah, Cletus, an Rufus, an Johnnie, an Timmy, an Lester, an Robert, an Tony, an Earl, an Donald, an Rosie…" He stopped reciting the names of Caruthers' Home residents in mid-course and smirked wickedly. "Oops, I gets bumfuzzled sometimes on account of they's so many, darlin; Rosie din't have no dick fo yo ta suck, did she?" "I should have stopped at that service station we passed back there, when I had the chance," Caleb muttered apologetically. "Oh, for Christ's sake," her character shrieked, and his whiskers rolled up under his chin with a flapping noise like a window shade gone haywire. "The sombich's pullin' that 'outa gas' trick on ya girl. Goddamn, if'n that isn't about the lamest shit that's been put on you, ever. Ain't none of em other morons you fucked been that stupid. Yo ain't gonna tumble for no dumbass stunt like that, now are ya? I don't know what's the matter with da dude anyway; alls he gots ta do'as say, 'hey girl, I got a proposition for ya', and yo'd be on yo knees under the dash with the accelerator up yo butt and that cock of hisn stuck down yo throat an squirtin cum by the buckets all the way back ta Pussy's Bended or where ever." "'Posey's Bend,' you grotesque little weirdo," she clucked at the dissing voice before turning her attention to Caleb and asking him in a tone she carefully modulated to conceal Sam's suspicions. "What's wrong? We're not running out of gas, are we?" "Out of gas?" he echoed in momentary confusion and looked toward her questioningly. She returned his look coolly, and a half-smile, half-smirk played at the corners of her mouth. He blinked uncertainly, then, suddenly, his chin fell sharply, like someone had dropped a brick on the back of his neck, and he gasped, "Oh God, is THAT what you're thinking?" Color flooded his cheeks, turning his face nearly nut brown in the darkness, and the shade instantly reminding her of her favorite Revlon polish, 'Crimson Passion." She smiled indulgently and waited passively for his next move. "We've got gas, plenty of gas," he wheezed in embarrassment, "I just have to, ah, ah, check the tires, yeah, that's it, check the tires." As he finished the sentence, he snatched open the door and bounded out of the car to disappear into the swirling mists. Behind him, a gust of chilling wind blew into the car whipping cold rain through the open door, and Anne reached across the vacated driver's seat to pull it to. "Don't say a word, Sam," she cautioned righting herself and settling into the passenger seat. "I just thought…" he whimpered dejectedly. His head was hung down, and all the curl had fallen out of his whiskers like he had squandered the afternoon in a steam bath. "I have no doubts about your sicko thoughts, my friend," she answered aloofly. "But, you do like him. I was right about that, wasn't I," Sam insisted. "Yes, I like him. He's a nice man; nothing at all like all those others you're so fond of naming over and over to remind me about," she conceded. "You like him enough to want him between your legs, don't you?" Sam whispered. "Maybe," she answered coyly. "I can help." "You're too crude; all you want me to do is yank up my skirt or pounce on his zipper. He needs to work himself up to it; like it's his idea." "Crude works good; it worked wonders on Rufus, especially that time in the Nurse's office. Remember?" "I remember," she chuckled softly. "Atta girl," Sam urged conspiratorially. "Now, you just pull your hem up a little higher and unfasten a couple more of them buttons so he can see some of that cleavage, 'cause when he comes back he'll be lookin' for some place warm to put his dickie for a while and maybe he'll get the idea that you'd like to help him out." Anne toyed with the hem of her skirt, fanning it a couple of times before dropping it perilously close to the tops of her thighs, and she felt a momentary flush of excitement in her limbs. She kicked off her shoes and dug her toes into the deep pile of the carpet back up under the dash. Her hand rose, almost by its own volition, and she fingered the buttons on the front of he blouse, while she pondered Sam's suggestion. "I don't know, Sam," she responded pensively. "I don't think that'll work on him. He's a judge and all, and real proper." "Ain't nobody proper enough to resist you, darlin' with your skirt hiked up like that. Now you just pop a couple of them buttons loose…" Sam was becoming a little impatient with the indecisiveness. "You haven't been paying attention, Sam," she scolded mildly. "He's not going to be that easy. You and I have to be subtle and let him decide when to make his move, or we'll scare him off." "What makes you think he'll get around to deciding to make a move on you, girl? What if the only thing the judge dude's got that's stiff is his neck?" "Come on, Sam, who are you talking to?" she giggled. "Miss Anne, the magnificent," he grinned salaciously, twisting his moustache with a wicked gleam in his eye. "Who has…?" "The hottest pussy in Missouri." "Where?" she coaxed, crooking her finger toward him. "The hemisphere?" he grinned slyly. "Where?" she repeated, pouting prettily. "Oh, all right, the planet, then," he relented agreeably. "That's my boy," she grinned warmly, and she felt a rushing tingle in her loins at the mention of her pussy. "You keep talking sweet like that and I'll let you watch." "Hell, I watch anyway, girl, you know that. I still think crude's better. It's quick and simple; no plotting and scheming, no mincing around all polite-like. You get the preliminaries out of the way right up front and get down to the business you were gonna do anyway. Saves a lot of wear and tear on the nerves," he grumbled amiably. "Oh, Sam, not this time, not with him," she responded patiently. "I'll get crude when the time's right, and you can have your cheap thrills when I do, but this guy's not like the others. He's a judge and that means he has his honor and his principles to think about. I can't just throw myself at him right off the bat, or he'll start thinking about his reports and the pictures and all that stuff and then he'll start worrying about looking like a blackmailer." "Judge, Smuge," Sam fussed, morphing again, this time into a twin of Danny Devito. "What's with this judge business anyway? Judges got dicks just like everybody else, don't they?" "I don't know," Anne admitted uncertainly, adding parenthetically, "What happened to Sam?" "He bugged out when you wouldn't do crude; said you needed somebody who's suave and cool, so here I am, baby," he crooned, dismissing Sam's disappearance with a toss of his hand, and then, he continued, trying his best to sound incredulous, "You've never looked in a judge's pants or up under that dress thing they wear in court?" "Robe, nitwit," she laughed. "You of all people should know what I've seen and what I haven't." "Well, you better git to it," Danny advised seriously. "I will; first chance I get, I promise." "What's wrong with the chance you got right now, girl?" "He's not here." "Where is he?" "Behind the car." "Can you see him." She glanced in the rear view mirror just outside the window, and nodded, "Yeah, he's standing right behind the tail light on this side of the car." "What's he doing?" "Looks like he's taking a leak." "How can you tell?" "Cause, he's looking down, and he's got both hands in front of him like he's holding something." "Can you see what he's holding?" "I don't know; well, yeah, maybe. Light's bad," she reported, reluctantly glancing into the mirror. Then, modestly focusing her gaze on her hands that were folded in her lap, she continued, "Look, maybe we ought to just give him his privacy, you know what I mean?" "What for? He ain't gonna know you're looking." "I dunno," she said doubtfully, but without conviction, and her eyes drifted toward the mirror. "You want to see it, don't you?" Danny whispered seductively. "I know you're just dying to see what his cock looks like, aren't you, baby?" "Yes," she admitted softly, and she rubbed a spot on the fogged window beside her with her hand to clear her line of sight. "Well, go ahead, sneak a peek at him, kid. He can't see you with all that rain on the back window and the glass fogged up," Danny wheedled. "I am, you bad influence," she giggled positioning her head for the least obstructed view. "Can you see it?" "Mmmhum," she answered abstractedly, wiping a little more of the moisture off the window with her sleeve. "Can you see it good?" Danny queried excitedly as though his future depended on the answer. "Yeah, real good," she breathed warmly without taking her eyes off the glass. "Is it, uh, you know, big?" "Oh, shame on you, Danny, is that all you care about? Is that all that matters; just how big they are?" She scolded him while she estimated the proportions like an experienced chef tossing seasonings into a pot. "Well, excuse me," he gushed dramatically. "I guess I got the wrong impression the other night when that guy, Archie, was hitting on you. You sure acted like size mattered to you then." "That was different; he was a freak. Besides, where were you then when I needed you, buster, hiding behind my hypothalamus? I didn't hear a peep out of you then, did I." "I was scared. I thought he was gonna kill us with that thing." "That makes two of us, Danny." "Yeah, but you handled him pretty good. I was proud of you." "Why, thank you, sir. He pissed me off; I amaze myself sometimes when I get pissed off." "You're not mad at me now, are you?" He feared another banishment. "Of course not, you're just doing your thing up there; nudging me along with timely suggestions when I need them." "Whew, you had me sweating there for a minute, honey." "You're OK, stop worrying. You're even kinda cute, for a dwarf, with that shiny, round penis head of yours." "Aw rite," he growled. "You can stop with the bald jokes and tell me how big he is or…" "Or what?" "Or, I'll go back to the control panel, flip a few of your switches to hypnotize your ass, and I'll have you neked as a jaybird before he gets back in the car." "You wouldn't." "Don't bet your next fuck on it, baby; I can and I have, plenty of times, and you know it. Remember Timmy, an…" "All right, all right, you win," she groaned submissively, "Compared to Archie, it's small." "That don't answer the question. You said yourself, that kid is a freak." "How's this then, if you need something closer to home; compared to your dinky little dick, he's huge." "Heh, heh, heh," he chuckled. "If I'm too small for you, honey, all you got to do is say the magic word and I'll be any size you want. After all, it's your fantasy." "I like you just the size you are, thank you. If I made you any bigger, you would scare the hell out of me." "That's what I thought, sweetie. How about his? You like Judgiepoo's size just like it is?" "Mmmhum," she murmured. "I'd say it's just about perfect." "Perfect for what, honey," Danny purred suggestively. "Perfect fit for your tight little pussy?" "Mmmhum," she sighed putting the thought to deed in her mind. "Perfect to suck, darlin? Just the right size to fill up your mouth without choking you or making your jaws ache, even if you suck on him all night long?" "Oh, yes," she breathed rapturously, and her tongue licked her lips in preparation. "And your other places, baby, your fingers, between your breasts, or even…?" "Yes, yes, yes, you gorgeous, sexy little man, everywhere, anywhere he wants," she gasped and her knees fell apart slightly. "Better fix yourself up, girl; he's finishing. He'll be back in a second." She ignored the warning and stared into the mirror like she was reading her future in a crystal ball. Caleb's pee was still squirting, arching in a steaming stream over the edge of the pavement and splattering on the dead grass by the roadway. It was diminishing though, and she could tell he was nearly through. She watched, mesmerized, as his flow subsided to a trickle and then stopped. He shook out the last drops and stuffed himself back in his pants, and then, he paused, tucked in his shirttail and combed his hair with his fingers for a minute, before turning and running back around the car. "You better pull that skirt down, honey, or he'll think you're going crude on him." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 24 "Hush now, shorty. It's OK; men like their women to be a little raunchy, especially if they think the raunchiness is only for them," she whispered with a knowing grin, and pushed the chatty image into the back of her mind. "Holy Cow," Caleb exclaimed as he burst into the car and slammed the door behind him. "It's turned colder that a grave digger's butt out there; I wouldn't be surprised if this rain doesn't turn to snow before morning." "Here, you're all wet," she observed solicitously, handing him a handkerchief that she had taken from her purse while he was outside. He wiped his face and neck, glancing at her sheepishly from time to time, as he dried himself, and she opened her compact and pretended to busy herself applying fresh lipstick. She caught him, of course, felt him, actually, peeping at her legs around the edges of her handkerchief, and she had to struggle to keep from smiling at her reflection in the compact. She crossed her legs and felt her skirt rise an inch or so up her thigh. It was a trick she had learned in college, crossing and uncrossing her legs, using them to raise her skirt like hoisting a flag up a pole, as it were, until somebody saluted. She was careful not to overdo it, and surreptitiously checked to be certain that the important places remained hidden in the shadows under her skirt. It suited her purposes perfectly; her skirt stopped a couple of inches shy of exposing her totally, and, she thought, it was just risqué enough without being slutty. It was, she calculated, exactly the sort of dishabille an excited girl with much to distract her might let pass unnoticed. "Here, thanks," he muttered, returning her handkerchief. His shirt was nearly soaked through and clung to him across his shoulders. He had accomplished little by running his fingers through his hair, and damp, wind-blown strands still drifted across his forehead, making him look like a schoolboy just in from recess. "You're a mess," she laughed, snapping her compact shut and taking the handkerchief from him. "Come here, and let me fix you." He looked at her ruefully and leaned toward her. She reached across the empty space between them and brushed his hair off his forehead and temples with the tips of her fingers. It was just a gesture really, because her fingers were no better at combing unruly, wet hair than his, but her touch was light and gentle, almost motherly, and it moved him. Perhaps, at that moment, her touch was only a clever counterpoint, designed to accentuate the sensuous display of her legs, but in his mind it balanced with the impressions of wantonness Moon Dog's report had left him with, and the juxtaposition of those qualities, sexiness and tenderness, made her seem complete to him in a way no other woman had been before. He froze for a moment, luxuriating in the casual caress of her fingertips across his brow, and his features softened. "There, that's the best I can do without a comb and a pair of scissors," she said withdrawing her hand. "Do I need a haircut?" he asked self-consciously and tried to catch his reflection in the rear view mirror. "Not really, you look good with your hair a little long over the ears, but your hair stylist ought to pay more attention to keeping the lengths even." "Hair stylist?" he responded with the uneasy grin of someone with a freshly unmasked deficiency. "That would be old 'Pellet-Head Posey' down at the 'Crop-a-Top' barbershop." "'Pellet-Head?'" she snickered. "Bird-shot pellets; when Pellet-Head was about fifteen, Seth Verhoven caught him one night, stealing watermelons from the patch behind his barn and peppered his backside pretty good. Pellet-Head went straight not long after that. He's been barbering now going on fifty years and still gives a pretty good haircut, or so I thought until now." "It looks nice, really," she assured him, giving his hair a second, closer inspection. "They don't go in for a lot of that fancy stuff down at the 'Crop-a-Top,' he said a little defensively while she looked him over. "Who'da guessed, with a name like that?" she laughed lightheartedly. "Pellet-Head's been cutting my hair all my life, except, of course, when I was away at school," he explained. "Every six weeks, I go in and he cuts it; he even stays open late just for me, so I don't have to wait and listen to his customers critique my decisions." "I wouldn't change, either, under those circumstances," she agreed. "And, after he finishes and closes up, I drive him home." "How come?" "'Cause, he's half blind and can't drive anymore." "There's a clue," she chuckled. "Tell you what, Caleb, next time, after you drop him off, you come see me and I'll trim you up. By the time you go back, it'll have grown out, and he'll never know." "You can cut hair?" he asked with a note of surprise. "That's one of my talents; it's one of the things I was supposed to do for the kids at the Caruthers' Home. I got pretty good at that, too," she said ambiguously, while she read his face for reaction. "Oh," he muttered as though the mention of the Caruthers' Home had caused him to recall some unpleasantness from the past, which, of course, in a way, it had. The words from Moon Dog's report, like criminals brought to the dock for examination, were summonsed into his brain by the utterance of the name. Those words, the ones that he had churned in his mind as though making whey into butter, poured into his thoughts. Mental pictures of her, and them, doing things, drawn by those words on the pages of his mind, cast a provocative spell and captivated him. His mouth went dry, and his head suddenly felt light. He gripped the wheel for stability, and fought the impulse to look at her, but the images were too powerful and too compelling to resist. His eyes drifted to her knees and up, along the supple lines of her bared thighs to the shadowy space beneath her skirt, and the demons of his knowledge played havoc with his imagination. "But, I guess you know all about that," she said in a low voice that was excruciatingly burdened with implication, and she turned her head to look away allowing his fantasies to take him where they would. He nearly forgot her presence as his eyes crept across her lines and curves, and, while she feigned indifference, he colored the vague sketches his imagination had fashioned from Moon Dog's words with the rich, vibrant colors of reality. Spectral images gathered shape and took form as he connected the woman with the incendiary words, and he attempted to close his eyes to savor the memories, but he could not because her shadows held him between her thighs. His heart raced, and the pounding rush of his pulse chased the chill from his limbs. The seconds ticked into minutes as they meandered along separate paths for a while, and the silence was broken only by the pattering sound of rain on the roof and his labored breathing. She sat expectantly, but still as stone, gazing into the opaque nothingness of the fogged window and tried to anticipate the course of things. "Uh, ah," he coughed, waking from his trance, finally, when his mind reached the end of Moon Dog's report. "It's late; we probably should get going." She turned toward him slowly, as though she had seen in the glass a glimpse of her future that had pleased her and she was reluctant to relinquish the vision. For an instant the air inside the car crackled with excited energy like the molecules had become agitated, and he had an unsettling premonition that lightening was about to strike the car. "You're the driver, Caleb," she whispered softly; "Do whatever you think is best." "Yeah, right," he said, wiping his lips with the back of his wrist once or twice, and then, he reached for the ignition and started the motor. "I'll drive for a while, if you're tired," she volunteered, accepting his decision without outward sign of disappointment. "I've been through here a hundred times." "I'm OK," he replied. "I like to drive; it gives me something to do while I'm in the car." "Have a go, then, by all means," she sighed and arched an eyebrow in his direction, but he was busily steering the car onto the roadway and escaped the irony. Immediately, the night, the rain and the forest swallowed them. The road followed an old wagon track that wound through the hills along side a small stream. The car swayed gently through the tight curves, and a steady, light rain beat softly on the roof overhead. She observed him drive for a while to satisfy herself that his skills, or lack of them, weren't putting her in danger, and then, she yawned, because she hadn't slept much after fleeing Hardwick School. "You must be worn out," he observed, when she yawned again. "Why don't you get some sleep?" "I hate to sleep and leave you to drive alone on a night like this," she answered, nodding toward the patter of rain that collected on the windshield between wiper swipes. "I'll be fine," he assured her. "I don't need much sleep to keep going, and, besides, since you were right about the lack of traffic, driving is a piece of cake. All I have to do is keep the speed down to thirty or less and the car does all the work." "Are you sure?" she questioned hopefully, but she had already accepted his offer and was turning so she could lean her head against the door. "I didn't realize I was so exhausted," she continued apologetically. "I don't know how you managed to keep going this long," he said, acknowledging the rigors of the preceding days. "You just don't know Cletus and Nadeen, Caleb, and I hope you never meet them, but having them hunting for me sort of made sleep irrelevant," she said, omitting the Caruthers' sir name on the assumption he knew all about them. "That's over, Anne; you're with me, now, and you're safe. They can't hurt you here," he said gravely, in a tone of voice that made him sound like the King of England granting safe passage through his realm. "I know; my first chance to relax in days," she replied wearily, omitting his title, thus narrowly avoiding, in her fatigue, the opportunity to prick his vanity again. "I guess that's why I'm so tired all of a sudden." "Sleep then; you need it," he answered decisively. "I don't have a blanket, but there's a jacket in the back seat if you want something to cover up with." "I'm fine, thanks," she said in a sleepy voice as she leaned her head against the window. "Just wake me when we get to Ironton; it's about an hour ahead." "We'll see," he said softly, but she was already asleep and didn't hear him. It was a narcotic night, with the rain, the monotonous metronome ticking of the wipers, the warmth and the gentle rocking of the car on the dark, deserted road, and she drifted into a light, uneasy sleep. He drove through the darkness, allowing her to doze undisturbed, and passed through Ironton without slowing. She stirred briefly when the lights of the town slipped quietly past, but she was still asleep as they reentered the forest on the southeast edge of town. She was a light sleeper, had been since her days as a resident of the Caruthers' Children's Home for Orphans, because it was difficult to sleep soundly in a house full of boys with no locks on the doors, so she had learned to sleep with one eye open. Not long past Ironton, the rain lessened, and the road straightened some. The hills were lower and the curves fewer, with almost no hairpin turns or switchbacks. The gentle rocking of the car smoothed for long intervals, and she subconsciously sensed the changes. She stirred in her sleep, not fully awakened, but felt an aching in her legs of the sort that results from maintaining a static position too long. She sighed softly and shifted her legs toward Caleb, so her knees were pointed at him and her feet were tucked under the seat beneath her. In the sweet intoxication of exhausted sleep, she lost track of her hemline, and, as she moved, her skirt crept up her shapely thighs to an alluring height. The glow from the dash lights fell along the full length of her legs, giving a soft, glossy sheen to her smooth, well-tanned skin from her knees almost to the very tops of her thighs and the shadow flirted with her modesty with every somnolent breath she took Her mind floated in the hazy, semiconscious zone between slumber and wakefulness, riding the gentle swells of her dreams as they rolled through her sleep. Random scraps of reality wove themselves on the loom of her subconscious and became a part of the tapestry of her rest. Dimly, images from the Caruthers' Home took shape; the soft cushion of the car seat beneath her became the mattress on her bed, the cold, unyielding pillow of the window against which her head rested became the inflexible iron headboard of her narrow cot and the soft plop of the wipers suggested the nearly silent footfalls of little boys creeping through the lonely night toward the comfort of her arms. Light and shadow played across the closed lids of her eyes giving form to invisible figures and prescient dreams foretold the feathery touch of timid caresses. Awareness rose like a slowly ascending bubble, and gradually she replaced the indistinct symbols in her dreams with the sounds and smells of her surroundings, until all that remained unexplained were the shadows that wavered tentatively across her lids. Surreptitiously, for she had learned that timid boys tend to be frightened away by abrupt awakenings, she opened her eyes a fraction and surveyed the cabin through undetectably tiny slits. Nothing moved, nothing was changed, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary to her sleepy inspection. The headlights still cast steady beams into the night ahead, and the dash lights still glowed evenly, infusing the cabin and its occupants with warm, unwavering light. Caleb sat across the seat from her, calm and innocent, staring into the night ahead while the wheel slipped easily through his relaxed fingers. She was about to dismiss her premonition as imagination and announce her wakefulness with a yawn and a stretch, when she sensed his eyes turning toward her and she froze. His hand rose from the wheel and floated, fingers extended, in the empty space in front of the dash. She thought for a moment that he was about to turn on the radio or adjust the temperature, but she quickly realized that he wasn't touching any of those controls. Puzzled, she studied his fingers, trying to divine a purpose in their movements, and pretended to sleep. He extended the forefinger on his floating hand and with great deliberation described a tight circle in the empty air. Then, he drew another circle atop the first, followed by another, and another, and then, he moved his hand a few inches and layered another set of phantom circles in the blank space before the dash, and her mystification was nearly complete. She studied his movements and let her imagination suggest a purpose. Marcel Marceau and crop circle design came to mind but no explanation seemed to click. Her curiosity was compelling, so she quickly found herself on the brink of blurting out her question, but, as her eyes drifted down to the front of her blouse, she swallowed her words with a quick gulp and disguised a startled jerk with a sleepy sigh. The shadow of his finger was tracing a dark circle in the sheer fabric covering her breast. The cloth was drawn tight across her rounded curves, and her nipples, responding to her dreams, had hardened. The twin prominences capped her breasts and projected themselves as dark points through the revealing fabric. She watched in fascination as a feathery shadow circumscribed first one nipple and then, the other, and then, reversing itself, repeated the process. In an astonishing response to suggestion, her flesh tightened under his phantom caress, and she felt a puckering sensation in her breasts. Then, his hand spread like a mouth opening, and the curved shadow of his thumb and fingers cupped her bosom. She watched as the shadows pressed her breast from top and bottom and slowly closed, converging on her throbbing nipple like the teeth of a closing pincer. She lifted her eyes from her breast and glanced toward his hand just as he extended his forefinger and flicked it three or four times and she could almost feel its shadow tripping across her nipples. Amazingly, she found the pantomimed foreplay to be excruciatingly erotic, and it took all the will power she could muster to feign sleep and mask her responsiveness. His hand drifted from her breasts for a moment, and she felt a quick pang of abandonment, but then his shadow fingers were splayed across her thigh and her loins were tightening in anticipation. He toyed with her, oblivious to her observation, and touched her with his shadows where he willed. Shadows, short and stubby because his hand hovered just inches above her legs, sought the deep cleavage between her thighs, and she prayed for the strength to resist the urge to open her thighs for his touch. He lifted his hand closer to the light source on the dash, and the shadows lengthened; long, slender, probing shadows slithered up her thighs to pluck at the hem of her skirt where it barely hid her pussy. She felt flooding warmth that slickened her lips, and she wondered if he could detect the scent of her growing arousal. She teased him with a restless sigh and a squirm that inched her hem to the very verge of the golden triangle between her legs. His shadow finger, elongated and pointed, sniffed up her thigh like an ethereal prick on the prowl for pussy, and she could feel the heat of a blush creeping up her neck as the shadow probed toward the junction of her thighs. The weight of his shadow pressed heavily into her springy exposed hair and her lips quivered with an intense longing to be pierced by his phantom phallus. She could not tear her eyes from the wicked, shadowy phalanges between her legs that mimed his lust with undeniable imagery, but she didn't need to look at him to know his eyes were on her body. She felt his gaze on her generous curves and sultry surfaces and sensed his rapture in the rising warmth in her loins. Under the semblance of sleep, she relaxed her legs and let her thighs separate, goading him with an indecent glimpse of her sex, and she heard the sharp intake of breath as he gasped at the revelation. She closed her eyes and waited for the caress she was sure to come. Her thighs throbbed with her excitement and the suspense of uncertain anticipation. The shadows were a palpable presence, merging with her fantasies in the silkiness of her skin. She held her breath and felt on her exquisitely sensitive inner thigh the heat from his hovering hand. He was close; she knew it in her soul. His fingers reached for her, stretching toward her mons with childlike inquisitiveness; and the pendency of his caress overwhelmed her with desire. Her fingers curled into her palms as she fought with her fists to resist the compulsion to grab his hand and direct him into her wetness. She cloaked her emotions with the serenity of sleep, while, inwardly, her loins boiled with the roily, hot lava of her lust. She waited for him to make his move, and the breathless seconds hung endlessly in the silence. Her heartbeat thumped in her throat, and she offered up a prayer to Eros to instill in him the courage to pursue his dreams. She willed his fingers into her sullied silk and steadied herself to receive his touch. She plotted against her impatience with a plan to accept his caresses under the guise of increasingly disquieted sleep, until he embraced the conviction that her fatigue was about to succumb to desire, and only then to awaken with his fingers deep inside her and her will far past the point of effective resistance. His fingertip brushed her thigh burning her like the hot tongue of a brazing torch on her skin, and her plan, foolish and fragile from its inception, began to fragment. His fingers skidded across the tender flesh inside her thighs, where the skin is smooth and soft and requires no lubrication to ease the passage of a gentle caress and she felt the impending explosion of an exclamation on her lips. As his fingers crept upward, an "Oh" rushed from her gut on an expanding burst of wind that was destined to coincide with his arrival at the portal to her heaven. "Oh please," she prayed for nothing, to no one as his fingers dawdled, and then, suddenly, without warning, the hideous, roaring clatter of flying gravel striking sheet metal shattered the brimming goblet of her expectation. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 24 "My God, what was that?" she gasped, jerking instantly to a bolt-upright position and looking toward him with startled, wide-open eyes. The roaring noise continued unabated, while he wrestled with both hands on the wildly jerking wheel to bring the wayward automobile back to the paved surface. The wheels on her side of the car plowed through the loose gravel of the shoulder beneath her, flinging up a shower of fist sized rocks that clanged and pinged deafeningly against the undercarriage. The car fishtailed crazily for a hundred feet or so, and she felt a sickening fear that they were about to crash into the dense woods that crowded the edges of the roadway. He tapped the brake, sending the car into a sideways slide toward a solid phalanx of maples. "Oh, shit!" he exclaimed in surprise as the car seemed to accelerate toward the trees with the loss of traction. He tensed and fought the wheel for control, and she realized he was about to hit the brakes again. "Don't brake, accelerate and steer into it," she instructed him cooly, reaching for the wheel to guide the wheels into the slide. "Easy!" she warned when he overreacted and gunned the accelerator too much, but she was already in control and had stopped the headlong slide toward the ditch. When she had righted the car, centering it in the roadway headed in the proper direction, she relinquished the wheel and fell back against the seat. Almost as an afterthought, she glanced at her skirt that was nearly bunched around her hips, and tugged it down to a respectable position closer to her knees. "What happened back there?" she asked him with a tremor of excitement still ringing in her voice. "I'm not sure," he replied apologetically with a sheepish glance toward her. "You were sleeping and…" "And what?" she challenged him when his voice trailed off without finishing the sentence. "Dreaming, I guess. You were sort of moaning, and you kept repeating the name 'Timmy' over and over real softly, you know, like a whisper." "Oh, yeah," she replied suspiciously, and she fixed a cold eye on him to test his mettle. "So, why did you nearly wreck the car?" Because you stopped talking and got still, and it was so quiet in here and the windshield wipers kept…" he explained with halting breathlessness. "So, you're telling me you fell asleep?" she asked incredulously, because his explanation certainly didn't match the facts as far as she was concerned. "I'm afraid so," he sputtered, nearly choking in embarrassment. "Where were your hands?" she asked him pointedly, because she didn't believe a word. "On the wheel, of course," he answered without guile or hesitation, and he turned to look at her with a look of such bewildered innocence that she felt her conviction beginning to waver. "Both of them?" she queried, but her interrogation had lost its sharpness and its purpose. "Both of them, honest Injun," he quipped with a puzzled look, holding both hands in the air for emphasis. "Don't" she protested quickly, lunging for the untended wheel as the car drifted toward the shoulder again. "Sorry," he apologized again, slapping his hands back on the wheel before any real damage could occur. She studied him silently for a moment, and mulled the possibilities in her mind. Maybe she was dreaming, she rationalized, despite the lack of any memory of a dream involving Timmy. Maybe the shadowy fingers on her thighs had been only imaginary; perhaps it was her imagination that had been playing with her, not his. His profile was both reassuring and unsettling to her, because he radiated a boyishly backward innocence that conflicted with the mature sagacity she knew he had to possess to succeed in his line of work. "Pull over," she said finally after realizing the puzzle was beyond her solving. "I'll drive; you sleep." "But, you don't know where we're going," he protested weakly, because, thanks to his narrow escape from disaster, he knew this was an argument he couldn't win. "I'll get us close enough. We cross the river at Cairo, then head toward Paducah and cross the Ohio there. From Paducah, I'll head east toward Murray, Kentucky; I went to track meets at Murray State a couple of times, it shouldn't be too hard to find again. From your description, I figure Posey's Bend can't be much off the line between Paducah and Murray." That's right," he responded in amazement. "Not more than fifty miles, give or take ten. There are signs along the way around Mayfield that'll take you straight to Posey's Bend." "Great, you're nearly home already. Now stop the car and move over." So it happened that Anne was driving as they crossed the Mississippi into Illinois and the Ohio into Kentucky and shortly thereafter when she turned south in Mayfield and entered Tennessee. Caleb slept soundly, exhausted from excitement and his lack of sleep, and narrowly avoided the commission of the felony of having transported a woman across state lines for immoral purposes. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 25 "Archie, for the love of Pete, would you please turn down that damn music so I can hear Nadeen," Nancy screamed at the boy, while covering the cell phone receiver with the palm of her hand. She was sitting in the middle of a king-sized bed with a couple of pillows behind her back. A loose housecoat gaped open revealing most of her bosom and belly. Her bare legs were crossed on top of the covers, and she was moving her bare foot impatiently, like she was tapping something. Archie was outside, sitting in a chair on the narrow balcony and was reading. On the decking beside him a CD player was blaring out "Viva Las Vegas," loudly enough that the empty glasses in the bathroom were dancing on the countertop. Nancy grimaced as though the noise was painful and jabbed the cell phone antennae toward the offending source. "Thank you," she nodded toward the boy as he lowered the volume a notch, and she returned the phone to her cheek. "Were in the hell have you been, girl? I been worried sick about you," she snapped peevishly into the phone. The genuineness of her concern was obvious. She listened to the response, frowning steadily, and her face began to darken. "Where are you?" she asked, shouting into the phone as though the connection was poor. "St Louis? Have you got her?" she queried expectantly. "No! Why not, dammit?" she yelled, and her face reddened. There was a pause as she listened to the explanation. She ran her fingers through her hair and massaged the back of her neck as though she was trying to think while she listened. She turned her face away from the phone briefly and took a sip of scotch, and then, returned the glass to the nightstand beside the bed. "They sound like a couple of cops to me," she said, and her face clouded with concern. "What? The hell you say; in my house?" she screamed incredulously as though the information terrified her, and she covered the receiver with her hand again and called to Archie. "Archie, Archie, get in here," she yelled at the boy. "Somebody's helping that little bitch, and they broke into our house last night." "Huh?" he mumbled in reply, but he stood and ambled toward the bed. "When did you find out about that, Nadeen?" Nancy asked, returning to the phone. Archie sat on the foot of the bed and watched with faint interest as his mother interrogated the caller. "You're sure there was only the one?" she asked into the phone. "How'd you know he was there?" Archie could tell his mother was becoming agitated. Her voice was becoming shrill and sharp, and she was screaming at Nadeen like he had never heard before, not even that time that kid spooked and knocked Nadeen upside the head with the lamp. Her tone drew his interest, and he dropped his reading material on the floor. "You did what?" she shrieked into to the phone, and her mouth fell open. "Archie," she whispered to the boy. "Pour me another scotch quick; these idiots killed the school janitor last night and left his body in the pool. Your daddy's gonna be soooooooo pissed." "Yeah, right mom." Archie agreed, walking to the dresser and retrieving the bottle. "The old fucker's probably too big to go through the skimmer; somebody'll have to get in there and pull him out." "Archie," his mother snapped, and she shot him a "why bother" look that would have withered anybody else. "He happens to be your father's favorite nigger in all the world. I don't know why he thinks so much of him, but he does, and he didn't fool me a minute pretendin' to fire him at the pallet factory." Archie's attention was bent on pouring the scotch into his mother's glass without mishap, so Nancy was speaking largely to herself. She returned to the receiver and began peppering Nadeen with questions. "He was inside the house when you got there?" "Un-huh. Did you hit him?" "How did you follow him?" "Uh-huh. A homing device? You found his car before you went up to the house. That's good, Nadeen, real good, but you say you lost him in Jefferson City?" Nancy took another sip of scotch, while she listened, and then she put the phone on her shoulder and tried to explain events to Archie. "Some guy broke into the house and was looking at our videos. Cletus and Nadeen caught him, and they shot at him, but he got away. They followed him down to the Holiday Inn in Jefferson City, but they couldn't find him or the girl, so they went back to Sedalia to watch her car at that lawyer's U-haul office." "Oh," Archie responded noncommittally because the plot had thickened beyond his ability to follow. "Nadeen?" Nancy queried into the phone in a moment of inspired recollection. "Isn't the Holiday Inn pretty close to the Acock?" "That's what I thought," she nodded, and she smiled triumphantly at her confused son. Archie was losing interest in the telephone conversation, especially since he was only hearing half of it, and his eyes wandered to his mother's legs. His reading material, a trashy novel named "Daddy Crosses the Rubicon," that he had downloaded from Literotica.com, was getting him pretty worked up just as Nadeen had promised in her e-mail telling him about it. The story was about a real foxy girl who seduced her father while the two of them were staying together on a houseboat on a remote lake. Archie began reading as soon as he downloaded it. He felt a vague connection with the heroine, since he found himself at that moment alone with his mom in a place that was special to them both. He reached out and traced the arch of Nancy's foot with his fingers. "What did you say, Nadeen?" Nancy screamed incredulously. "You mean you drove by the Acock and didn't check it out just because the marquee said 'closed for repairs?' You Goddam idiot, what in the Hell were you thinking? You've been to the Acock with me, what, thirty, forty times, girl? You know damn well they don't repair anything there, never have, never will. There wasn't any repairing going on in there; that's where that bitch and her friends were holed up, I'd bet your life on it." Archie ran his hand up Nancy's leg to the knee, letting his fingers caress the smoothly shaved skin of her calf on the way and inched toward her on the bed while she blessed out poor old Nadeen. "That feels good, honey," she whispered to Archie, interrupting her tirade long enough to encourage him. "OK, so you didn't catch them at the Acock, but you're still following her car, right?" "Oh! Who got it?" Her voice sounded disappointed, and she took another sip of scotch to calm her nerves. "Are you sure Cletus recognized him?" she questioned, firing another sharp interrogatory into the phone, and she motioned for Archie to scoot closer. "Where are they now? All you got to do is keep following them, and they'll lead you right to her." She uncrossed her legs and moved her feet apart a little. Her wrapper fell open, exposing the low slope of her belly and her mons with its little, vertical stripe of hair. She lifted Archie's hand from her knee and placed it on her thigh, smiling approvingly at him when he began stroking the soft flesh inside her leg. "Goddam it, Nadeen, what do you mean you lost them in St. Louis? You were supposed to find the bitch and call me." She squirmed her buttocks into the bed covers and opened her thighs for the boy. "Mmmm, sweetie," she sighed when his fingers climbed toward her exposed sex. "I can't believe you, Nadeen," she snarled into the phone with the sound of ice cracking. "First, you miss them at the Acock, and now, you're telling me, that you lost them in traffic in St. Louis, so you and your dimwitted husband are sitting at a gas station waiting for me to tell you what to do next." She was scowling and looking through Archie like he was completely absent, which he nearly was, but, when his fingers stroked her pussy lips, her legs popped apart like a Jack-in-the-box opening when the trigger is tripped. He let his fingers browse through her sparse, closely cropped hair, teasing her like she had taught him to do and did his best to follow the conversation. He knew she was angry and getting angrier by the minute, and he resorted to the defense which suited him best in such situations. Nancy took a gulp of scotch and hissed into the phone darkly, "I ought to let your stupid asses sit there and rot, Goddammit. You've bungled this job at every turn and I've about run out of patience with the both of you. You didn't even know the bitch kept a journal with names and enough stuff in it to send us all to the gas chamber ten or fifteen times over. I never would have known about that, if it hadn't been for Rufus Justice mentioning it to my lawyer the other night when we heard the Postal Inspectors were coming. Hell, Nadeen, we had her right there; Archie could have done her in the pool the night before she left and nobody would have been the wiser. But, no, you said just scare the shit out of her and make her run so far they couldn't find her, because she didn't have anything on you to help them, so that's what I did, but now, I have to wonder if those really were Postal Inspectors and if they weren't looking for a lot more than a couple of incompetent kiddy porn peddlers." Archie's fingers probed his mother's damp slot, digging gently to find her opening, and she reacted by swinging a leg around him and using it to topple him onto the center of the bed. He fell with a quick snicker, and his head flopped on the bed between her legs about midway up her thighs. He reached one hand above his head and pressed his fingertips into her moisture, and then rolled, grinning, onto his belly and raised himself on his elbows to look at her. "Don't give me excuses, Nadeen, I deserve better. What have I paid you and Cletus over the years for them kids you brought up to the house, two hundred thousand, three hundred? That ought to buy me some loyalty and some competence, don't you think?" "Oh, baby, do that," she moaned softly as Archie entered her with two fingers. She had laid the phone on the bed, while she used her fingers, spreading her lips to facilitate his entry, and they could hear Nadeen's terrified voice babbling unintelligibly into the bedspread. "That's bullshit, Nadeen," Nancy spat, picking up the phone as though she had been listening. "She's not that damn smart; she ran off and left her kid, didn't she?" "Oooo, Archie," she whispered with her hand over the phone. "That's right, do that." The boy had inserted three fingers into her pussy and was sawing them in and out, feeling her moisture accumulating on his fingers and spreading to her thickening lips. She slid down in the bed lowering her head to the pillow behind her and pushed her hips toward his face and plunging fingers. Her knees lifted and separated; her heels hovered expectantly in the air over his hunched shoulders. "I know you don't know where the kid is right now, damnit, but you can find her. It shouldn't be all that hard since you know who she's living with. All you got to do is find out where they moved to and wait for the bitch to contact the kid and you've got her." Nancy's words were clipped and breathless, like she was eager to conclude the conversation but couldn't stop talking because there were other issues to discuss. "Damn, Nadeen, use your head for once. He's a teacher, and his wife is, too; they've got certificates and licenses, or whatever; call around and find out where they're teaching now. Don't make me do everything, or you'll be sorry, I promise." Nancy's hand shook as she brought her glass to her lips for another gulp because, while she was reaching for it, Archie found her clit and began stroking it between his thumb and finger with little circular motions. "Jesus, Archie," she gasped breathlessly after swallowing the scotch. "Where'd you pick up that trick?" "It's in the book Nadeen told me about," he grinned proudly, and he gave the slippery little appendage a gentle tug. "Ooooh," Nancy grunted into the phone, when the boy's caress lit up her nerve endings like the lights along a carnival midway. "Nothing, Nadeen, I was just talking to Archie," she explained with diminished irritation. "Yeah, he's right here." "He's been reading that book you told him about, and it's got him all horny." "Hmmmm, I don't know; hang on a minute, and I'll ask him." She laid the phone in the crook of her neck, covering the mouthpiece so she could not be overheard, and addressed her son with the same tone she used on her customers when she was trying to entice them into buying a table dance. "Archie, baby, you're getting me so wet and hot. Nadeen wants to know if you're going to fuck mommy tonight. She's askin' if you're going to stick that big cock in mommy and make her cum. What should I tell her, son?" Archie grinned, that drooling little smile that crossed his face like he was thinking about cheeseburgers, and he nodded his head eagerly, saying, "Can I, mom?" Nancy reached for him, and her fingers slipped through his hair. She pulled him, urging his face toward her loins and lifted her hips to meet his descending lips. Her voice was thick with desire, and her words nearly hung in her throat as she spoke them, "Lick me first, Archie; lick mommy's pussy, and then you can fuck me." "Mmmmm, baby," she moaned as she lifted the receiver to her cheek, and his tongue swept lavishly through the slippery folds of her dripping lips. "He says to tell you that he's going to eat my pussy first, and then, he's going to fuck hell out of me." "Hmmmmm, baby, yes, suck my pussy like you're doing," she crooned into the phone for the benefit of both Archie and Nadeen, and then, she continued talking to Nadeen, while Archie labored between her legs like an anteater attacking an anthill. "No, you can't fuck him, too, honey, cause you messed up, and, now, you've got to fix it, or I ain't ever gonna let you even look at his sweet cock again." She paused for a second or two, trying without success to catch her breath before continuing. "Besides, we're in Memphis, and we're likely to be here for a while; at least till things cool down back home." She lifted her hips off the covers, and pulled her son's face into her crotch with her hand twisting his hair. Her thigh muscles tensed as her pussy sought the pleasure of his tongue, and she gurgled the sensual sounds of sexual ecstasy into the phone. She liked to share, when it suited her purposes, and it heightened her enjoyment when she could make someone else throb with frustrated desire. She had shared Archie with Nadeen before; that was a part of the bargain she made that summer when Cletus and Nadeen brought the boy to her home and left with twenty-five thousand of Jerry's money and her promise that Nadeen could visit him now and again. She had kept that promise, but she had parceled out his favors frugally, like a dealer cutting heroin, and she was always careful to leave Nadeen a little hungry for another taste of Archie's amazing cock. Archie drove his tongue into her wet tissue, and she groaned in delight. Distantly, in the phone, she heard Nadeen bitching at Cletus in the background, working out her frustration on the poor, ignorant dolt, and she smiled in satisfaction. She could still see, in her mind, the skinny little kid sitting on the barstool in her kitchen while she watched Cletus and Nadeen pulling away. When they were gone, she led the lad to her bathroom, explaining that all guests had to bathe before they could eat dinner, and he was so famished that he helped her undress him. When he was naked, he just stood there with his arms at his sides and let her inspect the goods, as it were, and she turned him around two or three times, looking him over, before she would let him get into the shower. His cock had amazed her, more then than now, because, while the rest of his body had grown impressively in the years since that first meeting, his cock had remained about the same. He stood still and, without flinching or objection, let her lift his dick and fondle it with her hands while the water ran in the enclosure behind him. Later, in a moment of uncharacteristic candor, she admitted to Nadeen that she had never seen anything like it, and that was saying something cause she had seen just about every kind and size of cock there was on the earth. She tried to be cool and just let him shower, but her curiosity got the better of her, and, before she knew it, she stepped into the shower with him and began soaping his back. That paled pretty quickly, and so, she leaned over him, cradling his head between her breasts and ran her slippery hands down his chest toward his belly. She lathered his nipples and then dipped her finger into his navel, tickling his belly and making him jerk back against her reflexively. Suddenly, she was kneeling and turning him around, and her hands were working the soap into foamy peaks along the length of him, and he was holding on to her shoulders with his little hands and shaking while the earth opened under his feet. She jacked him off to make him cum, so she could see what he could do, and when he shot, he shocked her with a prodigious flood of cum that coated her neck and breasts, while he squeaked and squealed and shivered under the cascading water like a dog shitting peach pits. "Yeah, that's what I said, Memphis, you horny little slut," Nancy mouthed into the phone. "At the Heartbreak Hotel, right across the street from fucking Graceland." "Hell, yes, we're looking right at it" Archie's tongue was meandering with some purpose, seeking erogenous zones he recalled from previous experiences, and he let the tip slither down his mom's lips to the bulging crease between her cheeks. He slid his hands under her hips, palms up so he could cup her butt, and he lifted her to his mouth. His tongue pierced her crevice, probing blindly between the clenching muscles of her ass. "Oh God, yes, Archie, lick me there," she wailed at him before gasping, "Nadeen, honey, I've got to go, NOW. Huh? What?" She chewed her lip and stared at the ceiling, while Archie stroked her sensitive flesh. She propped the phone on her shoulder with the antennae resting on the pillow behind her for support, to free her hands, and she talked while she directed the boy's efforts with her fingertips. "No, honey, we had to get out of town for a while. Jerry would have freaked out when they searched the house, if he had been there; he's working on a really big deal that something like this could totally fuck up. We were just lucky he was in Canada looking for a new wood supplier when they came." "Mmmm, Archie, baby, stick your tongue in me deeper," she groaned for Nadeen's benefit, pulling his ears feverishly to encourage compliance. "No special reason, Archie just likes it here. He won't hardly go anywhere else. He loves to stay here, where he can see Graceland from the room and dress up like Elvis. He has a wig that makes him look just like Elvis, when he puts it on. He gets done up and takes out his cock and pretends to strum it, like it's a guitar, while he sorta sings 'Don't you Cum on my Blue Suede Shoes,' and does Elvis impersonations." "Good God, son, what else did you learn from that book?" she gushed when the boy's hot tongue seared her openings and distracted her momentarily. "Hell if I know why he loves Elvis so much, Nadeen, he just picked it up someplace, MTV, probably; I try to keep him away from that shit, but it don't do no good. On the other hand, maybe you taught him, since he sings so bad." "I learned about this," the boy said, lifting his head to answer, and he slid a finger between her cheeks and into her throbbing asshole. Simultaneously, he nibbled her lips apart and began licking her clitoris with heavy, wet strokes. "Oh, Jesus, yes," she moaned, and she shut her eyes and tried to remain focused enough to respond to Nadeen's questions." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 25 "Hell, no, you can't sing; shit, girl, you can't hardly dance," she laughed huskily, recalling the woman's clumsy attempts to entertain the customers. "You probably ain't much good at fucking either, seein' how much trouble you have keepin' Cletus on the reservation." That last observation had been a purely gratuitous jab, she admitted to herself, but the bitch deserved it considering how she was fucking everything up now. She gasped and lifted her pussy to Archie's lips, letting her mind drift toward the sensual shores of sexual excess and responded to the telephone with increasingly disinterested detachment. "You know exactly what I mean, Nadeen." "'Course, he has, honey." "Sure, I did." "Mostly, while you were fucking Archie." "That's getting a little personal, Nadeen; ask me something else," she sighed, putting an end to the woman's jealous interrogation, just as Archie's tongue swept the opening to her vagina. "Of course me and Archie fuck every time we come to Memphis, you moron; you don't think I'm gonna pass up an opportunity to screw 'The King,' do you?" she answered with a chuckle. She slid her foot under 'the king' as he lay on his belly between her legs, and sought his cock with her toes. She found him quickly and rubbed his massive length with her foot. He was rigid, rock hard with desire, and hungry for love. She could feel him drooling into her already sopping slit as she stroked him, and she moaned loudly just to twist the knife in Nadeen's back. "Hmmmmm, Elvis, your big cock is so hard. Take it out and play me a tune," she mouthed toward the receiver, and she nearly laughed out loud when she heard Nadeen scream on the other end of the connection, "Shut up, you piece of shit," and the immediately following smack of a hand slapping flesh. "I'll tell you the funny part, and then I really have to go, honey. Every time, after he finishes and he pulls his cock out of my pussy, his eyes get real funny looking, like he's gone blind or something, and he screams out as loud as he can, 'Elvis has left the building,' and then he passes out for fifteen or twenty minutes. Won't nothing short of setting his feet on fire bring him around after that." "No, that does not mean he thinks my pussy's big as a house, you pathetic, jealous bitch. Now, you and Cletus find out where that Noble whore is hiding, or else." Nancy broke the connection and tossed the phone on the floor by the bed. Butterflies were beating their wings against her insides, and she spread her legs wider. "Momma," Archie asked, lifting his face from her loins, "what are you gonna do when you find her?" "We're gonna do her ass, baby, just like you and me done all them others," she answered icily, as though the mention of the woman had extinguished her desire. "I'm gonna choke her, then, while you fuck her?" Archie asked concretely, trying to visualize that concept. "No, son, you're gonna fuck her, and while you're doing that, I'm gonna put a rope around her Goddamn neck and choke her till she stops breathing, and when that happens, you'll get to feel her pussy going completely crazy on your prick." "That's what them other ones did, wasn't it, mom, when they had their pricks in your pussy, and me and Nadeen was choking them while they fucked you? They'd start shaking and jerking and jumping around up inside you. That's why you done so many of 'em, wasn't it?" "That's right, son, they ain't nothin in the world like tha feeling of 'em jerkin' and squirtin' way up inside you, while their life's slippin' away, and they ain't nothin they can do about it but just keep fuckin,' an shootin,' an dyin'," she answered dreamily, like she was a million miles away and lost in her memories, and her voice trailed off at the end. "What if she's still too small, momma, and I can't get it in her?" he asked, sounding worried, because he vividly recalled the cause of his earlier disappointment. She looked at his anxious face for a minute, staring blankly, and then, she shook her head, sort of waking herself up, and she said, "Don't worry, darling, you'll get inside her, I promise. I'll make sure of that, even if I have to do the episiotomy myself." "Do the what?" he asked. "Never mind, you ask too many questions, son," she chided him gently. "Do you want to fuck your momma or what?" "'You ain't nothing but a hound dog,'" he crooned happily, and he lapped her slit like a puppy to show her he meant it. "Oh, Elvis," she squealed as he filleted her tender lips with the tense point of his tongue, "where's your wig, honey?" "Ober dere," he mouthed around the taut projectile that he was using to dissect his mother's composure, and cut his eyes toward the gym bag on the table beside the window. "Go get it, and hurry," she gasped, and with great effort she pushed him away from her crotch while she still had the will to do so. He scrambled off the foot of the bed and dove into the bag, rummaging around in its contents for a second or so, before retrieving his wig. "Thank you very much," he mimicked poorly, shimmying his hips as he pulled the thick mop of black hair over his ears and centered it, more or less on his head. "The cape, too, mom?" he asked doubtfully, as he pulled about half of a red satin cape from the bag and looked toward her tentatively for guidance. "Sure, why not," she nodded agreeably, "long way to Graceland, son; no point to being half-assed about it now that we're here." Her hot pussy screamed for attention, so while the boy costumed himself, she let her fingers drift into her wet slot and began masturbating. She watched him struggle and battled herself for the patience to let him do it himself, because she knew how much he enjoyed doing things on his own. Archie whipped the cape with a flourish in the air over his head and let it settle like a collapsing crimson parachute around his shoulders. He quickly fastened the ties under his chin with a sturdy square knot and pulled it tight so it wouldn't come undone during his "performance." When he was satisfied, he spun around two or three times to test the flare of the cape, and undulated his hips to what his mother guessed was "Don't Be Cruel," but she couldn't tell for sure because his voice sort of blended the sounds of an exploding depth charge and a rake being drug through a bin full of bolts. He wobbled to a halt after the fourth spin, grinning drunkenly at his mother while his equilibrium returned. When his head cleared, he grabbed the tails of his tee shirt where they were tucked into his pants, and, while he tugged his shirt, he yelled theatrically at the top of his voice, "Ladies and Gentlemens, its SHOWTIME!" With that, the boy gave a mighty yank to his shirt and instantly discovered to his chagrin that some things are only to be done sequentially. The tee-shirt, to be sure, slipped up his trunk and over his shoulders easily enough, but as he extended his arms above his head, the tails of his shirt began collecting the voluminous folds of the cape like he was stuffing a jib into a sail bag, so that by the time his arms were straight up, he was pretty well trussed up in shirt and cape and couldn't do much more than wiggle his fingertips. Nancy fingered her moist clitoris and watched his struggles with detached interest. Sooner or later, she reasoned, he would shuck the shirt and emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, but, at the moment, all she could do was entertain the image of a giant, red, manta ray sucking a worm off the seabed. She giggled at his predicament and shook her head sympathetically, but she plunged two fingers into her hole in preference to lending the boy a hand. Her prediction of ultimate success flirted with disaster as the boy's efforts succeeded in getting nearly the entire cape into the narrow body of the tee shirt. He wiggled helplessly, looking like a cock trying to escape a condom, while he tried to force the tiny neck opening of his shirt over his head and the cape. She could see the impression of his face in the tightly stretched fabric. His lips were moving. Muffled, unintelligible sounds like "Mumpha, mumpha," were coming from within the wriggling cocoon, and she guessed that he had launched into a medley of unfamiliar Elvis tunes. She observed expectantly with all the patience she could muster, and finally, the boy's chin emerged, followed shortly by his mouth, nose and eyes. The neck of the tee shirt scraped across his forehead, sort of half-scalping him as it cleared his head. The elastic in the wig, with no head to grip, contracted, drawing the edges toward the center like a pussy snapping shut, so, by the time the boy had shed the shirt, the wig was perched on top of his head like a skunk trying to ride a beach ball, and his mother was hiding under a pillow to mask her laughter. "Archie, Archie," she laughed softly, when she dared to lower the pillow and peek at him, "fix that damn wig, son." "Uh, thank you very much," he responded automatically, because he was already busy with the removal of his pants, but he paused long enough to give the exaggerated sideburns a yank that was sufficient to get his head back inside the wig. His trousers were less challenging, and, while she watched him, he lowered them to his knees gradually exposing the thick trunk of his manhood. She gasped at the sight of him, and her heart fluttered with excitement. This unselfconscious unveiling of his incredible penis never failed to thrill her. The boy bent to push his pants to the floor, and then, he stood, and as he straightened, his prodigious manhood lifted like the rising of some imposing drawbridge and projected itself toward her. "God, Archie, you are a beautiful boy," she gushed rapturously, when the eye of his cock ceased swinging and settled its gaze on her breasts. "Ah, hum, ah, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemens," the boy repeated, and he spun slowly on his heels to flare the cape again. The effect was stunning, she thought, as her son's cock rotated back into her view with the crimson cape swirling like a wind blown backdrop behind it. The boy slowed the turn and his dick swung to the front, ponderously, like the boom on a jibing yacht, and she ducked instinctively to avoid being knocked overboard by that pendulous pole. "Come here, son," she breathed huskily, reaching for him with both hands. "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog," he sang in an off-key twang, and he stepped toward her hands. She intercepted his cock as he approached the bed, clasping him to her lips with both hands like a hoagie sandwich she was about to consume from the middle out. She nibbled him with her lips, stroking his heated flesh with her tongue, and worked her way toward the head. Her tongue left a wet trail along his skin as she licked him. She reached the end and turned him gently so she could cover the tip, and she felt his thickening presence in her mouth. She stretched her lips into a straining oval to accept him, and took as much as she could manage, but his entry was incomplete and the attempt mostly frustrated him. She licked his cock head and plunged her tongue into the eye in quick little fucking motions, and she heard him singing. "Let me cum on your blue suede shoes," he warbled pitifully and tried to shove his cock down his mother's throat. "You want to fuck mommy?" she asked hungrily, dodging the thrust, and his wet cock slid along her cheek. "Blue suede shoes," he chanted as though the words were the passwords to ecstasy. "Go get the jar out of my suitcase, son," she told him, releasing his dick from her grip. He raced to her bag and snatched up a small white jar with a screw top. He darted back to her bedside and handed it to her. She unscrewed the top, while he hopped expectantly. "Do you want to do it, Archie, or do you want me to do it for you?" Her words were soft and gentle, like the caress of a mother's hand on her baby's powdered bottom, and the boy rocked back and forth on his heels. "You can cum on my blue suede shoes," he sang cryptically, but she understood his needs. Mothers always understand the needs of their children. Instinct, intuition, familiarity, familial bonding; all those tender threads that nurture themselves in the womb, she could feel binding her to the boy as much as any natural mother could. After all, had she not, in her way, given birth to the boy that night when he first came to her? She planned for his arrival with all the loving enthusiasm of an expectant mother preparing a nursery, covering the walls and floor of his room with crisp, white sheets to signify the purity of his impending rebirth. She gave him wine at supper to soothe his nerves, and, as she took his slender hand in hers, leading him down the endless maze of dark corridors to his room, she told him of the mysteries of birth and adoption and of how the two could be combined to make a woman love a boy with all her heart. She undressed him and then herself, and, when they moved, their shadows danced on the walls in the light of the candles she had set. She whispered to him of the mother's love that had grown inside her like a baby since the moment she first saw his picture, and she made him feel her breasts that were heavy and full as though she was ripe with milk. She took his hand to show him where babies come from, and put it on her pussy. She nearly wept with love as she folded his little fingers into a fist and guided his slender arm into her depths. She gasped and moaned and nearly died of unendurable joy a thousand times as his tiny hand probed the vast cosmos of her barren loins in search of the meaning of life and of love. At the end, as the clock neared midnight and the last candles guttered out, she gathered the boy in her arms and whispered the secrets of how the father puts the baby in and how the mother takes it out. She held him to her breast, and with soft words convinced him that he could be both father and baby, and that he could put himself inside her for a while, and, when she took him out, he would be her baby and she would be his mother from then and forever. She asked him if he wanted her to be his mommy, and he cried and told her he had never had a mommy, so she laid him on the pure, white sheets and knelt beside him, licking his salty tears, and prepared him for entry into her world. His eyes widened with the wonder of his rebirth and redemption as she lowered herself onto his eager staff of life. She moaned as their union neared completion and slowed her descent, complimenting him on being such a wonderful baby. She accepted him totally and he filled her totally, and she rocked on his loins with the eternal rhythm of creation. She played her role with consummate skill and told him it would be a long delivery because he was a big baby and he was her first. She dallied in the delivery room, feeling his presence expanding in the pulsating heat of her birth canal, until her contractions began in earnest, and she sensed his moment had come. He gasped and "Oooo'ed" and his babies gushed into her womb in a scalding flood of cum. She hovered above him, receiving his love and returning it in kind with a hot flood that flowed onto him like warmed sweet butter. Then, she cuddled him, kissing his face with tender kisses until he opened his eyes, and she told him it was time. She lifted her hips carefully and let him slide slowly from her channel. He slipped from her womb and into her world, reborn in a slippery stew of seminal fluids that gushed from her uterus like the discharge of a phantom placenta. Later, after she cleaned him and wrapped him in a soft receiving blanket, he leaned his head against her breast and heard her croon to him, "Now, you're mine forever," and, at last, he knew love. "Come here, Elvis," she said tenderly, and, when he came to her, she smeared his shaft with cream from the jar. She creamed him with brisk, skillful movements of her hands, and did her best to avoid stimulating the boy. She knew she had been flirting with disappointment earlier, when she couldn't resist touching him with her lips, because his blunderbuss had a hair trigger that could be discharged with the slightest touch. That wicked, little, whore bitch, she snarled to herself as she applied another layer of numbing cream to the boy and remembered his humiliation in the Swimmer's Lounge, tricking him like she did, and talking dirty to him just so's he'd cum too quick. She managed her anger and glanced up at her son's innocent face. He was turned away, staring through the balcony doorway toward the gleaming, white edifice of Graceland. His lips were moving soundlessly as though he was miming another performance, and she worried that he might lack the stamina for an encore, so she abandoned his prick without touching the head and deposited a handful of the cream between her lips instead. "There you go, King; you're all fixed up. Time to make the ladies happy," she giggled, and rolled away to position herself in the center of the bed. "Ah, uh, thank you very much, ma'am," he said, actually sounding a little like Elvis, and he bounded around the bed to the foot. She watched him from her back with her knees drawn up and spread apart, and, when he reached the end of the bed, she framed him between her thighs and waited while he wound himself up for the performance. He licked his lips like he was lubing them up for another song, but his eyes were gleaming, and he was staring straight at her cunt, so she knew she hadn't long to wait. They had made the pilgrimage to Graceland before, several times, and the ritual, once they arrived at that holy place, was always the same, so the boy's antics came as no surprise to her. He crouched at the foot of the bed, lowering till she could just see his eyes and the black mop of Presley hair. He bounced around on his haunches for a minute, and she heard a sucking sound as he filled his lungs with air. Then, suddenly, without warning, he leapt up onto end of the bed, just short of the space between her feet, and threw his arms out to his sides. "Ladies and Gentlemens," he crowed, bouncing on the bedsprings excitedly with his arms extended, "les give a big welcome to the King of cock and roll." He had grabbed the edges of the cape with both hands before he jumped, and as he stood, wobbling on the shifting sands of the bedclothes, the cape hung from his arms in a great semicircle that swept outward from his back like a pair of blood red wings. He waved his arms to maintain his balance, and the cape flapped with his movements. Nancy covered her mouth to hide her laughter, because she thought the wings and hair made him look like a goddam vampire bat with a two-foot stinger, and the observation nearly cracked her up. He strutted for a minute, like a peacock displaying plumage, and then, he tried a shimmy on her, starting with his shoulders and working down to his hips. She watched in amazement as his twitching hips put his massive cock into motion, and she figured that the inertia would surely yank him off the bed. His cock swung to the side and banged his hip. It rebounded and swung to the other side, and she thought he was fortunate to be hard, or else his dick would have wrapped around his hip and smacked him on the cheek of his arse. He shimmied and shook his butt, swinging his dick back and forth like a golfer practicing a tee shot, and being the trooper he was, he burst into song again. "I'm gonna do you my way," he screeched, mangling a perfectly good song nearly beyond recognition, and she reached for him, waggling her fingers enticingly, while making a mental note to cut back on his sugar intake. "Come here, Elvis," she purred, "Your biggest fan wants to fuck you." "Hmmm, thank you very much," he babbled because his repertoire of imitations was limited, and he dropped to his knees between her legs. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 25 Nancy reached for him with both hands, grabbing him hungrily and pulling him toward her. She chewed her lip excitedly and lifted her head to observe the slow progress of his prick toward her pussy. "Ooo, baby," she moaned, when the tip brushed her lips, "I want it." "Blue suede shoes," he responded with a hollow, disembodied voice that sounded almost like the echo of a concluded performance. He supported himself with his hands on her knees and leaned toward her as she brought his dick to bear on her opening. He leered as she tugged him toward her hole, guiding the head between her thickened lips. He felt her wet heat cloaking him, and his face lit with a loose grin. A wave of spit washed over his crooked lip and poured down his chin. He swept up a corner of his cape and mopped his face, and then, he fell toward her with the weight of his torso behind his cock. "Oh my God," she gushed breathlessly as his prick rushed unimpeded into her slick pussy. "I love it when you do that." He fell across her body and her full breasts rose like twin, taut pillows to cushion his fall. She reached for his buttocks to pull him closer and spread her legs. Above them his cape swirled briefly and then settled over them, enveloping their merging bodies in a cloud of crimson satin even as the storm of her own flaming passion swept up from her core. "Momma," he groaned ecstatically as his cock slid into her depths. "Deeper, son," she whispered into the wiry polyester of his wig. "I want it all." As she spoke, she lifted her hips off the bed to meet him, and her pussy came alive. She arched her back, and her pussy churned like a hungry demon with chewing, gnawing lips that seemed intent on devouring every inch of the trembling boy. "Unk, unk, good pussy, fuck," the boy chanted meaninglessly as he pumped his hips to feed the ravenous mouth of his mother's pussy. "Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," she mouthed against his shoulder as the boy lunged into her, and she felt his pubis smacking against her mons. "Uh, uh," he gurgled nonsensically, jerking his cock out and slamming it back with spastic, unrestrained lunges of his hips. "Archie, baby, slow down," she warned, and she lifted her feet and locked her heels behind his thighs. She pulled against his thighs with her heels, preventing his withdrawal and slowed him to a pace she thought he could maintain. He grimaced and tossed his black mane like a stallion fighting the bit, but she held him tight against her body and felt the tremors rumbling through the length of his rigid prick. She took him all and he filled her, and her heart overflowed with love and lust. She cherished these initial seconds when he first enters her, cramming her full of his throbbing nearly uncontrollable, eager energy, and hovers above her prancing and pawing like a stud chafing to bolt his stall. She took control of her rambunctious steed, tightening his reins to slow his gait, and felt the immense kinetic power of his lust throbbing between her spreading thighs. "Slow down, baby; you don't want to cum too fast," she cautioned, holding him tightly, and she willed her pussy to slow its urgent spasms for a moment. "Cum in shoes blue," he twittered anxiously, and she recognized in the fractured syntax the unmistakable signs of a brain, loosely wired to begin with, shorting out on a surge of sexual stimulation. "Make me cum first, son, and you can cum in my shoes all you want," she snickered indulgently, but she locked her arms and legs around him so tightly he couldn't move and forced him to let his lust subside a mite. "Momma?" he queried when he felt his senses returning. "Yes, baby?" she answered gently, but her restraining limbs were like bands of spring steel. "Lemmie loose so I can fuck you." His voice had lost the frantic, raw edge she heard before, but still she clung to him, manipulating him like a sexual toy that existed only for her pleasure. "Does Elvis want to fuck his mommy?" she purred, and his cock jerked an eager response. "Uh-huh," he moaned, wiggling his hips in a futile attempt to generate some friction. "How does mommy like for Elvis to fuck her? Do you remember?" she asked, testing him. "Slow! Mommy likes cock slow and deep," he exclaimed proudly, because it had been a difficult lesson to master, and he frequently forgot her instructions. "Good boy," she congratulated him, and she rewarded him with a tiny Kagel that caressed his cock with a fleeting shiver of her vaginal walls. "Slow, mommy; I'll fuck you real slow," he promised earnestly. "Oh, Archie," she whispered softly, giving voice to uncertainly, "can I trust you? Do you promise?" The juice flooding her pussy was making the reins too slippery to hold and she felt herself losing control. Patience is too much to expect of a girl who has a cock the size of Mark McQuire's bat quivering inside her and a pussy that's screaming for relief like ten thousand banshees, she thought, excusing her weakness, and she relaxed the pressure of her heels a smidgen. "Uh-huh," he nodded excitedly, "Jailhouse cock slow fuck, mommy." "Show me, Elvis," she sighed. He began a slow, tantalizing withdrawal that seemed to her to last forever. She gazed rapturously over his shoulder, out the window, and it seemed to her that the traffic signal in the street below turned from green to yellow to red and back to green while the boy's cock slid out of her pussy. She felt the head stretching her lips and hooked his hips with her heels again to hold him there. "Don't leave me yet, Elvis," she moaned, reaching between her legs to stop him with her hand. She gripped his cock just below the head and held him in her slot, and the boy's eyes bulged with the pressure of pent-up desire. He crouched over her on hands and knees, poised to plunge into her wet depths the instant she released him, because her directions were obscured by the thickening fog of his lust. "Now, baby," she groaned, relaxing her grip, "push it in real slow. I want to feel every inch of your cock going in me." He would have ignored her and rammed his cock home in a heartbeat, but she still held him tightly and only allowed him to slip through her fingers a little at a time. He gurgled and sputtered and tried to push himself through her hands, but she used her nails like spikes on golf shoes to gain a purchase on his slippery shaft, and the harder he pushed, the deeper she dug, till finally, pain roared in his brain like a fog horn, and he remembered his promise. "That's momma's good boy," she cooed, when she felt his pressure lessen, and she loosened her grip still more. "Oooo, that's nice," she sighed, bragging on the boy's performance as he reentered her throbbing vagina. "I can feel everything, every vein, every ridge, every wrinkle on your cock when you go slow like that, honey," she gushed as he stretched her. "Tight pussy," he lied to explain her sensations, and he wistfully recalled how Imogene Justice's pussy had clung to him like the casing on a frankfurter. "Oooo, Elvis, do you really think mommy's pussy is tight?" she asked deliriously as the boy's cock neared the end of its journey. "Uh-huh," he grunted without much conviction as their bellies smacked together. "Wait, wait, don't take it out, yet," she mouthed into his ear before he could withdraw again. "Just leave it inside me and rest for a minute before you take it out." He paused like she told him, lying on top of her with his cock buried completely in his mother's hot pussy and waited for her signal. Her nipples burned into his chest; her belly heaved as she fought for breath. Her body adjusted miraculously to his presence with secret chambers that filled and swelled and pressed against him. Her slick walls enveloped him and molded to him like clay, embossing an impression of him in her brain that was exquisite in its detailed perfection. "There, can you feel that," she whispered to the boy as the pressure of her growing desire built along his cock. "Blue suede shoes," he grunted dreamily. "Does it feel good, son?" she asked, raking his back with her sharp nails from his shoulders to his buttocks. "Yes, mommy, yes," he cried almost tearfully so great was his excitement. "Let me fuck you, now, please." "Take it out, slowly," she instructed, guiding him with her hands on his hips to ensure compliance. The walls of her pussy clung to the boy's prick and contested every inch of his withdrawal. Walls closed in upon him, beckoning him to remain or quickly return, stroking him with sensuously soft satin and scalding his brain with the hot steam of desire. He followed, blindly, and let her push him away, sliding out, exposing his wet flesh to the cool air, and then, her fingertips were tugging his hips, and in the distance he heard her voice calling him. "In, Archie, in." Her fingers drew him toward her and set the pace of his descent. He pushed against her resistance and discovered that her pussy had closed behind him, her engorged tissues expanding in the emptiness and filling her vacated spaces. Exhilarated by the promise of magnified sensations, he thrust into her narrowed passage. Her wetness helped them both and eased his entry. He glided into her depths, and her thighs fell apart before his onslaught. "Oh God, Archie, fuck me," she panted as the boy's cock filled her pussy. Her pulse quickened; her passion soared and fell into step with his. Her hands fluttered to her sides as she surrendered herself to him. "Fuck me good, Elvis," she implored hotly as she lay open beneath him. She released him from the bonds of her will and wild currents crisscrossed in his brain, short-circuiting his wiring in a crackling shower of sparks. Thoughts and instructions vanished in a flash as she yielded to his instincts. His hips lunged for her, and he plunged into her tight sheath. Her pussy opened to him like waves breaking on the bow of a great ship, as he drove into her. Her voice again rose above the tumult in his mind. "Awesome, baby; Elvis got an awesome cock for mommy," she cried when his hands circled her waist and pulled her onto the spike in her belly. He jerked and lurched and pumped his hips, driving his cock in and out of her wet cylinder like a piston. "Fuck me; fuck mommy; cram me full of cock," she chanted in a daisychain of erotic commands each time he thrust into her. "Oh, God, yes," she screamed in delight, when he shortened his strokes and rubbed her mons with his pubis. Her clit, swollen and erect, stood out amidst her fattened folds like the hood ornament on a '49 Pontiac; a sort of 'Winged Victory,' with her wings swept back and her face jutting forward into the wind. The thick trunk of the boy's prick slid alongside that tender face and, as he stroked her cheeks, Nancy's limbs jerked spasmodically. Lust is a queer thing in some people, especially when it nears apogee and becomes a force of its own, like an uncontrollable power that defies direction. In some, the flame that seduces the moth consumes the house, and so it was with Nancy Farber. A lifetime of thumbing her nose at convention and sneering at decorum, of crossing the line where ever and when ever she could, had left her bored and jaded. She was a thrill seeker burnt out on cheap thrills; a leaky sexpot with so many unplugged holes that she required an ever-increasing volume of sexual excess just to maintain her level. Cock wasn't enough by itself, not even huge cock. Fucking was an empty, washed out pantomime that left her famished when she was done. She craved more than that, far more; she needed to soar into the thin air at the very edge of existence itself, where the light is sharp and the senses are keen, where life and death, creation and destruction, could unite cataclysmically in her womb. "Fuck me, you little bastard," she growled; her face was contorted with a sort of rage that would have frightened the boy had he not been accustomed to his mother's abrupt mood shifts. "Go on, Goddamn you, you little shit. What are you waiting for? Use that cock on me; fuck your momma like you mean it," she continued, ranting mercilessly at her struggling Elvis. He clutched her waist and stabbed her with his prick like a Neanderthal killing a pig with a spear, and she lunged up, lifting her head and shoulders from the bed. Her hands circled behind his back and grabbed the loose folds of his cape. She yanked hard, pulling the tightly knotted cord across his throat and his head snapped back. She pulled harder and lifted the upper half of her torso off the bed, supporting her weight by the slender strand of satin around the boy's neck. "Fuck me good or I'll strangle you right here, you miserable little fuck," she screeched, and the noose tightened. Archie pumped his hips furiously to appease his mother. He understood her needs, perhaps better than most, and he adored her. He reached between their bodies and made a grab for the little patch of hair on her mons. He seized her mound, pinching her flesh between his fingertips and palm like he was gripping the pommel of a saddle on a bucking bronco, and he yanked her toward him with vicious ripping jerks as he speared her. "Arghhh, yes, harder," she groaned ecstatically, taking up the slack in his cape to choke off his air supply. The boy tried to gulp, but his Adam's apple couldn't move, and the air was caught in his windpipe like smoke in a clogged chimney. His eyes bulged and rolled crazily in their sockets. His face reddened as his frantic fucking depleted the oxygen in his lungs. The room was spinning crazily; darkness was creeping in from the edges of his brain, a numbing, obliterating blackness that swallowed everything in its path. "Cum in my blue suede shoes, Elvis," she screamed at the boy, who was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. His lips moved soundlessly. His eyeballs rolled up toward the ceiling, and then, slowly, his pupils disappeared under his fluttering eyelids. His face was deep purple, nearly black, and his mouth hung open like someone had cut the string that held up his jaw. Brain cells were dying by the millions as their supply of oxygen dwindled to nothing. His arms dangled limply by his sides, and he rocked drunkenly back and forth on his knees. His fat cock, swollen with cum, skewered into her hot hole like it had a mind of its own and a purpose for living. "Oh God, I feel it cuming, baby," she cried as the leading edge of his flood rushed into her womb, but he was much too far gone to hear her words. She timed it perfectly, she thought, tightening the noose another notch and feeling the strength flee from the boy's limbs and pour into her pussy in a thick hot stream. "Yes, that's right, baby; shoot my shoes full of your cum," she whispered in encouragement as her pussy erupted with wave after wave of exquisite sensation. Archie sagged between her legs, going totally limp everywhere except in the prick. His head fell forward and his chin hit his chest with an audible plop. She held him upright by pulling on his cape and climbed his legs to cram his spurting cock into her pussy. She fucked him with quickly rolling hips and gulped his cum with her pussy till he filled her and the excess poured down her ass to the crumpled sheets. She climaxed, sustaining that lofty plateau for as long as she dared, and her pussy convulsed in a climatic massage along the length of the boy's prick, but he was not there to enjoy the experience. Endorphins sped to her brain on the crest of her orgasm, and her hands went limp. The cape slipped from her grasp, and her hands dropped. She fell back on the bed, exhausted and drained. Archie, his face blackened like he had been made up with greasepaint for a minstrel show, tottered between her legs like he was praying, held upright only by the tension remaining in his prick and its anchorage inside her pussy. Nancy arched her back and ran her palms over the inflamed tips of her nipples while her strength returned. She glanced indifferently at Archie's inert body without a hint of concern and casually lifted her foot. She placed it in the center of the boy's chest, holding it there for a moment as though she was examining her pedicure for flaws, and then, she gave him a sharp shove that dislodged his prick and sent the unconscious boy tumbling toward the end of the bed. "Elvis has left the building," she chuckled, reaching for the glass on the nightstand. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 26 They arrived in Posey's Bend around midnight. Caleb slept the entire way, not even stirring when they drove through the wildlife refuge, where the geese were honking so loudly Anne could scarcely hear Sam and Danny conspiring to undermine her virtue. She drove unerringly, straight into the heart of town, and, before stopping, she circled the deserted square once to get the feel of the place. It was, she recognized immediately, just like all the other small towns within a half-day's drive of Bentonville, Arkansas; it had been Walmartized to the brink of extinction. The windows of the grand old Victorian storefronts that surrounded the square were sporting more plywood than plate-glass, and the Christmas decorations, a motley, bedraggled assortment of mismatched foil candy-canes and Christmas trees that were hanging like dispatched ghosts of Christmases past from the light poles along the sidewalks, tended more to remind her of the Caruthers' meager observances of the occasion than to lift her spirits. She slowed as she neared the main entrance to the courthouse, which occupied the center of the square and guided the car into a space that was marked with a sign saying "Reserved Parking – Judge Montcastle." "Wake up, Caleb," she said softly, shaking his shoulder as she spoke. "We're home." Caleb blinked his eyes and struggled to right himself in the seat. He looked around, staring through the windshield with a bewildered expression on his face while he tried to orient himself with his surroundings. "Where are we?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with his fists like a little boy. "Posey's Bend, or what's left of it," she said matter of factly. "Well, I'll be damned!" he exclaimed in surprise when his eyes opened sufficiently for him to read the sign designating his parking place. "Nothing to it, Caleb; I just followed Highway 51, and it brought me right here." "What time is it?" he asked sleepily. "Eleven forty," she replied. "Have you seen Mood Dog and Hunter?" "Yeah, they followed us down from Mayfield. They're parked behind us, across the street." "Good," he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the sedan behind them with its lights off. "I'll be right back; I need to tell them what we're up to." Then he paused with his hand on the door handle and said with a grin, "You can scoot over while I'm gone; I think I can find my way now." He was only gone a minute, and when he returned he slipped into the driver's seat and started the motor. As he backed into the street, he explained "They're going to follow us and return your car to you, when I drop you off." "Drop me off?" she echoed questioningly. She wasn't sure where she was going to spend the night, but she hadn't expected to be "dropped off." "Right," he said as he steered the car around the square and onto a side street. "I fell asleep and didn't get the chance to tell you. I made arrangements for you to stay at Miss Kate's boarding house. It was the best I could do on short notice, since the motel burned down last summer and apartments are in short supply." "But, 'Miss Kate's boarding house?'" she repeated skeptically. She could just see herself rocking on a porch with a flock of senile, old pensioners and the thought hadn't a lot of appeal. "Don't worry; you'll love Kate. Everybody loves Kate. God knows how old she is now, but she showed up eons ago and it seems like she's been around here forever. Hardly ever leaves her porch anymore, though, but she still wears her pink silk robe and matching slippers all the time, and she still smokes unfiltered Camel cigarettes in a foot long, ivory cigarette holder. Her hair's gone blue-white on her, but she'll be wearing it all puffed up like a cloud around her head, just like she did forty years ago." "From your description, it sounds like she could have been the Cotton Queen's sole survivor," Anne laughed. "Not quite," Caleb chuckled." "Well, where did she come from then," she asked. "Ah, now, there's a question," he answered, sounding a little mystical. "Where did she come from? You get the answer to that question out of her, Annie, my girl, and you'll give some of the folks in Posey's Bend the best Christmas they've ever had." "Really?" she said with increased interest. "You don't know where she came from?" "Nobody knows for sure. It's one of Posey's Bend's many mysteries; you'll learn about the others if you stay around a while." "I thought in a place this small, everybody knows everybody else's business, right down to how often they wash their shirts and sleep with their wives." "They do, believe me," he laughed. "But she's been as tight lipped about her past as a reformed madam at a job interview. She's French, or Flemish, that much I know, because her French accent's still so thick you can't understand hardly half what she says and she calls everybody 'Cheri' with every other breath." "That's it? That's all you know about her?" "That's pretty much it. Oh, there was some talk way back when she first got here. They say she was beautiful then, like a movie star or something of the sort, and the talk was that during the War she had worked for the French underground luring German soldiers into dark alleys and back rooms where the resistance fighters could waylay them." "Wow," she whistled. "Yeah. The rumor was that she had so much German blood on her hands that she couldn't stay in France after the War or some soldier's relative would hunt her down and even the score, so she came here." "If that story's true, she sure picked the perfect place to disappear to," Anne observed, nodding toward the vacant buildings as they drove through town, "'cause, this is about the last place on earth anybody's going to come looking for anybody else." "Oh, you might be surprised about that," Caleb laughed. "We used to be a pretty busy crossroads; that highway you came in on was the main road from Chicago to New Orleans a few years back, before interstate highway went through on the other side of the river. We've had all kinds of folks through here, from President Roosevelt to Al Capone." "I don't doubt it, Caleb, but all of them kept moving 'cause they couldn't make a go of it here, didn't they." "You got me there," he grinned. "But, Miss Kate stayed? She made it work for her, I guess." "She sure did. Settled right in and bought the biggest house in town. Paid cash money for it, too. Turned it into a boarding house right off the bat and started letting out rooms, but she always turned the old folks away and wouldn't rent to them. She said they were too old and stuffy, and she liked laughter and music, so she only rented to young people. She's still that way, pretty much. She'd rather have the place go empty than open her door to an old codger with a walker." "Doesn't sound very practical to me," Anne observed. "You're right. I doubt she's taken in more than two hundred a month in rent money the whole time she's been here, but making money never seemed to matter to her. She always appeared to have as much as she needed, kept the place fixed up, had a full time gardener to tend her flowers and always drove the newest, biggest Cadillac convertible she could find." "I can see why there's all the talk about her, then," she smiled. "She sounds like quite a local character." "I meant it, you're absolutely going to love her," he proclaimed, bubbling with enthusiasm. "Wherever she came from, you can bet she's been around the block a time or two in her day. She's about the most worldly woman to come through Posey's Bend since they shut down old Leviticus' tavern over at the River. Why, when I told her I was bringing a girl to stay with her for a few days, she winked at me and punched me with her elbow so hard I thought she had cracked a rib, and she told me, 'I put her in zee bes chambre wis zee beeg bed wis zee tres bon springs, n'est pas, Cheri?'" "My kinda girl," Anne deadpanned, but she couldn't help wondering if her arrival might not displace Miss Kate as Posey's Bend's "most worldly woman." "You'll have to wait till tomorrow morning to meet her; I'm afraid she went to bed hours ago. She gave me your key so you can let yourself in tonight." "How much does Miss Kate charge for 'zee bes chambre?'" Anne asked apprehensively. "I haven't much cash left right now, and I somehow doubt that Rufus'll be in much of a hurry to forward my last check even if he knew where to send it." "Don't worry about Kate; that's taken care of." "I pay my own bills, thanks," she said bristling slightly. "Hey, take it easy," he yelped defensively. "All I meant was that she's cool to wait a while till you get on your feet. I explained your situation, and she said you could pay her after Christmas." "How much a week, please?" "Thirty dollars." "That's pretty cheap," she observed suspiciously. "Well, I don't know about Missouri, but it's about standard around here, especially if you're a landlord who's more interested in company than profit." "Did you explain to her exactly how I was going to earn enough money to pay any rent? I don't have a job, if you recall, and Posey's Bend surely doesn't look like its economy is going to offer me much of one, either." "You have a job if you want it." "Really?" she asked sounding skeptical. "That's right." "Doing what, exactly?" She glanced from side to side dubiously. "Teaching third grade at the new school out in the county. It's about ten minutes from Miss Kate's place." "You're pulling my leg, aren't you; tell me you're pulling my leg." His eyes drifted to her legs the first time she mentioned the word and by the second time she said "leg," his gaze was fixed on her hemline and the shadow between her legs. Dammit, he grumbled silently, as, too late to avoid detection, he tore his eyes away. He always falls for tricks like that. Ever since he was a kid, he's been falling for such tricks; a sucker for suggestion, he thought. Even stupid kid tricks like pointing to one of the buttons on his shirt and then, when he looked down to see what the commotion was about, getting his nose flicked with the pointer's pointing finger. "No kidding," he assured her. "The job's yours if you want it." "Want it, of course, I want it," she answered excitedly. "Elementary education is my specialty and third grade is my favorite grade, but I only got to teach it for a year." "Your principal that year still thinks very highly of you, too." "You talked to him?" "Not me, the Superintendent of Schools did." "How, what?" she sputtered, because this time he had truly surprised her. "The Super's an old friend of mine. I knew he had a vacancy opening up, so told him about you, and he thought you sounded perfect for the job. I gave him some names and numbers I thought might be good references, and he checked them out." "You had the names and phone numbers where I worked before Hardwick?" "Yes, I did." "Wow! You are really something, you know that? Are you always that thorough?" "Clarence, is thorough; I am a mess most of the time." "Yeah, right," she jeered. "Look, I know it's an intrusion and that I was assuming a heck of a lot by sticking my nose in to find you a job before you even knew where your were heading, but I figured, under the circumstances, if you didn't have any place else to go and wanted to stay here, that you probably would want to find a job. Did I screw up?" She looked at him with her soft blue eyes and studied his earnest features in the dim light of the passing streetlights. His face was masked with a look of concern, and it was obvious that he was worried that his generosity wasn't welcome. She was deeply touched; moved by his kindness, of course, but his lack of assurance struck the more responsive cord, and her face broke into a smile. It was the kind of smile that can light up a room and hush a crowd, the kind of smile that can cause a cabby to slam on his brakes and back up in rush hour traffic or bedazzle a clerk into returning too much change. "No, you didn't screw up, Caleb," she said gently. "Whew," he sighed genuinely relieved. "I was a little worried that I might be getting ahead of myself." "No, no, not at all," she reassured him. "It's just a lot to absorb unexpectedly, that's all. I'm stunned, I admit, but thrilled too. I feel like I'm lost in a dream or something and it's not real." "Oh, it's real, all right," Caleb smiled with the enthusiasm returning to his voice. "Tomorrow, I'll drive you out to the school, and you can meet the principal and get a look at your classroom." "Oh, Caleb, can I really?" she bubbled, and he could tell she was beginning to become excited herself. "Absolutely," he answered, but then, looking sheepishly at her again, he continued, "right after we take care of another matter that I've arranged for you." Her smile faded a little and Danny Devito popped up squawking, "Here comes the other shoe droppin', baby. You better loosen up those pretty lips of yours, 'cause five'll get you ten that 'other matter's' he's arranged for you's gonna be his blowjob comin' up." "What kind of matter?" she asked darkly, heeding Danny's heads-up. "You have an appointment with Jimmy Waller in the morning." "Oh?" she questioned more than a little puzzled. "I don't know Jimmy Waller, do I?" "No, you don't, but you need to." "Why?" She questioned tersely. "Because, he's the president of the bank, and he's going to open your account and give you a line of credit to see you through till your paychecks start coming in or whenever." "I don't believe this," she gasped in stunned surprise. "The bank's going to give me credit? I don't even have credit." "Yes, you do and it's impeccable; never been late on a payment on your car, your stereo or your computer." "You're truly amazing me, Caleb," she muttered. "I had forgotten all about those accounts." "They're still on your credit report following you around like a shadow." She smiled like Freud when he let the word "shadow" slip, and so, she zinged him a little by remarking obliquely, "Shadows can be creepy sometimes, don't you think?" "Well, I guess so; well, maybe," he answered a little off his stride, and she though she detected a hint of a blush on his cheeks but it was dark in the car and he continued talking before she could be certain. "But this account won't go on your record, so it won't be following you anywhere." "Why not?" "Because, anybody with a computer and half a lick of sense can access your credit report and the minute a loan from the Farmers and Traders Bank of Posey's Bend, Tennessee, shows up on it, they will know exactly where to start looking for you." "I see," she said, nodding reflectively for a moment, and then, she asked, "Isn't there a law or something that makes banks report the loans they make?" "There are exceptions," he replied evasively. "Like what?" she insisted. "Like if Jerry Waller's your first cousin, that's an exception." "He's not my cousin; I don't even know the man." "Good Grief, Charlie Brown," Caleb laughed. "Jimmy's my cousin, and he's helping you out as a favor to me." "How much money is Cousin Jimmy offering to loan me as a favor to you, Caleb?" She inquired in a carefully modulated voice. Danny was chuckling in the back of her mind in the vicinity of her control panel, "He, he, he, baby, here's where we gonna find out how much that precious little pussy of yours is worth, ain't we? I been tellin' your pal, Sam, here, that you done sold him a load of crap with that 'outa this world' pussy bullshit. I'm figuring two fifty, tops, babe." "Twenty thousand dollars," he replied as casually as if he had been reporting the price of the morning newspaper. "My God," she gasped in shock, "that's more than I was going to make at Hardwick for the whole year." "I know," he replied calmly. "It's about what you'll make for the second semester in the county system here." "Forty thousand a year?" she exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief. "I've never made anything close to that." "It's the standard pay here for a teacher with your qualifications and experience." "God, it seems too good to be true. I know I'm dreaming now, so you may as well go on and finish it for me. Tell me, why on earth would Jimmy want to lend me twenty thousand dollars?" "It's not a loan, Anne, it's a line of credit. You can borrow what you need up to the twenty thousand, that's all." "Why so much? That's a lot of money." "It's not all that much, really." "It sure is to me." "I set it up for twenty thousand just in case you had need of it." "Just in case of what, pray tell, would I need a twenty thousand dollar loan?" "In case you decided not to stay around here; wanted to start new some place else. It would take you a while to get on your feet, so I figured you would probably need at least that much to keep going." "What makes you think I wouldn't just take the money and run and forget all about paying your cousin back?" "Moon Dog vouched for you." "I don't believe it." She declared flatly. "You mean that spooky old guy with the big gun who hardly talks at all, don't you? He vouched for me?" "Actually, he did a good bit more than that. I believe his exact words were 'that young lady's got more guts and grit than a Ranger battalion, and if I had to bet on which was more likely, her not paying a loan back or a toddler taking down Ft. Knox with a toothbrush, I'd be puttin' my money on the toddler.'" "Gee, he said that?" she grinned. "That's more than he said to me the whole past week; and you believed him?" "Absolutely," he declared emphatically. She sat in stunned silence for the last minutes of the drive, trying to make some sense of things. The succession of experiences, beginning with her flight from Hardwick and the terror of being hunted by Cletus and Nadeen, had left her shaken and confused, almost ready to crumble, and just when she felt like a rabbit that had run out of places to hide, she stumbled onto salvation. "You really meant it, didn't you, Caleb?" she asked him softly. "Meant what? "What you told me back at the Acock; that I could pick up and go whenever I wanted. I doubted you then, but…" "I know," he replied understandingly. "You had good reason to; a person doesn't have many options, if they're broke." "You knew I was broke?" "Let's just say I knew you were stretched pretty thin." "God," she gushed like the wind had been knocked out of her. "Is there anything about me you don't know?" "There's plenty I don't know, I expect," he said, steering the car to the curb and turning to look at her after the car stopped. "I was hoping to start filling in the gaps at dinner tomorrow night, if you'll have dinner with me, that is. I know a pretty cool restaurant over by the river called Le Maison du Maurice that you might like." "Are you asking me out on a date, Judge Montcastle?" she teased half seriously. "Well, I, I, I, guess you could call…" he stuttered. "In that case, I accept," she laughed gently, and then she reached her hand toward him and placed it lightly on his arm. "Caleb," she began "I don't know where to start thanking you for all you've done." He glanced down at her hand lying on his arm and was about to respond when a quartet of exterior flood lights on the house they were parked in front of came on and flooded street with a wash of dazzling light. "Oh, hell," he grumbled. "That'll be Miss Kate. I guess the commotion of two cars pulling up in front of her house woke her up. You better get on inside or there'll be hell to pay." "'Hell to pay?'" Anne questioned with a puzzled smile as she glanced toward the house in time to see the floodlights blink impatiently. "I thought you said she was worldly." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 26 "She is, she is," he confirmed earnestly, glancing toward the front door as if he expected Miss Kate to appear on the porch at any second. "What you do in the privacy of your own room is strictly your business, according to her, but she says that the way young people act out in public is scandalous, and she won't have anything of the sort going on in front of her house." "So, she's flashing the lights to get you to stop what you're doing?" she giggled. "My daddy used to do that with the porch light when he and momma thought I was staying outside with my date too long." "I don't think she wants me to stop, actually," he grimaced as the lights blinked insistently again. "She just wants whatever we're doing to be done inside." "Does she now?" Anne responded a little stiffly in defense of her independence, when Caleb began groping for the door handle. "And, all she has to do to make Judge Montcastle come arunning, is flick her lights a few times?" "OK," he laughed as he climbed out of the car, "you found me out. I have a weakness for very old French ladies, especially if they wield a pretty mean parasol." Moon Dog was standing by the car holding her suitcase as she opened the door. Caleb circled the car and, when he reached Anne's side, Moon Dog handed the bag to him and turned to Anne. "Miss," he said solemnly as he returned the keys to her car, "it's been a real pleasure knowing you." "You're not leaving are you, Clarence?" she asked in alarm. His presence, despite the interrogation, had been the source of considerable comfort to her in the preceding days, and the news that she was losing his protection was disconcerting. "Yes, ma'am. The President's planning on spending his first Christmas in office in London at No. 10 Downing Street, and the Secret Service's contracted with Hunter and me to go over with the advance party to set up security for him. They're sending a plane out here for us first thing in the morning." "I hope having you guys protecting him makes him feel as safe as it did me," she said warmly. "Don't you worry little lady, you'll be safe enough with the Judge here for the next few weeks anyway. We shook the Caruthers back in St. Louis, and I expect they're still trying to figure out which direction we took. It's a big country and St. Louis is right smack in the middle of it; it's gonna take them a long time to track you down, if they ever do." "I hope you're right," she responded pensively. "I am," he answered with assurance. "You just remember what I told you, Miss Noble, turn loose of the contacts with your past and nobody will ever find you." "I remember," she told him, but Caleb thought her voice sounded a little wistful as though she wasn't entirely convinced that just laying low would do the trick. "Good, and while you're letting go and starting over fresh, Hunter has some contacts at the FBI that he's using to find out what in the hell is going on over at the Post Office, 'cause this business with the Postal Inspectors sounds pretty suspicious to me." "What does that mean, Dog?" Caleb interjected. "Nothing, maybe, but 'drive-bys' and leaving a material witness in danger without protection aren't business as usual at the P.O. They've had too much experience with their own people 'going postal' on them to disregard any threat." "Does that mean what I think it means, Caleb," Anne asked turning to him with her eyes widening in concern. "If you're thinking that maybe those weren't really Postal Inspectors…" Caleb began. "Hold on, folks," Moon Dog interrupted. "I didn't intend to worry you more than you already are. It's just that the Judge here pays top dollar for me to be suspicious of everything and everybody, so if something doesn't smell one hundred percent right to this old sniffer of mine, I'm gonna check it out. Now, I don't expect to find much if anything behind my suspicions, so if I were you two, I'd just relax, kick back and enjoy the holidays." "Will I see you again?" Anne asked. "Sure you will. We'll be back in the States in three weeks or so, and then I'll be heading back to Missouri to check on the investigation into your friend's death. If I can, I'll stop by Posey's Bend on the way." "Oh, Clarence," she sniffed, rising on her tiptoes and snaking her hand behind the big man's neck to pull his cheek to her lips, "it seems like all I've been doing lately is trying to come up with a way to say thank you and everything I've thought of is too little and too late." Caleb watched with interest and noted a softening of the usual impenetrable iciness in the old warrior's eyes. The man's fingers lightly touched his cheek where her lips had brushed him and for a minute his words forsook him. Finally, he muttered, "I wish we didn't have to leave." "Nonsense," she said patting his arm. "The President of the United States is a lot more important that I am." "Not to me," Moon Dog answered. "To me either," Caleb joined in just as the house lights blinked again. "Oops," he continued, "there she goes again." "What the hell is that?" Moon Dog grumbled at the interruption. "That's my new chaperone and protector," Anne laughed. "I think she's meant to be your replacement, Clarence." "That couldn't be…?" Moon Dog asked, turning toward Caleb. "Yep, Miss Kate," Caleb acknowledged only a little ruefully. "The same Miss Kate who…?" Moon Dog sputtered, but the lights came on again and cut him off in mid-sentence. "That's the one," Caleb grinned quickly. "But, we can't stand out here yacking all night or she'll call the police on us." "Good Lord," Moon Dog grumbled, and then, he turned toward Anne and whispered to her loudly enough for Caleb to overhear, "Whatever that old woman tells you about Caleb's daddy or his granddaddy, don't you pay any attention to it at all, you understand me?" "Sure, I guess so, Clarence," she responded with a puzzled look. "What was that all about?" she asked Caleb as he led her up the sidewalk to the temporarily darkened house. "Oh, nothing much," he answered casually, dismissing her question with a head shake. "Just some nonsense that supposedly happened years ago. Every time it came up, they just told me I was too young, so I never did get the whole story." "Sounded like Clarence was worried that I might get the whole story, didn't it?" Anne asked as they reached the doorstep. "Yeah, it did, but if you find out from her where she came from and what she was doing before she got here, that would be a lot more interesting, I expect." As he spoke, Caleb unlocked the door and pushed it open. A single lamp was burning on a table in the entry hall. He handed her the key and her suitcase, and before he turned to leave, said, "Your room's the fifth door on the left; your key fits the front door and the lock on your room. I'll pick you up at quarter to ten in the morning and run you over to the bank, OK?" "I'll be ready," she replied as she shut the door. * * * The days immediately following Anne's arrival were a whirlwind of activity. There were meetings at the bank and at her school, introductions to the shopkeepers on the square and an afternoon reception that Caleb had arranged with her new principal, Mr. Jenks, and some of the other third grade teachers with whom she would be sharing teaching facilities. There had even been a trip to the local clinic, where Caleb led her through the back door directly to the doctors offices and took her around introducing her to her new gynecologist, internist, and, just because he happened to be standing in the hall when they walked past, she surmised, proctologist. Caleb had taken her to dinner at Le Maison du Maurice so many nights in succession that the maitre'd began putting vases of her favorite flowers on "His Honor's special table," and the cocktail waitress had taken to asking her if she wanted "the usual" when taking their order. All that had ended abruptly a few days earlier when Caleb told her he was getting behind in his work and had some catching up to do. He said he would give her a call as soon as he could get free, but the phone hadn't rung once. It was turning out to be a lonesome Christmas Eve. Late in the afternoon, while heading home from a last minute trip to the grocery, Anne drove around the square on her way to Miss Kate's and confirmed that Caleb's car remained parked at the curb. It was alone and not difficult to spot. The courthouse windows were darkened, except for those in Caleb's offices, and when she saw the lights burning, she felt an immediate pang of disappointment. That means he's working late tonight too and probably eating grilled cheese sandwiches again, she thought, as she circled the deserted square a second time. "Hi, Miss Kate," Anne said in as cheerful a voice as she could manage upon entering the kitchen and seeing her elderly landlady sitting alone with a glass and a half empty bottle of cognac on the table in front of her. Anne guessed by the smudge of lipstick circling the rim of the glass that Miss Kate had gotten an early start on her Christmas celebrations. "I bought a few things at the grocery just now. Do you mind if I use a little of your refrigerator?" Anne asked, making her way through the room. "Of course, not, Cheri," the old lady said agreeably, turning to watch Anne transfer a quart bottle of skim milk and a few containers of yogurt from her shopping bag to the refrigerator. "Mon Deiu, Cheri, you eat like zee bird; I do not know how you keep zee curves, no?" Kate observed wryly. Her own figure, once curvaceous, had succumbed to the forces of time and of gravity despite her best efforts, but she retained her admiration for shapely girls. "Some bird, Miss Kate" Anne laughed. "I ate at Le Maison du Maurice three times last week. I feel like my curves have grown curves." "Zay have not, mon Cheri. You continue to look, ah, uh, how do they say eet? Ah, awesome, oui, awesome," Kate replied beaming proudly that she had recalled the word. "Merci beau coup," Anne answered, dipping in a slight curtsy to acknowledge the compliment, but then she continued with a frown, "I'm glad someone appreciates me." "I sink he must appreciate you very much to take you out so often," Kate said reassuringly. "Do you really think so?" Anne asked uncertainly. "Oui, it ees le tres chic bistro, zis Le Maison du Maurice, n'est pas?" "Oh, my yes," Anne bubbled enthusiastically. "It is so romantic; high on a bluff overlooking the river. He reserved his special, very private, table with curtains that closed it off from everyone else and a view that's to die for, and we got there early so we could see 'the sunset turn the water into gold,' he said. And he ordered wonderful French wines that I had never heard of, and we drank a bottle before dinner with appetizers and another with dinner, and he wanted to order a third to drink with desert, but I was afraid that I would make a fool of myself." "Ach, you're making an old woman jealous," Kate moaned playfully. "Really? Have you been there, Kate?" she asked. "Where? To Le Maison du Maurice? Alas, no, Cheri, I do not venture far from home zees days, but I was sinking of zee romance with your young man, not zee food. Your romance, I am jealous of; what is life without romance? I do miss zat." "I'm beginning to miss it too, Kate," she said pensively. "I thought surely he would call today." "I am sorry, Cheri; zee phone it deed not ring all zee day." "He's working, I suppose. I drove past the courthouse and his car was there. The whole building was dark except for his office lights." "Mon Deiu," Kate swore dismally with a shake of her head. "I do not know where zee world has gone, that a young man works on zee eve of Christmas and neglects the desires of zee femme magnifique." "His work is really important, I guess," Anne explained defensively. "Rubbish!" Kate replied, dismissing the excuse out of hand. "Compared with l'amour, no man's work ees important." Anne looked at the old woman and smiled. Her back was unbowed, and she still carried herself with the regal bearing of a courtesan. Her face was lined, but traces of the beauty that had sustained her for seventy years or more could still be seen in the curve of her lips and the clear, shining pools of her eyes. She had about her a sort of earthy, old world charm that bespoke of wisdom and of knowledge that had been sifted from the accumulated secrets of a thousand-year heritage. "Come, Cheri," the old woman beckoned curling her gnarled fingers toward Anne. "Bring a glass and sit with me a moment." "I knew hees father, you know," she began while pouring Anne a brimming glass of cognac. "No, I didn't," Anne answered unnecessarily. The cognac was smooth but potent, and the first sip warmed her to her toes. "Oui," Kate said, nodding her head emphatically as though the added movement would erase any doubt about her veracity. "And, hees grand-p`ere, as well. From before zee fall of Dien Bien Phu, I knew zem." "Goodness, Kate, that must have been a long time ago," Anne murmured while trying to place the reference. "Oui, Cheri, long ago," she responded reflectively as she lifted her glass toward the light and gazed into its amber depths. "I was beautiful zen, too, like vous, with zee firm, full poitrine and zee wide hips," she sighed wistfully, and as she spoke the word "poitrine" her empty hand rose to her bosom and plucked the delicate lace fringe of her robe. "I was ripe, like zee fruit to be plucked, no, and I had beau coup admirers in zose years." "I can see why," Anne said gently as she reached across the table to cover Kate's hand with her own. "I think you are still a beautiful woman." "Aha!" she exclaimed with a wink. "I told heem there vould be much about you to like, Cheri." "He told you about me?" Anne questioned in surprise. She took a quick sip of cognac and noticed her glass was nearly empty. "Oui, Cheri, he told me much," Kate replied, reaching across the table to refill Anne's glass. "But, but, why?" Anne sputtered dubiously. Kate's smile broadened disarmingly and, as she set the bottle on the table, she turned her eyes to the young woman's face. "Because, Cheri, zee Montcastle men have always talked to me of their women, n'est pas?" "Why do you think I'm 'his woman?'" Anne blurted indignantly. She had no patience for being taken for granted and thought, under the circumstances, that the presumption was dubious. "Because, Cheri, if you are not his woman now, you will be soon," the old woman responded cannily. "How could you possibly know that?" "It is zee thing you both want, n'est pas?" "Well," Anne began noncommittally, trying to buy time to collect her thoughts, "how do you know he wants me; he's sure not acting much like it?" "Because, my dear," Kate answered without affectation, "as I said, I know what the Montcastle men desire in their women; this one of yours is no different that those I have known before him." "Just how well did you know these Montcastles, Miss Kate?" Anne challenged. "How well can a woman know a man, Cheri?" "Good God," Anne gasped when she grasped the implication of that claim. "All three of them?" "No, no, Cheri," answered quickly, giggling at the misapprehension. The cognac had made her tipsy, and that, along with, perhaps, the season, had made her garrulous far beyond her nature. "Not your Caleb, but his father and his grandfather, oui, oh, my, yes," she continued and her memories rose on amber fumes to wrap her in their warm embrace. Anne's jaw dropped and her mouth gaped in astonishment. She reached for the nearly empty bottle and poured the remainder of its contents into Miss Kate's glass. A million questions jostled for recognition in her mind, and she struggled to maintain the appearance of casual interest. "You knew both of them that well, then," Anne breathed softly to avoid rousing Miss Kate. "Oui," she said distantly as though the memories had deprived her of her responsiveness. Then, she turned to Anne and studied her face for a moment like she was seeing her for the first time. "There is another bottle in the cabinet under the sink. Go get it, Cheri, I have much to tell you." She waited patiently while Anne returned to the table and, breaking the seal on the neck, set the fresh bottle between their glasses, and then slipped expectantly into her seat. Kate refilled Anne's glass and then her own, ceremoniously, taking her time and allowing Anne's anticipation to grow, and then, she recapped the bottle and set it aside. Kate lifted her glass and extended her hand toward Anne in the proffer of a toast, and when Anne brought her glass to hers, she said, "To l'amour, mon Cheri, may it fill your days with unending happiness and your nights with unimaginable pleasure." "To love," Anne replied, humoring the old woman by taking a generous sip from her glass, because, in truth, she could not imagine a relationship that was capable of fulfilling that benediction. "It all began so long ago when I was just a girl, not really unlike yourself, and he was older, but tall and grand, with the strength of a bull and an insatiable passion," she began in low steady tones, and, by the time she had finished, Anne was agog and the second bottle of cognac was nearly empty. It was as though the old courtesan had found in Anne a kindred spirit, or perhaps a transgenerational bridge from the past to the future over which she could vicariously pass to savor once again the sweet nectar of l'amour. Perhaps, Anne thought in the days that followed, she was seeking immortality like the heroines of eons past whose glorious loves found life everlasting in the oft-told tales of oral historians. Or, maybe, she was passing the wisdom of the ages to her understudy in the guise of personal experiences. Whatever her purpose may have been in revealing herself so completely, Anne paid full homage to her gift by duly noting and faithfully recording every word on the chalkboard of her memory. "He actually brought young Hiram with him when he came to see you?" Anne gasped incredulously about half way through the old woman's tale. "Oui, he did, and the boy would wait in the parlor and play games with les femmes while I entertained his father in the rooms upstairs." "But, but," Anne sputtered, "when did he, I mean, how did he?" "Ah," Kate smiled wickedly, and Anne could see the warm glow of seduction in the old woman's eyes. "So you want to know how I came to feel the prick of young Hiram's sweet dart of love, n'est pas?" "Oui!" Anne gushed excitedly and refilled her empty glass and Kate's. She leaned forward expectantly and held her breath, waiting for the tale to resume. "His father brought him up the stairs one day and into my boudoir. He said to me, 'The boy's too old to sit in the parlor with a bunch of whores, while his daddy fucks the night away upstairs, and besides it's time he learns a few things that you can teach him better than I can, Kate.'" "Oh!" Anne gasped with a blush of excited interest. Her eyes widened and she took another sip of cognac. "And so, he led him to the chair beside the bed, and he watched his pappa take out his prick and put it into my mouth, and, while I sucked him, his pappa told him how wonderful it felt to fuck a woman in the mouth. Then, his pappa came, and when he did so, he pushed my face away so young Hiram could see the flood of his semen, and I held my mouth open for him, so the boy could know how a woman yearns for the taste of her lover's cum." "God," Anne groaned appreciatively and a tremor of déjà vu swept through her limbs. "And then, he positioned me on my back with my legs in the air, and he called the boy over and had him kneel on the floor beside the bed, and he opened my cunt lips for him to look inside and he said, 'This is pussy, son. Your cock goes in here, just like this, and you fuck like this till you cum.' And so, while the boy knelt by the bed, his father showed him how to fuck," No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 26 "Oh, Lord," Anne moaned at the image. "Did he?" "Oui, Cheri. After that, he brought the boy often, and always the boy sat in the chair and watched and listened to the sounds of our faire l'amour, and I could see that he would be playing with himself and squirming in the seat, and so, I said to his pappa, 'Why are you being so cruel to the boy, Hiram? Can you not see his misery?' So, after he had finished cuming and no longer was screaming, 'I'm cuming, Kate,' he called the boy over to the bed and asked him what was bothering him, but the boy couldn't speak or even raise his eyes to look at us, so Hiram withdrew his dripping prick from my pussy and said to the boy and me, 'Look, you two, I'm going downstairs for a drink. I'll be back in an hour or so, and while I'm gone, Hiram, you mind what Miss Kate tells you 'cause she knows more about mendin' misery like yours than any woman alive.'" "Did you?" Anne blurted out as she squirmed in her seat and crossed her legs to contain her excitement. "Oui, but of course. When his pappa had shut the door, I called the boy to the bed, and I lay back with my hands behind my head and told him to touch me where he wanted, and, when he touched me, I told him how good it felt and how much I enjoyed it. He touched my breasts and pulled my nipples with his little fingers and I had to close my eyes, my dear, to keep from snatching him into the bed with me. He played so long I thought he had fallen in love with my breasts, but the clock was ticking and I knew his pappa would return soon, so I said to him, 'Don't you want to feel my pussy too, Hiram?' And then, I showed him how to put his fingers inside me, and suddenly he was making me cum and I pulled his face down and kissed his mouth and told him how good his fingers felt in my cunt. I had to rest a minute after that, and he looked so miserable that I reached for him and said, 'May I take your prick out and hold it, Hiram?' but he couldn't answer me, and little tears were running down his cheeks, so I unfastened his pants and pushed them to his knees and his little cock was hard and pointing at me. I put my hand on him to touch him and he staggered against the bedside, so I pulled him closer to let him steady himself against the bed with his cock just above the sheets, and I jacked him off like little boys do for themselves in the night, only I don't think he knew then how to do it, so I instructed him. It didn't take many strokes, ten or less, and then, he was trembling and moaning, so I said to him, 'Hiram, I would like to suck your cock and taste your cum. Will you let me?' I could feel his heart racing in his little dick, and his eyes were closed so tightly that I don't think he heard me, because he didn't answer, so I put my mouth on him and took him in to lick him just as his cum started to flow." "Ummmm," Anne moaned sympathetically as she reached for her glass again so she would have something to swallow. "After that," Kate continued, "it was the same for several years; after pappa had finished, he would leave me alone with young Hiram, and I would teach the boy what I knew of l'amour. In time, the boy became Hiram the man and his pappa grew old and less vigorous, so they exchanged roles and the pappa watched the son from the chair, only watching didn't make pappa miserable like it would have when he was younger, so when the young one finished they would leave and go home together. Eventually, the old Judge grew too weak and feeble to climb the stairs, so, after that, young Hiram came alone." "How long?" Anne gasped in awe. "Every night, till the month before he died, Cheri; but of course, he was not the stallion of his early years, but then, I was not the filly I was before, either, so we mainly talked of the old days and sipped the Chardonnay till he thought it safe to go home." "My God," Anne muttered in disbelief. "Cheri, you don't believe me. You think these are just the dreams of a lonely old woman, n'est pas?" "No, no, I believe you, I guess," she protested. "It's just such a fantastic story." "Come wis me, you'll see; then you'll believe old Kate," the old lady muttered struggling to rise from her chair. Anne followed her up the stairs, catching her elbow when she staggered near the landing at the top, and helped her to the entrance to her boudoir. Kate pushed open the double doors revealing a massive, canopied, Louis XIV bed with ruffled pink coverlet and a mountain of pillows. "Zere, do you see? Zere's the bed where it happened, just as I said," Kate exclaimed triumphantly as if the bed's mute testimony was all the proof her tale required. "My God," Anne gasped as she looked around the lavishly ornate quarters, "I've never seen anything like it, Kate." "Eet captures zee grandeur of Versailles, n'est pas." "Oui, it sure does that," Anne sputtered in agreement as she gaped at the splendor. "And, here's zee proof of vat I told you, come," she said, throwing open the doors to her closet and stepping inside. Anne followed, and to her astonishment, for she fully anticipated the space to be crammed with a collection of ladies' fashions, all she could see were a half dozen nearly identical pink silk robes occupying a tiny space and, filling the balance, rack after rack of men's clothes, with a row of men's shoes and boots along the floor and piles of neatly stacked, starched and folded white men's shirts on the shelves above. "You see?" Kate cried, pirouetting within the narrow aisle with her arms widespread to encompass her collection. "Hees clothes are here. Hees suits, hees shirts and trousers, and, here, look here, hees, uh, how you say 'les cravates,' uh, oui, neckties." "My God, Kate, did all this stuff belong to Caleb's daddy?" "Oui, and zere's more. Do you want to see hees underwear and hees brush for the teeth?" "No," Anne laughed. "I've seen enough; I'm convinced." Then, to Anne's surprise, the old woman took her by the hand and said soberly, "Come, I have zee special thing to show you." Anne allowed herself to be led to a massive bureau across the room from the closet, and she watched expectantly as the old woman bent to open the bottom drawer. Inside, as the drawer opened, Anne could see a bundle that had been carefully wrapped in white tissue paper. Kate lifted the bundle from the drawer and carried it almost reverently to her bed. She laid it down and carefully pulled the wrapping away. Gradually, she uncovered what appeared to be a carefully folded sheet or skirt made of heavy, deep crimson fabric. Once she had it uncovered, Kate lifted it from the paper and, holding it in front of her, gently shook the folds out. "What is it?" Anne gulped as the garment revealed itself. "It's hees toge," Kate replied in a hushed voice like she was sharing a dark secret. "Zee one he wore in court." "His 'robe?' You don't mean it," Anne exclaimed. "Oui, hees 'robe.' See, it has hees name embroidered in zee back," she answered, turning the garment and holding it for Anne to see. "Made for Hiram A. Montcastle, III, by Tribunal Judicial Wear, March 1974," Anne read aloud from the inscription. "My God, Kate," she gasped, "why do you have it?" "Hiram brought eet to me ven he vas sick. He knew he vas dying. He told me to keep eet, and to give eet to young Caleb, but only eef he grows to manhood and I think he ees man enough to fill eet." "And, you still have it," Anne observed quietly. "Oui, eet ees still here, but I think your Caleb has grown since zat day." "So, you think he's finally ready to fill his daddy's shoes? Is that it?" "No, Cheri, zat ees not eet," Kate replied lapsing into her thick accent. "Hees pappa vas a great man; he vas a great juge, but, of course, but he vas also a great lover. Hees passion for zee law, eet ran free een zee courtroom, but he also had zee passion for moi zat he let run free here een zee boudoir. So far, your Caleb has shown passion only for zee law, and, because of zat, he remains in zee shadow of his pappa. I sink it ees for you to bring him into zee light, Cheri." "For me!" Anne exclaimed, pointing to herself doubtfully. "Oui," Kate nodded. "I sink you are the one to do eet." "How can I do that?" "Ah, Cheri, you know zis; men are like zee formless piece of clay, which vee mold into zee shapes that please us most. As I did wis hees pappa, you veel do wis zee son." "It's a little late in the game for that, don't you think? I mean, Caleb's not like Hiram was when you got your hands on him; he's grown up. I expect he's already had all the molding he'll sit still for." "Less than you think, Cheri; much less." "Even so, Kate, how's this molding supposed to happen? He hasn't even called me in days." "Go to heem; go tonight while hee ees at work and show to heem zere are seengs in hees life to devote heemself to that are better for heem zan zee law." "Oh, cool, Kate," Anne shrugged, nearly dismissing the advice. "How am I supposed to show him that?" "By taking thees robe to heem and telling heem it ees your Christmas gift to heem. He vill know vhat zat means, I assure you." "He'll want to know where I got it, won't he?" "But of course, Cheri; and you veel tell heem what ever you wish, but while you are telling heem, you veel pose for heem een such a way as to let heem see your curves somptueux, and zen, well, you know zee nature of men." "My God, Kate, you are shameless," Anne laughed. "You're telling me to go up there and seduce the Judge." "Oui!" Kate smiled without apology. "Wis some men, you must, ah, uh…." "Take the initiative?" Anne volunteered, finishing the sentence. "Oui, yes, that's it; 'take zee initiative.' So eet ees when your man has hees nose stuck in zee law book, and eet's hees deek you want to be stuck someplace else; zen you must do somesing to geet hees attention." "Oh, brother," Anne moaned. "I think you've been talking to Yosemite Sam about me." "Sam? Who ees zis 'Sam?' I do not know 'Sam.'" "Just an acquaintance of mine," Anne giggled. "He agrees with you; keeps saying I need to do crude." "What ees 'crude?'" "You know, Kate; brazen, forward, uh, sultry and seductive," Anne explained, demonstrating with a couple of undulating steps. "Oui! seduisant" squealed Kate excitedly thrusting Hiram's robe into Anne's hands. "Your friend ees right; vous mus do zee promenade provocant. You show heem zee cunt, and he'll forget zee case." "Oh Lord," Anne sighed in resignation as she began folding tissue around the robe. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 27... "To what?" she asked expectantly, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. "To you, for starters," he replied almost giddily. "You look just, just, ah, stunning." "Why, thank you, sir," she beamed, but her eyes never left his face and her glass remained just out of his reach, and she continued, "But, I usually don't toast myself." "You ought to make an exception tonight, my dear, you look good enough to, uh, ah…" "You are sweet," she laughed, cutting off his search for an appropriate comparative. "It's my Christmas outfit; Miss Kate, said I looked pretty enough to hang on her Christmas tree, if she had one, but I think she'd had too much cognac." "Trust me," he said solemnly, letting his eyes drift from her face to her torso and linger at the red stripe that was girdling her hips, "It wasn't the cognac talking." "Ya think?" she responded, widening her eyes innocently. "Yeah, I think," he nodded emphatically, mentally comparing her favorably to every Cosmopolitan cover-girl that he had lecherously admired over the years. "And, I'll tell you something else I think; you're collecting admirers all over town, so you might as well go ahead and add my name to your list." She glanced modestly down at her glass and set the liquor in motion with a twitch of her wrist. She studied the swirling vortex as it climbed toward the rim and then gradually subsided, and distantly she heard the faint ticking of a clock. "I'll drink to that, Caleb Montcastle," she said softly, and, as she tapped her glass against his, she raised her eyes to his face with a look as searing as the peat fires that had seasoned her scotch. Her eyes held his, and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. A hot flush of anxious attraction crept across his cheeks, and he felt a disoriented queasiness like the horizon wasn't quite where it should be. His hand shook with a noticeable tremor as he raised his glass to his lips, and she smiled at him over the rim of her glass. Her closeness compressed his chest and drove the wind from his lungs, and, even before the warm tongues of scotch began licking his brain, her sensuous aura had intoxicated him. "And, to Christmas," he managed to mutter rapturously after she had taken a sip. "Yes, to Christmas," she said warmly, still looking into his eyes, and she took a second, tiny sip. "And to, re-elect Al Gore in two thousand and four," he grinned, thankful to have retained the cognitive function to think of an even better reason to imbibe. "Now, THAT, I will drink to, you naughty rascal," she quickly laughed, and she clinked her glass against his and took an enthusiastic gulp. "Whew," she exhaled heavily, exhausting the superheated air from her lungs after the scotch had done its damage. "Do you always try to get to a girl through her politics?" "Almost never," he laughed, sheepishly watching as she wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. "Especially not around Posey's Bend. All we have here is greedy, self-absorbed Republican women, and all they care about, besides tax cuts, of course, is presents, the more expensive, the better." "All girls like presents, Caleb," she pointed out evenly after regaining her composure. "Yeah, but not like Posey's Bend girls," he answered winding himself up. "They don't want, uh, ah," he suddenly began stammering, his eyes widened, and he got that deer in the headlights look again. "I, uh, oh…, damn, Christmas presents." "What about `Christmas presents?'" she asked, prodding him gently. "Your Christmas present; I forgot to buy it," he answered dejectedly. "You didn't need to buy me a Christmas present, Caleb; you've already done more than I can ever thank you for." "But, it's Christmas, everybody's supposed to get a present at Christmas," he protested boyishly. "I am alive and safe and I have a job, thanks to you; you've given me plenty already." "Yeah, well, that stuff hardly passes for a present wrapped up under the tree," he grumbled with embarrassment. "It does for me," she said smiling, and then, she continued, "And, besides that, Judge Caleb Montcastle, how about you tellin' me about all the presents under YOUR tree this Christmas." "Wellllllll," he began slowly, like he was mentally compiling a lengthy list of benefactors, "Mildred gave me another tin of her homemade peanut brittle, same as last year." "That was thoughtful." "Yeah." "And, good too, I bet; I love peanut brittle." "You don't want any part of this peanut brittle; not unless you want your teeth broken out or stuck together till Easter." "That bad?" "Yes, that bad; I have six Christmases worth hidden up there on the top shelf of my closet. I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do with it unless I decide to repave the driveway." "Poor boy," she said smiling provocatively. "I have a present for you." "Yeah? What kind of present?" he asked skeptically, letting his eyes scour her lush curves hunting for hints, while he cursed the day he ceased believing in Santa Claus. "One that will surprise you, I think," she said smiling at his appreciative examination. "But, I don't have it on me, silly; it's out in the hall." "Why'd you leave it out there?" he asked puzzled and a little disappointed because his searching eyes had fastened hopefully on an area of her skirt just a few inches below her belt buckle. "I wanted to know what kind of mood you were in, first." He was ogling her openly, and she felt her loins warming under his gaze. "And, I passed?" he asked in surprise, unaware that he had been tested. "You passed; it was close, but you passed," she teased him over her shoulder as she turned. She knew his eyes were following her, so she slowed her step and let her hips sway enticingly as she picked her way with undue care. Her barely covered buttocks rolled with each step as she maneuvered toward the exit. She heard him huffing and puffing behind her and half-expected him to be following her into the hall. "That Kate knows him pretty good, don't she, kid?" Billy chuckled tauntingly "Shake that pretty ass of yours a couple more times and he'll be chargin' like 'zee bull,' n'est pas?" She returned quickly, carrying the package in front of her with both hands. On the way, she bumped a stack of books and two of them toppled onto the floor. "Oh, clumsy me," she muttered stooping to replace the books, and he was treated to a staggering display of cleavage. Her full breasts dangled like a pair of inverted mountains only it was not snow that crowned their glory but ruddy discs and tiny elongated nipples that pierced her sweater like towering summits puncturing the stratosphere. "Here," she breathed softly, breaking the silence that hung in the air even after she rose and caught him leading an expedition through her Himalayas, "Merry Christmas, Caleb. He tore his eyes from her chest and accepted the package. He placed it on his desk and began carefully loosening the paper wrapping as though he was intent on saving it. In a moment he had the wrapping spread open; the robe, carefully folded with the collar on top, was perfectly centered like a square of congealed blood on a field of starkly white paper. He bent toward the robe, moving closer to better read the inscription, and she could feel the tension building like stale air in the room. He paused, head bowed, for what seemed forever, leaning on his desk with palms to either side of the garment. He made no move to pick it up or even touch it, and behind her the clock ticked, pinging like a hammer striking a chisel, in the pregnant silence. "Ahah," he thought, remembering Gandalf's words from The Lord of the Ring, "That which was lost has been found," and he looked at the garment reverentially. It is a peculiarity of mankind that great men's possessions sometimes are imbued with near mystical properties, as though the worth of the man could be distilled and his essence infused into the object so that the man and the possession would become one. Thus, representing all that was meritorious, or notorious, in the original owner, like King Arthur's Excalibur or John Dillinger's harmless wooden revolver, the object becomes a talisman, which is capable of transferring those attributes, good and bad, to subsequent holders. He looked at the folds and creases and could almost hear his father's voice, resonant with authority and self-confidence, exhorting him in this very office, as he put on the very robe that was now lying impotently on the desk. "The robe is the power, son; it cloaks the man so that all that remains to be seen is the power and the majesty of the Law. When I put on this robe, I become the Law incarnate, boy, the embodiment of the might and authority of the Law. I wear this to direct the events of men's lives, Caleb, often, how they will live, and, occasionally, when and how they will die, and, when I'm wearing the robe, Hiram Augustus Montcastle, the Fourth, no longer exists; his likes and dislikes, his wants, desires and prejudices no longer hold sway, for then, under the full weight of the robe, Truth, Justice and the Law are the only things that matter. Some day, if you truly accept the wisdom of what I am telling you and you prove yourself to be worthy of the honor, you may be chosen to wear a robe like this." "It's magenta," he muttered distantly, not speaking directly to her. "Excuse me?" she asked not knowing what to make of the observation. "The color," he said, explaining, "it's magenta. Most people called it 'red' or 'crimson' but he always said it was 'magenta'; the color of dried blood that reminded him of the sacrifices that were made by all those who defended the Declaration of Independence." "It must have been very important to him," she responded quietly, but even as she spoke, Danny Devito was elbowing his way to the podium and shouting, "Jeez, kid, you talk about your `pretentious bastards'; this bird-brain's old man must have been one for the record books. Would you just listen to that crap about wearing a dress that reminded him of dried blood. Yech. The thought makes me wanta puke." "She's told you everything, hasn't she?" he asked, glancing up to her face. "Most of it, I suppose; we didn't talk all that long, actually." She held his gaze serenely, with a nonjudgmental look that suggested that she didn't intend to hold the son responsible for the sins of the father. "My mother and father…" he began. "Caleb," she injected, interrupting, "they're not important. What matters is that you have the robe; it's yours now." He fingered the garment for a moment, stroking the heavy cloth between his thumb and forefinger tentatively as a sinner seeking salvation might touch his savior's passing robe, and then he turned and walked to the window. He stood, silently staring into the cold night sky as the clock ticked toward Christmas, and she felt his uncertainty and her heart ached for him. Finally, without turning to look at her he gave voice to his doubts. "I wonder if she really thinks I'm ready to have that," he said gesturing blindly behind him toward the robe, "or if she's just run out of time." "She says you're ready, Caleb." Her voice was soft and smooth as the cashmere cupping her full breasts. "She's dying. Of cancer." "I know." "She probably won't last through the winter." "I know. She stopped taking her medicine two days ago, because it was making her hair fall out." "Dammit," he swore, and his breath fogged a spot on the windowpane. "I knew she would do that; couldn't you do something to make her take it?" "It wasn't my choice to make, Caleb; she has the right to die with dignity," she said quietly. "Well, why did she wait so damn long and pick tonight to give it to me?" he questioned, turning from the window to face her, and his anguish had deepened the lines in his forehead. "She said 'you first had to discover the man within the robe.'" "What the hell did she mean by that? Did she say?" His bewilderment mingled with his anguish to cloud his features. "She said you would know, or could figure it out in time." "That's cryptic enough for anybody," he grumbled. She smiled at him over the rim of her glass but withheld further explanation. "So what am I supposed to do now?" he asked shrugging indecisively. "If it were mine," she replied, catching a droplet of scotch on the lip of her glass with the tip of her finger and placing it in her mouth, "I would try it on to see if it fits." It was a coquettish thing to do, she knew, because it inflamed boys' fantasies to see a girl put her finger in her mouth, but she closed her puckered lips around her fingertip and looked brazenly into his eyes. "What? Here, now?" he exclaimed, shaking his head doubtfully, as he stared distractedly at her wetly emerging finger. "Sure, here and now," she replied. "You've been waiting, what, eight, ten years to get your hands on it; why wait?" "It's been a while," he acknowledged reaching to touch the garment again. "Then you need to put it on, Caleb," she whispered forcefully, and as she spoke she reached across his desk and slid the robe from under his fingers. "Here," she continued, shaking out the folds and holding it in front of her like a bullfighter's cape, "I'll help you put it on." "I feel a little silly," he complained as she helped him slip his arms into the sleeves and then smoothed the fabric across his shoulders. "That's because you don't have it on, yet. Zip it up and then see how you feel." "It buttons," he corrected. "He had it made with buttons because zippers weren't traditional enough for him." "Button it, then," she responded, accepting the correction, while she pushed his shoulders to turn him around to face her. His fingers fumbled awkwardly with the unfamiliar buttons, gradually fastening each one till he reached the collar where the tiny, concealed clasp defeated his efforts. "Come here," she said smiling at his difficulty, "Let me help." And she raised on her toes and leaned her head toward him, while her fingers tugged his collar into position and secured the closure. He closed his eyes and felt her closeness in the pores of his skin. Her fingers touched him lightly, caressingly, slipping between the collar and his neck to marry the button with its loop, and he flirted with the impulse to sweep her into his arms and kiss her prettily pouting lips. The soft scent of her perfume came to him on the gentle sound of her laughter as she struggled with the button, and he felt the initial swirl of delirious dizziness. Her breasts jiggled with the movement of her arms and the dark circles of her nipples danced under the thin concealment of her sweater. The fulsome, rounded bulge of her bosom and its deep crease of cleavage drew him to her, and he sensed the awakening of the man within the robe. He lifted his chin out of the way of her fingers letting his arms dangle by his sides, and he felt like a child being dressed for play in the snow. "There," she said with satisfaction, and when he opened his eyes to look at her, she smiled and quickly brushed her fingers thorough his hair, saying, "Judges ought not go around looking like Carrot Top." "Well?" he asked self-consciously after she moved back a couple of steps and cast a critical eye over him. "What do you think?" "I'd say it was just about a perfect fit. How does it feel?" "Weird," he replied honestly. "It feels like I've put on somebody else's skin." "You haven't; it's your skin now, remember?" she answered thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess you're right." "I am right." "Maybe, but I feel like a fool right now." "Why? You don't look like a fool." "All dressed up and no place to go, I guess," he mumbled, flapping the full skirt of his robe like a distraught matron. "Where's your courtroom?" she asked. "I want to see it?" "What for?" he asked doubtfully. "Just curious," she said casually. "I've been wanting to see where it is you do your thing." "In that case," he laughed, "where I do my thing is right through that door." "Really!" she exclaimed excitedly, and, grabbing his hand, she said "Come on, then; show it to me," and tugged him toward the door. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 28... "Why, all of them, Your Honor," she giggled even more suggestively, swinging her bare foot back and forth, and she took a sip of scotch to give her lips something tangible to hold on to, but her eyes calmly studied his reaction with canny anticipation. "All of them? You've been a busy girl, haven't you?" he joked uneasily, because his mind was already on a slippery slope. "Well, maybe just all of the carnal ones; they're my specialty, you know." She was swinging her nude foot and purring like Mae West delivering the line, "Why don't you come up and see me some time, big boy," and the effect on Caleb was similar to what she might expect had she simply lifted her sweater and flashed her titties at him. "My, my," he grinned salaciously. Beads of sweat were beginning to sprout on his forehead. "That is intriguing; I'm sure hearing about those sins would make for a very, very interesting trial, my dear." He was leaning toward her, leering at her over the parapet of the bench like a peeping Tom at a bedroom window, and she could see his eyes tracking the motion of her leg. His fingers twirled the head of his gavel furiously, spinning the shaft inside his fist with such vigor that she half-expected to see smoke from the friction rising at any moment. She had brought him this far with seemingly innocent banter and deceptively casual poses, she reasoned, so she determined it was time to turn up the heat a notch to see how he would respond. This dangling of the double entendre in front of her quarry's nose to see if he would bite was the sort of prelude to foreplay that she found both thrilling and deliciously tantalizing. Tempt him with a notion that is at once both innocent and risqué and let him choose the direction he wishes to follow. It was an especially helpful tactic in the seduction of the timid, because it kept open the door open to innocuous escape should fear overcome the allure of titillation. "Trials take too long, I think, so I'll spare you the bother; I'll just plead guilty," she laughed with a throaty, seductive chuckle, and she drew back her shoulders, testing the fortitude of her sweater. "I'll just throw myself on the mercy of the Court and hope for the best." Poor Caleb, of course, hadn't a ghost of a chance nor a choice either, because when she punctuated her suggestion by thrusting her breasts toward him, all he really heard was something about throwing herself on him, and right then and there his libido took his rudder from him. From that point he couldn't have steered his responses toward innocence even if all his ancestors and the entire Holy family had been watching him from the front row of the spectators' gallery. "Well," he began, trying to sound imperious with a voice that was on the verge of squeaking, "I don't know if throwing yourself on the Court's mercy is such a good trial strategy, you know? Maybe the Court's a little short of mercy just now and you should think of something, ah, more, ah, persuasive, before the Court passes sentence." "Oh, gee, Sir, pass sentence? This is all so unfamiliar and strange; what's a poor girl to do?" she fretted, giving an unconvincing performance of apprehension. But then, even as she pretended to be flustered, she took heed of Coach Devito's advice to "See him and raise him one," and she continued, "Do you think I could get off quicker for good behavior?" "Well, now, oh my, 'get off for good behavior?'" he puffed, rocking back on his heels, as it were, like he had just been handed an opinion that reversed one of his proudest judicial accomplishments. She glanced down at her lap demurely, excusing him for the moment to fashion his response without the added burden of her scrutiny, and, while her head was bowed, she suddenly lifted her hem as though she had noticed on her skirt a blemish the size of Nebraska that required a closer inspection. The rusted springs supporting his ancient chair shrieked in protest as he lunged back and forth and side to side, rolling about frantically to gain a vantage point from which to view the blemish, or something under it, for himself. He cursed the darkness and the shadows that, no matter where he turned, left him with only a view of the tops of her thighs disappearing under her lifted hem like a shining highway entering an unlighted tunnel. His libido tightened its grip on the tiller of his intentions and steered a course straight toward the mouth of the tunnel. "I think you might get off with the right kind of behavior, young lady," he finally resumed, raising the ante to her with a sizeable stack of chips. "But I ought to warn you that in this courtroom, good behavior might even get you a stiffer sentence." "Oh my, oh my," she twittered anxiously to conceal her delight at how quickly the talk was turning overtly bawdy. "It's all so confusing; getting off with good behavior, but getting a stiffer sentence on account of it, too. I just don't know what to think." She paused, looking distraught with indecision, and her fingertips distractedly stroked the satin skin of her inner thigh, high up near where the shadows fell, and then, she looked up at him with sad, innocent eyes and asked, "Will I have to do hard time, too?" "Absolutely, the hardest there is; I'm certain of it," he grunted, eagerly confirming her expectations. He had some reason to be certain on that account because the heat under his robe was building like a tent on fire. "How long will it be, then?" she inquired impishly, sensing that the ruse of apparent innocence had served its purpose. "How long will what be?" he responded in search of further commitment from her. "Why, sir, my stiff sentence, of course," she breathed huskily in a tone that was calculated to allay any residual doubt that she and his libido were on intersecting courses. "Long enough for you to feel it, I expect," he answered quickly, impulsively taking her cue, but then, he retreated some by explaining, "To make a memorable impression, you know; you'll need to remember it afterwards, otherwise there's no point to it." "Oh sir," she wailed, "A long sentence seems so harsh and cruel, but I suppose my punishment must fit my crimes." She put her hands together on her lap, since that's where his eyes were already riveted, and wrung them to show him the state of her distress. "That's not the objective, ma'am," he corrected, unconsciously slamming his gavel to the hilt in the tight sheath of his fist. "We try to make the sentence fit the defendant, not the crime." "So, you think your stiff sentence will be long enough to fit me just right, Your Honor?" she asked him pointedly while lifting her glass to her lips and watching him steadily as that question built up some steam in his mind. "Yes, ma'am; I'm counting on it," he answered with a flurry of anticipatory fidgets. "How's it looking right now?" she inquired brazenly, straightening her back and acting like she was trying to see over his bench, and she took another sip of scotch. "Your sentence?" He asked pointlessly, verbally fencing with her to postpone the moment of truth. "Yes," she breathed heavily, exhaling over the rim of her glass. "It's about as long and stiff as it can get," he reported, swiveling his chair a quarter revolution so she wouldn't see him blushing. "Oh my," she grinned with no attempt to camouflage her interest. "When can I, er, I mean, do I begin serving my sentence, Judge?" she continued with a deliberate slip of the tongue. "Immediately, Miss; that's the way we operate here. You receive your sentence and you have to begin serving it right away." His voice had an urgent quality to it that told her that, if her sentence was to be hanging, the noose would already be over the limb. "Gracious," she gasped, seizing upon his urgency. "I better get started serving my stiff sentence, then, shouldn't I?" "I think that would be a very good idea," he agreed quickly, but he just kept rocking in his chair and made no move toward her. "But, sir, how will I know when I'm done serving my sentence?" she asked, resuming with an affectation of coyness to keep him on the hot seat. "Trust me, Miss, you'll be able to tell that for yourself, and it won't come as any surprise to you, either," he answered, throwing caution nearly to the wind. "Oooo, Judge," she gushed at his ribaldry. "Do you promise the end of my stiff sentence won't come as a surprise?" The way she repeated his words just about finished him off, but for good measure, while she spoke them, she pretended to fish around in her glass for a speck of foreign matter, and when she stopped talking, she stuck her scotch coated finger into her mouth and fixed her sultry gaze on him while she sucked on it. "You have my personal guarantee on it, young lady," he said, groaning and partly rising from his chair in a sort of reactive spasm. "Well, if you're certain," she began, teasing him along with maddening indecision. Then, because she had about exhausted the supply of legal terms that she could corrupt to her purposes and her watching fans had suddenly stopped relaying helpful suggestions through Billy and Danny, she loosed one of the few remaining arrows from her quiver of double entendres, and told him, "But I don't know if I should go down so easily, you know, not putting up much of a defense and all." "A-hah," he snorted derisively, like he had been expecting her to change her plea at the last minute. "So you're just like all the rest of the sinners around here. The minute your cell door clangs shut behind you and you get a little taste of your sentence, you're going to start complaining that you plead guilty on bad advice and asking for a new trial." "Oh, no, sir," she protested, waving her wetted finger at him. "It's not that at all; it would take a lot more than a little taste of my sentence to scare me off. It's just that I had some motions that I was hoping to make, you know, in my defense. Maybe after I've made them, my sentence will be reduced." "Motions? What kind of motions?" he sputtered reluctantly. He, of course, had been mentally sizing her up all along and had her figured to be a perfectly snug fit for the sentence he was hoping to give her, so any reduction was pretty much out of the question. "I already got enough folks around here saying I'm going soft on crime without me reducing your sentence on account of some motion, for Pete's sake." "'Going soft?'" she giggled in spite of herself. "Oh, sir, I'm sure that whatever long, stiff sentence you come up with, it will have everybody saying you gave me just what I needed." "Wellllllllllll," he harrumphed again, stroking his chin thoughtfully like he was weighing the pros and cons of a crucial decision. "I hope you're right about that. I guess a motion or two wouldn't be out of order under the circumstances. Let's hear what you got." "May I approach the bench, your Honor?" she asked, kicking off her remaining shoe and running her finger around the neckline of her sweater like, all of a sudden, it wasn't showing enough cleavage and needed a little stretching. "My motions aren't very persuasive if you entertain them from so far away." "Well, ah, uh, sure," he stammered, leaning across the bench in preparation for another display of bosom, but she had already started moving toward him without waiting for permission, and she wasn't headed for the space directly in front him where his side-bars with lawyers usually took place, either. Instead, she was circling around the witness box toward the steps behind the bench. She moved toward him with measured slowness, but every step was purposeful and exuded the confidence that only the certainty of success permits. He felt a quick tightening in his chest and his heart went into a state of fibrillation that progressed from mild to severe as she undulated toward him through the gloom. His hands shook and he dropped his gavel on the desk because he feared he couldn't hold it steady. On the inside, his nerves felt tremulous, like he had overdosed on caffeine, and his stomach churned. A sense of breathlessness, akin to oxygen starvation, nearly overcame him, but he remembered Pearly Whitcome's panic attacks, which only responded to deep breathing into a paper-bag for twenty minutes or so, and he was determined to avoid that humiliation. He blinked, and bent to look under the bench to make sure his shoes were matched, and, when he looked up, she was there, standing beside his chair, looking at him with a sort of half smile on her lips and a sultry glow in her eyes that reminded him of the way Diane Thornberry had looked at him that time in the barn when she offered to let him pet her. He gulped and blinked and shuffled his feet and tried to think of something really cool and clever to say to her, but he never was much good at thinking up stuff when someone was standing over him, so he found himself at a loss for words. "Did you mean it?" she asked him with a Siren's voice strong enough to shipwreck a thousand ships like Homer's. "Mean it?" he asked, dazzled to incomprehension by her proximity. "The compliment. When I was looking at the windows." "Oh, God, yes," he answered, the words bursting out of his mouth on a rush of inspired wind. "That's only a tenth of it." "Well, why didn't you say so before? Lord knows, you had plenty of opportunities." "I didn't want you to feel like you were being taken for granted." "Ah-hah! Clarence's report." "Something like that." "So, you're waiting for me to make the first move?" "Well," he shrugged, smiling with the wan look of the guilty. "I just thought you were shy." "I am shy," he muttered shyly, adding, "Especially when it comes to beautiful, desirable women." "Do you think I'm a desirable woman, Caleb Montcastle?" Her eyes burned through him and her pitch was low and sultry and soft as the rustle of silk sheets. His chin dropped and his eyes darted away from hers to begin a careful study of his robed knees. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair like he was riding a wheelchair in an uncontrolled descent down an impossibly steep grade. The closer they came to "Truth," the more he felt like a vise was tightening on his chest. "Yes," he wheezed with the last air in his lungs. "Is that all?" "No." "Well?" "I, I," he stammered ineffectively. "Caleb! Look at me," she said in a voice that was insistent and gentle, like a hand steering a child from harm's way. He lifted his face and squinted into her eyes. They were soft and tender, but they sparkled with the promise of things he feared were beyond his worth. Then, her eyelids fluttered, and she studied him through half closed eyes, while his heart tried to establish a cadence he could live with. She reached to put her hand on his shoulder, and he felt a compelling need to fan himself with the hem of his father's robe. "Really look at me, Caleb," she insisted when his eyes fastened on the point of her chin. He gulped once, then again, as her will asserted itself upon him. The revered history of his surroundings yielded to the weight of her fingers on his shoulder, and his gaze dropped from her face to pour ravenously over her sumptuously sculpted curves. Her sensuous lines converged, diverged and merged in his consciousness like brush strokes on a Rubens canvas, and he trembled with the desire to touch her. "Well?" she said when he reached her bare feet and his eyes lingered upon her toes. "Does the man inside the robe have anything else to say to me?" "He thinks you are the most desirable woman he's ever seen." "Then, tell him I'm waiting for him to prove it, Caleb," she said with hushed urgency. The next few moments fused in a blur of murky memories, and in the weeks and months that followed, try as he might to reconstruct the event, he could recall nothing but staring at her feet at one minute and, in the next, being swept away on a wave of delirious wonder as she suddenly appeared in his arms with her face upturned, offering her lips to him. Their lips touched as her soft curves molded themselves to his angles and edges, and for the first time, he tasted the indescribable sweetness of her opening mouth. Her aura, tinged with the exuberant hues of her passion, flowed about him, surrounding and enveloping him like mother's milk warmed in the breast, as her tongue found his in the vast emptiness of his longing. Mouths opening, lips churning, tongues entwining, fingers kneading, they bridged the cosmic void and blended, one into the other, like fine lines of script on wetted parchment. They touched, and the prurient obsessions that he had restrained by the unremitting compression of his reticence exploded like Sultana's boilers in a spray of scalding steam. "Oh, Anne, Anne, Anne," he moaned in a lament of wasted opportunity. "I've wanted you so much." "Caleb," she sighed eagerly, lifting on tiptoes to welcome his probing tongue and flattening her breasts in the pleats of his robe. "I want you, too; right now, right here! Don't make me wait." Her arms circled his neck. The hem of her sweater rose and his fingers burned with the touch of her bare skin. They spread, moving unimpeded along her spine, across the strapless expanse of her back to her shoulder blades, and he held her, feeling the quickening rise and fall of her breath under his hands. "Touch me," she hissed hotly, and she leaned back so his hands could follow her ribs to her front. His hands slid over satin skin to cup and lift her heavy globes. Nipples, turgid with the electric discharge of her need, rolled stiffly under his thumbs, and she gasped her pleasure in a string of tiny sighs as he caressed her flesh. Lessons learned and lost, relearned and lost again, came swirling into his mind on the whirlwind of his passion, and he milked her rubbery nipples with his thumbs and fingers. "Oh, Caleb, that feels good," she gurgled as he tugged her points, and he lifted her sweater to expose her breasts. "Take it off," she moaned before his fingers could recapture her nipples, and she raised her arms above her head. Cashmere, soft and fine as baby's hair, yet coarse, he thought, in comparison to the velvety smoothness of her skin, floated up her arms and over her head like a puff of dusting powder, and then, she was in his arms again, seeking his mouth with her wildly churning lips and rubbing her nipples into the open weave of his robe. She rolled her hips suggestively against him and her fingers entwined in his hair. "Hurry. I can't wait much longer," she gasped between kisses when she felt his hands groping to regain to her breasts. In speechless fervor he let his hands fall to the jutting slopes of her undulating hips. Her tiny skirt, barely a handwidth wide, was stretched tight as a drumhead across her buttocks and he felt her fleshy globes tense as he drew her closer to the pounding need in his loins. She felt his urgency and pressed against him. His hands, cupped, fingers rigid with excitement, slipped under her rounded curves and lifted, holding her close. She melted against him. Her mouth slipped from his lips to his ear; the point of her tongue traced the rim with an eager sweep and then probed the bowl, sending a rapturous shiver from his shoulders to his knees. She lifted a knee to brush it against his thigh, moaning, "Now, Caleb, I want you now," and suddenly his fingers were in the no-man's land where skirt turns to skin, where the golden highway enters the mouth of the tunnel, and where, if the stars are in the proper alignment, a maybe becomes a yes. Oh, skin, he gasped to himself as he touched her there. He could write an ode to skin. Elbow skin, shin skin, skin on the throat, the back of the neck, under the arm skin; breast skin, belly skin, thigh skin and chin skin, all of it satiny soft skin that is wonderful to touch to be sure, but yet, all that skin is rough and gritty as sandpaper in comparison to the sublimely velvet skin where buttock becomes thigh, where cheek cleavage merges into loin, where his fingertips were poised, hovering, while his nerve caught up with his needs. No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 28... Her tongue raked his ear again, and then her lips moved in a hoarse whisper. "Oh, Caleb, touch me," she mouthed, and her knee rose almost to his hip. She opened herself to his touch, and he felt her tongue seeking entrance between his lips. He closed his eyes, let her tongue enter his mouth and slid his fingertips into the deep crease at her bottom. She panted and hooked her foot behind his leg, locking herself against the pulsing presence under his robe. The heat of her seared itself onto his brain. Fleshy, thickened lips throbbed wetly on the tips of his fingers, and he stroked through her hair along the length of her slit with infuriating lightness of touch. "Yessss," she moaned, trying to still the restless motion of her hips when four of his fingertips insinuated themselves between her lips. "Oh God, yes," she groaned when his fingers slid single file, like soldiers sloshing in a flooded trench, down the length of her pussy, and, reaching the end, tripped over her clit, did an about face and stumbled again, one after the other, on the return. She reached for him as his fingers found her and stabbed excitedly into her wet depths, and, seizing him, she clutched him through his robe and moaned, "Make love to me, Caleb." He jerked his hands from between her legs like he had been caught in an obscene act, and began fumbling with the buttons fastening his robe. "Don't take it off; leave it on and fuck me," she gasped, and her hand wantonly masturbated his cock through the robe. Bewildered, he began gathering robe with both hands like crew hauling in a spinnaker on a jibe, and she reached under the ascending edge to begin loosening his belt. Helplessly, he held the robe with his hands under his chin, while she unfastened his belt and trousers with flying fingers. She grappled for an instant for the tab to his zipper, and then he felt her knuckles brushing his cock as she yanked the zipper down. Instantly, her hands were on his belly, lifting his shirttail, seeking his shorts, and her nails raked him as she clawed his drawers and pants to his knees. He stood in front of her, waiting expectantly for something to happen, holding his robe high across his chest, pointing at her like a toddler in potty-training learning to protect his clothes during a pee, and her heart and her hand reached out to him. "Oh, Caleb, I want you; I want this," she muttered in a torrid whisper as her touch surrounded his tumescence. "Anne," he gasped and tried to respond, but her caress sent live steam from his ruptured boilers rising in a dense cloud that obscured his vision and muffled his words. He was consumed in a hissing, jetting spray of accumulated desire and followed her blindly as she backed toward his bench. She backpedaled, leading him with one hand and raising her skirt with the other. Her bare buttocks smacked his bench, and she wriggled onto the edge. She raised her knees, spreading her thighs and positioned herself to receive him. Her grip tightened as she pulled him toward her. She touched herself with him and the dewy, softly scented orchid of her passion effloresced in her consciousness, opening its petals in a slow-motion ritual of sweet acceptance, and a quieting rush of peaceful calm flowed through her limbs. She felt a burgeoning sense of culmination and completeness, as her wants and desires leapt toward fruition. Some would call it the moment of surrender, that instant of initial touching, the first contact of intimate flesh, as though they were giving up something precious, but to her it had more to do with fulfillment than with loss. It was, she had thought at similar times, like the breaking of the surface tension on a water droplet as it trembled on a windowpane. Passion is like that wavering droplet; hemmed in and restrained from all sides by the tension of social conventions and mores, by fears and doubts and all the pathologies that inhibit the human psyche, it quivers in place unable to advance or retreat until something pierces the tension and releases its accumulated molecules to run wild and free across the pane. It was, then, the time of calm before the storm; that touching moment when the surface tension begins to dissolve, leaving passion free to run its natural course to conclusion, and she savored the moment by holding him close to her body and cradling his strength with her hands. "Holy shit, look at her; is she good or what?" Danny wisecracked in the darkness as he shot an elbow into Yosemite Sam's ribcage to draw his attention. "Shhhhhhh; can't hear," a chorus of nearby, angry voices grumbled. "Amazin, pardner; plumb amazin," Sam mumbled agreeably, while stroking his beard with both hands in a sort of telepathic replication of Anne's fondling. "She's maaaaavelous, darling, simply maaaaaavelous," Billy chortled as he slipped into an empty seat on the bench beside Sam. "In a couple of minutes she'll be having an orgasm that'll make Meg Ryan's cum in that scene we did a while back look like she had her thumb caught in the door." "I remember that scene," Devito said whispering around Sam toward Billy. "In the restaurant, wudn't it? I figured you musta had your toe stuck up her twat to make her cum that loud." "Oy," Billy groaned with a slap to his head. "That wasn't real, you schmuck; she was acting." "Acting? No shit! The way she was moaning and yelling, 'Yes, yes, yes,' I thought you was getting her off for sure," an incredulous Devito yelped in disappointment. "You moron," Billy shrieked. "It wasn't even supposed to be real in the movie, but I guess actually watching the whole movie was too much for your attention span, right?" "Enough all ready," the chorus rumbled and a fine rain of popcorn began falling on the noisy trio. "Blockbuster; $3.99; go rent it and shut up so we can hear." "This here one ain't never faked a cum, pardner, and she's had a million of em," Sam stated matter of factly to no one in particular. He had tied the forked tines of his beard into knots while Anne, detaining Caleb at the very gates of Paradise, stroked his impatient flesh with her fingers. "She's got talent, all right," Billy nodded in agreement. "Wonder where it came from." "She learned it! Kept practicing till she got it right," Devito pronounced authoritatively with the righteous swagger of the truly ignorant trying to bluster a cockeyed notion into acceptance, not at all unlike the manner of Bush Lite delivering a speech on foreign policy. "It's a Gift," Sam sighed, stuffing the tail ends of his beard into the corners of his mouth as Anne separated her lips and gave Caleb a foretaste of the sensuous silkiness that awaited. Oh, she had the Gift, all right, Anne rejoiced inwardly, as, holding Caleb between her legs, she reached to pull the boy's lips to hers. Hers was the Gift of true sight; the ability to penetrate the shell, to rend the veil and pierce the façade. Somehow, somewhere, the Gift had become hers. It had come to her without token of ring or spell of rune, and when she learned of it, it was as if it had always been there, dwelling in her heart, a part of her from the moment of creation, like her Spirit or her soul. It was her Gift to see the man inside the boy and to reach out to him to bring him into the light. It was both a Gift and a compulsion, for that which she could see, she could not ignore or forget, and her Gift was always with her. It worked on men and boys with equal acuity; it worked on teens and middle-aged men and all manners of males in between. Wherever there was repressed or emerging sexuality, she could perceive it, and, having seen it, she had no course but to embrace it. With Caleb that insightfulness had been easy; so easy, in fact, that to call it a Gift was to mock her talent. From the moment of their awkward meeting, she sensed in Caleb the external boy struggling to appear manly, while the internal man lay, like seeds under snow, dormant beneath layers of guilt and insecurity. So it was, that long before Kate exhorted her to tell him to "find the man beneath the robe," she had committed herself to releasing the man from the prison of his boyhood. "Oh!" she gasped in breathless awe as though discovering the Colossus of Rhodes poised between her thighs. "Caleb! You're so big; so strong." And lifting her heels to his hips, she felt the man expanding within the robe. "She calls that 'big?'" Devito snickered derisively while he vainly patted his own package. "Hee, hee," Sam chortled in response, stretching the tails of his beard an arm's length from his chin. "Why, I got me a six-shooter that's…" "Clam up, you idiots; it's not about what SHE thinks," Billy snapped peevishly, but he couldn't resist the urge to pull out his cummerbund and measure himself with the ruler she was using. "The hell you say, bucko," Danny retorted snidely. "Guys like you, Crystal, with toothpricks in your pants, keep tellin yourselves that size don't matter, but that's because your dicks aren't big enough for nothin but pickin the crud outa between a sand flea's teeth. What SHE needs tonight is a REAL cock." "Boys, boys," Anne chided the trio gently as she stroked herself with the tip of Caleb's prick, lubricating him in the effluence of her arousal. "Billy's at least as big as Timmy was, and you KNOW what Timmy's did for me." "Oh, jeez, not him again," Danny sputtered in disgust flopping back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest in a display of defensiveness. "I thought we were done with that." "Well, gents, she does have pretty eclectic tastes when she comes to cocks, if you'll excuse the puns," Sam volunteered, hoping to end the debate with an astoundingly out-of-character display of erudition. "Wazzat mean? Wazzat mean?" Danny demanded, jerking upright and looking around like he might find some clues suspended in the air. "It means that good things come in small packages, numbskull," Billy answered, patting Sam's shoulder fraternally. "That's right, varmint," Sam said, nodding at Danny. "This here little two-shot derringer in my boot packs a pretty good wallop, too, and it ain't much bigger than that dick of yours, Devito." "That's bull, and you know…" Danny's denial began, but Billy cut him off. "Hush, idiot. Watch. Something's happening." "Anne, Anne," Caleb panted with the front of his father's robe tucked under his chin. "I want to feel you inside me," she moaned, and, releasing him, she left him poised at her opening, connecting his body to hers like a shaky, swinging bridge, and her hands slipped under the slanting edges of his robe to his buttocks. "Oh, God, Anne," he gasped as she tugged his hips, and the sensation of penetration swept him away. "Give it to me, give it to me," she chanted digging her nails into his cheeks. "Anne!" he cried, and then he took her. He took her there on the hallowed ground where his father and his grandfather and all the line of Montcastle men that preceded them had stood, and, while their images looked down on him, he took her with a gentle reverence that belied their stern, unyielding visages. He entered her slowly and tenderly, like a groom slipping a wedding band on his bride's finger, and her spirit filled his heart even as his body closed with hers to complete their union. "Oh, Caleb," she sighed with a rapturous trill when they were joined, and she uncoiled across the bench, lying before him with her bared breasts lifting toward the ceiling. He moved and she felt the deep surge of his strength in her belly. Her heels clung to his hips. Her fingers clawed for a purchase on the blotter under her cheeks. Her eyes rolled upward, beyond the light, into the impenetrable, ageless gloom above the bench. Over Caleb's adoring gasps, she could almost hear reverberating in the doomed silence the accumulated dire judgments of his forebears and the strident tapping of a thousand impatient gavels. "Oh, God, I feel you so deep," she cried loudly to banish the spectating ghosts and she reached for his hands. "Let it go," she moaned, jerking the robe from his fingers and taking his emptied hands in hers. "I don't care about the robe. I want your hands on me." The robe dropped, cloaking the junction of their bodies, and she directed his hands to her breasts. He took her in his hands, kneading her flesh like toughened balls of twice-risen dough, and her breasts flattened under his caress. Her swollen nipples, like fattened raisins seasoning the dough, rose through the gaps between his fingers, and he leaned across her to taste first one raisin, then the other. "Oh, yes, yes," she gasped when his tongue caressed her and her muscles tightened around him like the tail of a cracking bull-whip wrapping around a post. Her nipples swelled between his lips. His teeth raked her and exquisite ripples riffled her gently clinging walls. He jostled her between her thighs as he sought to gain the full acceptance of his ardent need. She held his head to her breast, her fingers in his hair, and murmured her ecstasy to him as he coaxed her up the stairway to the stars with tooth and tongue and finger and the incipient power of the man within the robe. "Oh, Caleb, fuck me," she panted when she sensed the approaching crest of a gathering wave. "You like getting fucked?" he growled as his piston filled her cylinder, and his fingers clutched the bare skin of her shoulders to hold her stationary. "Yesssss," she hissed trying to work her ankles up to his armpits. "Like this? Deep and hard?" His voice was a snarl of uncontrolled passion, and he drove into her once on the word "deep" and again as he uttered the word "hard," and she knew she had roused the man within the robe. "Oh, God, yes; fuck me hard," she gushed in an almost incomprehensible gasp. Her hands flitted in the folds of his robe like raptors hungry for a taste of his naked flesh, but she couldn't find him. "You like cock crammed up your cunt, don't you?" His words were like a coarse rasp sawing through her sensibility. "I like YOUR big cock in my cunt, Caleb," she gurgled, and she pulled herself up from the bench by the front of his robe, and, dreamily, her eyes searched his face for signs of love. "Fucking you; like this," his voice rose, and it was followed immediately by a concussion that shook her soul, as though two rushing locomotives had collided in a grinding, roaring, head-on crash deep in her tunnel of desire. "Myyy Godg, gib id do me," she babbled incoherently. The room compressed in the aftermath of the earth-shattering collision as another locomotive with a full head of steam loomed at the mouth of her tunnel. The distant windows spun in a kaleidoscope of fragmented colors, and, above her, Justice ripped away her blindfold and bared her breasts to the onslaught. She scarcely had time to recover before a fresh engine thundered into the tunnel. "Oooooooo, Caleb," she moaned, and the words poured out of her mouth like water from the spout of a pump, as he drove that mighty engine, throttle open, like Casey Jones bringing home the mail. "Or, cock and fingers fucking your pussy," he puffed; the exertion was exacting a toll on him. And suddenly, before she could respond, his hand was groping her beneath the robe. His fingers swam into her ahead of the advancing locomotive. She gasped and panted and thrilled to his meandering touches, and then, almost without warning, he found her and his fingers closed on her throbbingly erect clitoris. He clung to her churning loins, holding her between his thumbnail and the crook of his forefinger, squeezing her flesh while she howled her passion to the heavens. It was almost more than she could bear and she turned her face away so he wouldn't see the rigor of her passion contorting her features, but when, to still her cries, she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, her words burst past her lips like demons released from Pandora's Box. "Oh, God, Caleb, oh, God. Yes, fuck me; fuck me hard. Give it to me. I love your cock in me, fucking me; your fingers… Oooooo, ooooooooh, arggggh. Oh, my God." She wailed and dug her fingernails into his biceps so he wouldn't stop while she shuddered to the brink of unconsciousness. "Gawd Almighty," a single, wavering voice rose in awe in the hushed auditorium of her mind. There was no answer, no ribald rejoinder. Chins dropped, eyes gaped, fingers twitched expectantly, hearts pounded, breath caught in chests, as, collectively, her admirers and detractors surfed with the girl on the breaking wave of her orgasm. "Oh, Anne," he cried as his cresting wave converged on hers, and so tightly did he cling to her in the roiling currents that he nearly skinned her clit where it stood. "Oh, Caleb, oh, baby," she gasped softly. "I feel your cum inside me." He staggered and she caught him by the arms and held him until he found his footing. Then, he leaned across her and laid his cheek on her bosom, and he felt against his skin the torrid thrush of orgasm spreading across her breasts. She held him close, rocking him gently and listening to him breathe, while the tide went out and his lust receded. In his time, he gathered himself, and then, he rose on his elbows to look into her eyes with a look that so bespoke of love that she nearly wept and she buried her face in his robe. He held her close to hear her heart, and she nestled into the quiet warmth of his afterglow. "God," he sighed in as eloquent a summation as had ever been uttered in that august room. "I heard bells," she replied softly to match his praise. "What?" "You made me cum so hard, I heard bells. That's never happened to me before." Her voice had a wistful quality, like the ringing of bells marked the attainment of a coital Grail. "Boy, I must be good," he replied immodestly. "You were wonderful." "But not good enough for bells." "What?" "I think you heard the Presbyterians across the street celebrating the arrival of Christmas." "Oh, no." "Oh, yes. Midnight mass. I guess it must be past midnight already." "Oh, God, no," she giggled, and she covered her face with her hands. "Fraid so," he chuckled, and she felt him moving inside her. "No bells?" she asked, peeking at him through her fingers. "Not this time. Next time. I promise, next time, you get bells." "Mmmmmm," she responded, sounding eager. "When?" "Tonight. Come home with me." "Hmmmmm." "Stay the week. We won't get out of bed till after New Years." "Mmmmmmm," she purred. "I'll ring your bells for you so many times, you'll think Quasimodo's gotten a hold of your bell rope." "You sound awfully sure of yourself all of a sudden. Did you discover some rules you didn't know about? "I think I figured out what Kate meant by finding the man inside the robe." "I think you did, too." "Then you'll come home with me?" "On one condition." "Ah, stipulations," he scowled. "What's the condition?" "That you promise me, we won't get out of bed till New Years." "Whew, that's an easy one. You want me to promise right here, or you want me to swear it under oath in the witness box?" "Stay here; I like the way you feel inside me." "Oh, God, I swear." "Good boy; you ready to go?" "No." "You're not?" "No." "How come?" "It's cold outside, and you're nice and warm." "Oh, that's right. I almost forgot. Poor baby's all wet, isn't he?" "Yeah. He'll probably be frostbitten, by the time we get to the house." "Ooooo, now, I wouldn't let anything like that happen to him, would I? I tell you what, you drive and I'll just keep him wet and warm in my mouth till we get to your house. How's that sound?" No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 28... "That sounds like I need to start believing in Santa Claus again, cause that offer just caught that old sucker up on all the Christmases he's missed over the last twenty years." "I'm the only sucker coming to your house tonight, big boy," she laughed. "I'm real; he's not. Remember that. Now, take me home and fuck me some more." No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 29 Spring was beginning to assert itself. The days were warming nicely but the evenings still held the frosty remnants of winter. The terror of Cletus and Nadeen was quickly receding into a distant memory, especially after the e-mail from Moon Dog's source inside the FBI arrived informing them that Cletus had been positively identified as the lone gunman in a Christmas eve liquor store holdup just outside Kansas City, and that, although he got away, he had been shot at least once and probably twice by a plucky clerk and would most certainly be out of commission for the foreseeable future. For Anne, since she knew Nadeen to be the more formidable and dangerous of the pair, the greatest comfort came from the knowledge that the Caruthers had clearly lost her trail and were searching blindly for her in the wrong direction. Her insistent urge to flee had subsided somewhat and for the first time in recent memory she actually began to fantasize about putting down a root or two of her own. Caleb was lying in bed, naked, studying the ceiling fan spinning above him. He had discovered that even at top speed, if he squinted at it and squeezed his eyelids together just right, he could make the blades appear to stop moving and he could visualize them individually. "Did you know that if you try hard enough, you can stop the blades on the fan?" he said, sounding like he expected a Merit Badge for his efforts. Anne lifted her head off his chest and looked at him strangely. "What's so hard about switching off the switch?" "I mean just by looking at it, you know; staring at it. If you do that real hard, it'll stop." "Brother, you don't have enough to do," she grunted dismissively, laying her head back on his chest. "No, really. It's physics, or something. Doppler effect, I think." "I read somewhere that too much sex after a long abstinence can make some men mentally unstable." "Too little sex after a long abstinence can make them more unstable." "The article didn't say anything about that." "It didn't have to; it's obvious." "Well, which is it?" "Which is what?" "The cause of your instability; too much sex or too little?" "Come here and find out," he chuckled trying to roll her onto her back. "I already did that." "Lord, don't I know it. You learn anything?" "Yeah. I sure did." "What?" "If you fuck hard enough you can make the whole world stop for a hour or so. It's got something to do with physics, I think, so stopping a pissy little fan ain't no big deal." "Come here," he laughed, putting his hand to her warmth. "To hell with the fan; I want to stop the world again." "I can't," she replied gently without removing his hand. "You're turning me down? That's a first," he said, frowning at her. "I'm not turning you down; I'm just putting you off for a while. You hold on to it, and when I get back this afternoon, I'll fuck you till your heart stops." "That's what I want you to do right now," he pouted. "Why wait?" "I have something to do." "Yeah?" he responded skeptically. "What do you have to do this morning that's more important than stopping the world?" "Kate's crocuses are up; I promised her I'd take her by the house to see them today, if it's warm enough, and it looks like it's going to be one of those glorious spring days that don't come along very often." "Patterson'll let her leave the hospital to look at her garden?" "He said it wouldn't make much difference and might even help her some." "She's that bad?" "I'm afraid she is, Caleb. The cancer's spread to her lungs and you know Kate and her cigarettes. Dr. Patterson doesn't think she'll be coming home this time." "Damn," he said, rolling into a sitting position on the side of the bed. His shoulders were slumped, rounded, and he couldn't look at her when he asked, "Did he say, ah, uh, you know?" "Not long, Caleb," she said laying her hand softly on his shoulder to ease his discomfort. "A couple of weeks, maybe three." "Lord, that soon?" he said shaking his head, and she thought she felt him shudder and squeezed his shoulder lovingly. "She was like a mother to me; even more than my own," he continued distantly as though the memories were pulling him away. "I understand," she responded trying to sound compassionate although she really didn't understand. "What'll you do when she's gone?" he asked, turning toward her with a worried look. It was one of the things that truly endeared him to her; the selflessness of putting his own worries and fears behind those of others. How characteristic of the man, she marveled, to confront the painful loss of someone he loves by worrying about someone else's pain. "Where'll you go?" he continued without giving her an opportunity to reassure him with an answer. "I mean, her house'll go into probate, and, eventually, they'll sell it, but they'll have to lock it up till it sells. You'll have to move." "I know, Caleb," she replied as gently as she could. "Kate and I've discussed it already. She's leaving a will that takes care of everything. She offered to let me stay on as long as I wanted, but I don't think I could with all the memories, not so soon, anyway." "A will? I'll be damned," he questioned sounding genuinely surprised. "I didn't think she knew any lawyers other than me, and she never said anything to me about a will." He paused for a second or two while digesting the information, and then he brightened some and asked, "Did she say anything about her heirs? I mean, did she tell you anything about her past?" "No, Caleb, not a word," she lied protectively. Anne saw no point at this late juncture in disclosing, even to Caleb, the fact that it had been the Germans who paid Kate so handsomely for her services, and that it was the threat of reprisal by her countrymen that caused her to flee France in the waning days of the War. Let bygones be bygones, she had reasoned with the clarity of thought of someone with a past of her own, and she had closed that chapter of Kate's life forever. "I didn't think she would," he shrugged, and then, he looked at her with such seriousness that a chill of dread ran up her spine and in a rushed jumble of words, he made a giant leap toward commitment. "You could, ah, come here, ah, uh, you know, uh, move in, and, uh, we could, ah, you know, live together, for a while, you think, maybe, ah, just to try it." "Oh, Caleb," she sighed, and she crawled to the side of the bed and kissed him on the lips. "You must be the sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful judge in the whole world." "Then, you'll do it?" "No. There's nothing in the world that I would like better, but I can't." "Why not? I have plenty of room." "Oh, Caleb," she laughed. "You silly boy, it's not the room; you and I would do fine in a shoe box. We've hardly been out of bed since Christmas, except to go to work, and I want to be laying here with you next Christmas and the one after that, too." "Then move in. I'll set up a thing with the Peking Garden and have them deliver chicken fried rice every evening at six. I'll thrive on a steady diet of Chinese and pussy." "Which one are you planning to eat first, cause the thought of you, you know, with a mouthful of rice, well, leaves me, sort of, ugh?" "Any order you want, so long as you move in." "I can't, Caleb; as good as it sounds, we can't do it." "Why not?" "Talk, Caleb; you know that. There's already talk going around town about us, and that's OK as things stand, cause we're just a boy and a girl getting to know each other, but the minute the Ralph Reed types on the religious fringe get wind of the fact that I've moved in and we're out here living in sin, they'll crucify you. You've got an election coming up in what, a couple of years? If I move in with you, they'll turn out every congregation in the county to vote against you and you'll lose, Caleb, and I know you don't want that to happen. That bunch of loonies is creeping in everywhere, mixing politics with religion so they can get laws passed to cram their way of thinking down everybody's throats. It's men like you who are keeping that from happening, and I sure don't want to get in your way." "I'll resign. I'll step down and let somebody else have the damn job. That'll shut the hypocrites up; they can keep right on blowing up abortion clinics and sneaking their pregnant daughters off to get fixed in Canada without any interference from me," he declared impulsively. "You would really do that for me?" she whispered, stunned by the notion that he might care for her that much. "You're damn right, I would," he answered emphatically. "You just bring your stuff with you when you come back from Kate's this afternoon." "Oh, you dear, rash boy," she smiled warmly, and then, she picked up his hand and rubbing her cheek against his palm, she said, "You probably would, too, but I won't let you." "What do you mean 'you won't let me?' You can't keep me from stepping down, if that's what I want to do." "That's right, I can't stop you, but I won't move in with you either, even if you do resign, so you needn't bother. Besides, I've made other arrangements." "What other arrangements?" "An old friend of yours wants me to move into her house. She'll let me live there rent free if I'll tutor her kids." "What old friend might that be?" he questioned skeptically, racking his brain to identify this new benefactor. "Sally Hawkins," she answered. "Sally?" he yelped in surprise. "How in the world did you meet her?" "At the hospital, of course. I see her frequently; she's one of Kate's nurses." "Well, I'll be damned. It is a small world." "Posey's Bend is a small world, Caleb; I've been here all of three months and I think the whole damn town knows who I am." "I think I have an explanation for that," he laughed, reaching to squeeze her nipple playfully. "Is that all I am to you, you horny-assed sex fiend; just a couple of tits?" she grumbled grinning and she pushed his hand away. "And, I thought I was establishing myself around here as a pretty good teacher." "Naw, not just tits," he grinned and, to prove the point, he ran his hand down her belly to where her thighs were parted. "There's your pussy, too, baby," he panted as his finger dipped into her. "But, I don't imagine Sally was thinking about your pussy when she invited you to move in with her." "Are you sure about that, big boy? I've been known to go both ways in a pinch," she laughed, spreading her legs to his touch. "Positive, baby. I've been worried about her and those boys of hers ever since I sent her husband to prison, but it's not because she's gay or anything." He rolled her clit and felt it beginning to stiffen. "You sent her husband to prison?" she asked turning to him in surprise. She half-heartedly tried to push his hand away, saying, "Stop that; I can't think when you're doing that," but, when he resisted and kept touching her, she continued, "No wonder she acted funny when I told her I was seeing you. She must know you a lot better than she let on." "We're neighbors; did she tell you that?" He could tell she was becoming wet. "Not exactly. She just said you didn't live far from her," she sighed, pressing his hand with her thighs. "Not far's about right; her farm adjoins mine. She's just across the stream and over that hill I showed you on the back of the property." He squeezed her lips where they covered her clit and felt her shiver. "What are you worried about her for, Caleb? She's the best looking woman I've seen since I got here, and she sure acts like she could take care of herself, if she needed to." Her thighs pressed his hand and shifted restlessly. "I can't exactly put my finger on it," he chuckled while trying to pry her open with the tip of his finger. "I drove by there a couple of days after that bad storm last week, just to make sure she hadn't blown away, and she acted real funny, like something had upset her." "Did she say what?" she asked, tightening her thighs together to stop his fingers. "Just the kids," he replied. "She was pretty vague though. She's worried mostly about the younger one right now. I told her I'd talk to him and find out what's going on, but she seemed pretty lukewarm to that idea." "How old are her kids?" she asked, placing her hand on his to restrain his stroking while she concentrated on collecting information. "Hard to say, exactly. Sammy, that's the younger one, looks like he's about twelve or thirteen. Scrawny, hairless little dude; soft looking, kinda like a girl, but she says he just turned eighteen, and I guess she ought to know." "Some boys take longer to mature than others," she said softly and he detected a lessening of the pressure on his hand. "Seems to me that Sally's boys are taking a lot longer than most." "It sounds like you've taken quite an interest in them," she observed curiously. "Well, it was that or lose a herd of cattle." "That sounds dire," she said letting her thighs fall open some and releasing his hand. "Tell me about it." "Welllll," he began dramatically as his finger found her opening. "Not too long ago, see, I found one of my cows hobbling around the back pasture with one of those blunt-tipped target arrows in her rump." "First time deer hunter; happens all the time in Missouri," she mumbled relaxing her thighs some more. "I would have thought so, too, but it wasn't close to deer season, and I had a pretty good idea the Hawkins boys were behind it." "How come?" she asked, idly stroking his forearm. "Cause they play Indians out there in woods day and night. They run around bare-assed naked, except for some sort of skimpy little loin cloths that don't cover much of anything and some feathers in their hair, and they shoot arrows at every thing that moves." "Sounds like pretty normal adolescent male behavior to me," she remarked casually to mask her growing interest. "Really?" he questioned. "I wasn't sure about that." "Your herd's safe now, I take it," she said. "Oh yeah, that was easy. I tracked them down one afternoon and, when I showed them the arrow that I had pulled out of my cow, they confessed right off. Said it was an accident, and begged me not to tell Sally, cause she already had so much to worry about." "Did you tell her?" "Naw, I didn't; they were right about her having enough on her plate. Instead, I made them help me clean some underbrush off the top of the hill, and, after they promised not to shoot any more of my cattle, I let them build a hideout up there." "A hideout; boys need a hideout," she muttered with interest, recalling how the boys at the Caruthers' had loved to build hideouts with blankets or abandoned cars or empty boxes, and how excited they would become when she let them lead her into their cozy little nests. "This one's pretty neat," he answered looking at her a little oddly because he noticed an unexpected shiver at the mention of a hideout. "It's got windows and a roof and a double bed mattress and box springs, and it's so well hidden, that if you didn't know where to look, you'd never find it in a million years." "Hmmm," she murmured as his fingers stroked her. "Boys can be surprisingly resourceful." "Yeah, they've got kerosene lamps and even a little wood stove made out of a ten gallon lard can and a piece of down-spout for a chimney in cold weather." "You're sounding impressed. Do you spend a lot of time up there with them?" "Some," he acknowledged. "I found out Sally had taken them out of school and was home schooling them. They're up there all the time while she's at work, and I make a point of stopping by to check on them pretty regularly." "Why did she take them out of school?" "Problems with the other kids; the girls mostly. Everybody in town was pretty riled up about what their daddy had done and nobody wanted their kids to have anything to do with his boys." "What'd he do, for heaven's sake?" "What didn't he do? Rape, for sure; that's what got him sent up. Dealin' drugs and probably murder, as well." "God, that had to be tough on them; getting blamed for what their daddy did as if it was their fault," she gasped sympathetically. "It got to the point she had to pull them out of school. She's been trying hard but they've been steadily falling behind." "So, what do you boys talk about when you go up there to the hideout?" "Man stuff mostly," he answered vaguely. "Man stuff?" "Yeah, father to son kind of stuff. I guess it was my paternal instincts working on me." "Hmmmmm, daddy Caleb sounds like an interesting subject. Want to tell me about it?" she purred opening her thighs and guiding him with her fingers. Her invitation and its price were clear, he recognized as his fingers tested her wetness; he would have to pay for the privilege of touching her by telling her everything. He caressed her between her legs and forced his mind back in time, while she watched him and held her breath. "Not too long ago, it became pretty apparent to me that those boys were growing up cause they began showing considerable interest in the subject of girls, but not much knowledge. I guess they had been watching music videos or "Spring Break" on MTV and had started getting the idea that girls might turn out to have a useful function. I began dropping by in the evenings after work and they would sit there in that little hideout, shadows falling across the dirt floor as the sun sank, and pepper me with questions. You know, the kinds of questions boys are too shy to ask their moms about but need to know the answers to." "What would they ask you about?" she prodded him, and she guided his fingers to her exposed clit with her fingertips. "Well," he replied, quoting their latest discussion from memory. "Joey, being the oldest, would start, usually by asking something like, 'How do the babies get up in there, anyway?' and I would tell him, 'The father puts them there.' "Then, he asked me, 'How'd he do that?' and I told him, 'He does it with his penis,' and both of them just laughed like the notion was the craziest thing they'd ever heard, and Joey said, 'Awwwwww, he can't do that; it's too small. You're just kidding.'" "And then, I told him as patiently as I could that, 'No, really, that's how it works,' and I preceded to explain the process to them in some detail." "Tell me, just like you told them," Anne asked breathlessly and he could feel the flow of her juices surging around her tense clit. "I told them that the man plays with the woman's pussy, like this." His fingers wormed into her slot as he spoke. "Yessss," she gurgled at his touch. "Then what?" "And gets her pussy wet, like yours is getting." "Oh God, what else?" "And, that the woman would use her fingers to play with the man's cock and make it stiff and hard, like mine's getting now, so he could put it in her pussy." "Oh, Caleb," she gasped jerking her head up to verify his claim. "And, that the man would sometimes lick and stroke the woman all over her body to excite her and make her want to make love to him." "Mmmmmmm, God, yes," she panted, and reaching for him she gasped, "Did you tell them what the woman does for the man?" "No, no, I couldn't tell them that." "Why?" she questioned deliriously. She was stimulating his flesh with her fingers. "I didn't know what to tell them. Some women don't do anything but lay there; I didn't want to get their hopes up just to have them disappointed if they ever got to do it." "What did they say, when you told them, Caleb?" She sounded remote like her mind had separated from her body. "They didn't say anything at first. They just scratched their heads, perplexed, and looked, first at each other, quizzically, and then down at the floor, scraping up little hills of dirt with the toes of their moccasins. But, finally, Joey came right out and asked me, 'Do you think me and Sam will ever get to do that with a girl?'" No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 29 "'Sure I do, Joey, when you're old enough you will,' I told him." "'I'm old enough now,' he told me puffing out his chest manfully, but then he continued with a frown, 'But I won't ever get to do it.'" "'Sure, you will, you just don't know any girls right now. You will soon enough, I promise,' I reassured him as convincingly as I could." "'No, I won't,' he countered, and it seemed like this immense burden was pressing his shoulders into a stoop. 'Girls won't even talk to us after what our daddy done to them girls in town.'" "'They won't talk to you?' I asked, questioning him pretty hard, because, honestly, I couldn't believe that people could be so insensitive." "'That's right, Mr. C.,' Sam told me, answering for his brother who looked like he was fighting back tears. 'Their mommies and daddies told them not to have nothing to do with us white trash or they would whup the Dickens out of them.'" "'Yeah,' Joey added, having recovered some. 'I even called one up the other day and asked her to go to a movie with me, but her daddy took the phone away from her and he told me never to call her again or to even speak to her or he'd get the police after me and I would go to jail just like my dad.'" "Ohhh, those poor little boys," Anne groaned. Her eyes were closed like she was trying to visualize the conversation in the hideout, but her knees were parted to his fingers and she had begun twisting her nipples with her hands as he spoke. "I know; it's tragic how cruel people can be," he nodded in agreement. "Ohhh, they've never even kissed or touched a girl," she panted as his finger, a perfect imitation of an immature penis, slipped into her. "Never even held hands or talked to one on the phone for longer than it took to identify themselves," he whispered, leaning close to her ear so the sounds of her breathing wouldn't drown him out. "Oh, Caleb, it must be awful for them," she moaned, but when his thumb brushed her clit, she sighed, "That feels good," and pinched her nipples. "I know, baby," he said, teasing her with tantalizing words and tormenting fingers. "They go to bed every night, aching, dying for a pussy just like yours to stick their little cocks into. Desperate for somebody to care enough to just let them look at her and touch her for a little while." "Oh, yes, Caleb," she gurgled passionately, bouncing her ass on the bed while he fingered her. "Somebody to touch their cocks and rub them till they cum." "That's right, darling," he muttered to further her fantasy to conclusion. "They need somebody to show them; a teacher to help them unlock all the mysteries they are so desperate to learn; they need a woman like you to teach them how to fuck." As he whispered, he bowed to her needs and kissed her lips where her clit peeked through. "Oh, God," she gasped when he licked her there, and she lifted her hips toward his mouth. He licked and sucked her and felt her clit expand between his lips, and when he bit down gently and chewed her wet lips, she screamed, "Oh Christ, I'm cumming," and shivered while her passion ran its course. "Oh, damn," she exclaimed a couple of minutes later, when, recovered, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand and bounded out of bed. "I gotta go or I'll be late." "But, but, what about me?" Caleb pouted, rolling onto his back and pointing his erection toward the ceiling. "I want you to make the world stop for a while." "You bad boy. Tell him," she said, pointing at his dick, "to stare at the fan for a while and be happy with stoppin' that, for now. We'll work on the world thing, when I get back from Kate's." He watched as she picked a light cotton dress from his closet and slipped it off its hanger. She bent and stepped into it and then pulled it over her naked hips. She quickly thrust her arms into the sleeves and tugged it up to cover her bare breasts before backing to the bed and looking at him over her shoulder. "Zip me up, baby," she breathed, and he rolled to his feet behind her. His erection brushed her hip as he moved close behind her and began working her zipper up her spine. She reached for him without turning and her fingers closed around him. "Ooooo, baby's got a big hard cock for me," she cooed, and she masturbated him while his fingers climbed her back. She leaned her shoulders against his chest and laid her head on his shoulder. His lips trailed wet, hot kisses down her neck, while her fingers stroked him. "Is this hideout very far?" she asked, letting her hand cup his glans. "No," he groaned. "Do you think they'll be there this afternoon?" Her voice was deep, throaty with passion and his cock throbbed in her hand. "I don't know; yeah, maybe, probably," he stammered. Her hand was making conversation difficult. "I won't be late coming back. I have to have Kate back at the hospital by 2." "You want to go for a hike this afternoon? You could see their hideout for yourself." "I might like that," she moaned, rolling her head on his shoulder as he nibbled her earlobe. Her hand moved excitedly. "But, but," he sputtered, recognizing a potential conflict. "You're gonna stop the world for me when you get back." "You're a smart boy," she laughed spinning out of his arms and releasing his cock. "You figure out how to make both happen." "Don't go," he gasped making a half-hearted grab for as she danced to the doorway. "Gotta, babe," she smiled with a sultry promissory look in his direction, and turning, she snapped the ceiling fan switch and giggled, "There, I've stopped it so he won't strain himself staring at it till I get back," and then, she was gone.