Theodore Stickles - Prisoner Of Lust

They would catch these sons-of-bitches. And what good would it do her? No matter what the facts, people would remember only that in the morning she had been seen naked in City Hall. In the afternoon she had been seen getting fucked silly by two convicted felons. There went her career.

Twelve goddam years of walking the straight and narrow. Not once had she adventured since that disastrous first time with Mr. Costello. She had scraped out of that one without any scandal. If the coroner or the undertaker had entertained their own suspicions as to what the old man had been doing when he died, they had gallantly kept such thoughts to themselves and now they were both long dead and gone. She had lived a blameless life. And now, thanks to a rape that wasn't her fault at all her whole goddam career was going down the tube and Hizzonner was probably grinning as he pulled the chain. It just wasn't fair!

And unfairest of the unfair was the knowledge that, though these two felons had shown no regard for her as a person, had used her as a sex object with no more thought for her feelings than if she had been some warm soft bit of rubber goods from a novelty shop, the most terrible thing they had done to her was not all the physical abuse and indignities they had heaped upon her with these sexual sandwiches. They had done something far worse. They had shown her, had made it abundantly clear to a woman's libber to eternal striver for equality, that she was a fraud, that she didn't want equality, that not only did she accept this degradation-she reveled in it, that she enjoyed herself more in the last two hours than she had in all the previous twelve sterile, self-sufficient years.

All that time wasted. And it wasn't as if she hadn't had opportunities. Very acceptable candidates had made very acceptable offers. Even Smart-ass, she knew, had come dangerously close to proposing-would have if she hadn't been enough of a smart-ass herself to divert his line of thought and turn a perfectly serious proposal into a comic preposition.

God damn these bastards! They were still bouncing her back and forth between them, fucking her coming and going only she was doing much more coming than going and oooooooohhhhh damn! She was coming again!

And somewhere in the background both telephones were ringing their goddam electronic innards out just as she was. One of her assailants must have decided it was safer to have them ringing than to have them off the hook where someone might possibly be listening in on all the wailing and shrieking and ooooooohhhhhhh Jesus, she was coming again!

She had come so many times she was beyond shrieking now, was mewling and moaning, making sounds of agony and unutterable grief while still they stuffed twin cocks into her, and then abruptly Harry Riggs's eight-inch weapon came out of her ass with a thuck like the exit of a stopper from a bottle of sparkling wine. There was another thud behind her and then she saw the red-haired man's face come up out of her tits looking startled. Before Paula realized what was happening a fist with something blurry in it whizzed past her face and immediately she felt the red-haired man's hard-on undergo a drastic change even in the instant before its owner fell back from her, eyes blank with surprise and shock.

Paula had sense enough to faint.

When she came to Smart-ass was cleaning her up in the shower, treating her with surprising gentleness for so large a man. He had propped her up until she clung limply to the shower head while he douched the fruits of love from her still-tingling cunt. Wordlessly, he refilled the douche and gave her an enema which elicited a brown stream of come and other matter from her ass.

Paula was beginning to settle back down to earth, aware of her mortifying position. My god-Smart-ass of all people! She had been competing with him ever since law school-ever since his first attempts at seduction had gradually devolved into a good-humored game between them. And now he was wordlessly washing another man's come out of her asshole!

"I should've guessed something was wrong when you wouldn't even answer the other phone," he muttered. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner."

There being nothing to say, Paula didn't.

He finished rinsing her off and turned off the water. He toweled her off gently, and guided her into her bedroom where he sat her before her mirror and handed her comb and hair dryer. "I'm afraid that part's a little beyond me," he said. Dazedly, she saw him go out into the front room and begin straightening up. She wondered what had happened to the two felons who'd been raping her. Smart-ass, she supposed, must have used his garage door opener just as Harry Riggs had.

"There are twenty reporters and newsmen outside," Smart-ass was saying to somebody in the front room. "And it'd make any one of their careers to be able to film you two bastards being lynched-preferably with a hot kerosene preliminary. On the other hand, I have a client who doesn't need publicity so we're willing to trade you miserable motherfuckers your lives in return for silence."

Paula turned off the hair dryer and listened in awe as Smart-ass, with a few well-chosen words, salvaged her honor and her career.

"Now get this clear, you abysmal assholes, you came here to surrender to your parole officer and to confess to twenty-seven breakings and enterings over the last sixty days. For this your paroles are revoked and you'll get another seven to ten in the joint." Pausing for emphasis, Smart-ass continued, "Just remember-one single hint of what you really did to my client and you'll not just end up in the joint. You'll die there. I've got thirty-four convicted clients up there all waiting for a chance to kiss ass and do me a favor. Do you motherless creeps understand me loud and clear?"

"Yes sir!" the rapists chorused.

"All right," Smart-ass growled, "Now get on your feet and start cleaning up the mess you've made. I want this house spotless before the TV people get here."

Bemusedly, Paula turned her hair dryer back on. She managed mechanically to get dressed, get her hair back into its usual taut chignon and, was it her imagination or did she really seem younger, less tense, with fewer worry lines?

She was still so exhausted it was difficult to stand without swaying. Once more ever-resourceful Smart-ass gave her a pill and half a cup of old coffee to wash it down. "Going to be one hell of a letdown in an hour or two," he warned her, "But this'll get you through the worst of it. Oh by the way, I took the liberty of hinting to Hizzonner that I might be representing you on behalf of the whole fucking bar association and when last heard of Hizzonner and his brother-in-law were collectively urinating little green gherkins. If anybody offers a settlement, just keep mum."

While a pair of chastened felons, their cocks now shrunken and inside their pants, moped about cleaning up the kitchen and vacuuming the rug, Smartass coached her on the fine points of the charade they were about to play for the TV and newspapers.

"Business as usual," Smart-ass advised her. "While everybody else has been having a field day you've been working your ass off-oops, sorry," he amended. "You've been tirelessly performing your duties and, thanks to your ability to empathize with unfortunate clients, you've coaxed repentance and confessions from two hardened criminals and single-handedly ended a crime wave."

"But what if it goes right on?" Paula asked.

"It won't. I know who's ripping off the neighborhood. I'll tell them, through proper channels of course, that it's time for a vacation."

"You know who it is?" Paula echoed.

"Don't you?" Smart-ass sneered. "It's Hizzonner's goddam greedy cops out moonlighting. If they know I know-and if they know I've got enough evidence locked up in safe places-maybe this "confession" will be enough of a signal for them to cool it for a while, maybe even long enough to unelect Hizzonner and turn crooked government back to amateurs for a while."