by Julian Robinson
(1/17/01)
Penetration was outlawed back in 2005, but a lot of women still like it enough to pay a guy plenty to take the risk -- a guy like me, Thad Turgid, private dick. Days, I shoveled data for GynoGlobal. Nights, I shacked up with executrixes whose partners were out of town. Until I got busted with my passion piston fully engaged. My boyfriend was sure surprised when he got the call to bail me out.
The trial was short and sweet. I had the latest executramp's wifey pegged as one of those sanctimonious types. Probably voted the straight FemSuprem ticket -– she must have heaved a sigh of relief the day that everything but hugging and handjobs was criminalized as a heinous remnant of the patriarchy. That was a year after the Correction of Marriage act made same-sex couples the only legal hook-up. Citizens with the "rape attachment" were scheduled for monthly milkings, never knowing where their little wigglers went next.
My client's squeeze had no doubt been mortified when my client had suggested that some extralegal intrusion into her love tunnel might not go unappreciated. So the squeeze had bug-eyed our hot-sheets session at the No-tell Motel. The Purity Police were watching our old-fashioned party and picked the "Oh baby, yes, yes!" moment to pop our balloon.
By law, I was entitled to a jury of my superiors. They weren't out long before the forewomin came back and requested the videotape for further eyeballing by the twelve goodwomyn and true. You'd think they'd have had it memorized by now, since they'd only seen it umpteen times during the trial -- slow-motion, freeze-frame, even backward.
Their favorite part was where I threw Abigail down on the canopied four-poster, on top of the thirty-seven lace-trimmed, satin-cased, down-stuffed pillows (she always reserved the Victorian theme room), pulled her wrists up over her head with one hand, and tore off her silk chemise with the other. That was how she liked it. That was what she paid me for. They'd edited out her part of the soundtrack, where she begged me to impale her virgin modesty on my stallion-like impertinence: "Oh, don't make me entreat you, Sir Thaddeus!"
Brrzzzap! My shock suit delivered a pair of stings to my downside, the court's subtle signal that I should stand up. I did so with all deliberate speed, given that my wrists were cuffed to the chain around my waist. I had no desire to be further encouraged by the electrodes in the jock sock that was snugly squeezing my crown jewels and aforesaid offending member. I'd miss it -- the penalty for Premeditated Intromission meant I'd be sitting down to piss thereafter.
My client, Abigail, and her wife, Lucy, had front row seats. Abby was built for comfort, not for speed. She was a pile of pillows herself, her crowning glory a golden waterfall down the back of the white silk tent she was swathed in. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed she looked all piney and wistful. She'd miss my moneymaker almost as much as I would. Lucy, on the other hand, was a panther, all black spandex to show off the muscles -- probably aided by a steroid drip -- that were her real wardrobe. She was rhythmically squeezing a hard rubber ball down to nothing, appraising my basket and showing her teeth. It wasn't a smile. Sausage of male origin was in high demand among the body builders. There were rumors of bidding wars.
Her judgeship gave me a few more jolts, just for the fun of it, while the jury filed back in. They were all red in the face and breathing like they'd just finished a sprint on the Stairmistress. A few were adjusting their skirts and attending to loose buttons. It was as bad as I expected. "We find the inferior possessed of and by a rogue organ with which he did willfully seduce the plaintiff to violate her sacred vows and did commit Intromission with malice aforethought."
There was one last formality before I lost my favorite nine and a half inches. The judge read it fast, like a school kid saying the Pledge of Allegiance to the Goddess. I only caught a few phrases. "By the mercy of this Court, prisoner may be sponsored by any licensed rehab facility. Maintain the prisoner under house arrest while instituting approved retraining...indentured servitude for a period of not less than seven years...is any such sponsor present?" The idea was that the Court could save the operation cost and make some dough in the bargain, and the rehab house got some cheap labor. Only problem was, for the Court's fee, you could book a month at the Mir Hilton.
Abigail's wife, Lucy, stood up. God, she looked like she could wallop me with her pinky. "I elect to sponsor the prisoner, your Honoress, facility license K729-slash-A14, is cash acceptable?" It took an hour to look up the proper procedure, but finally the judge handed over my remote control and taught Lucy how to use it. Lucy had to make sure all the buttons worked. There was a flurry of whispers and giggles. Then she clipped a leash onto the little ring dangling between my legs that was attached to a bigger one around my marbles and led her expensive new toy out of the courtroom to her car, Abby close behind.
It was one of those black-windowed Bulgemobiles with enough room for a committee meeting. Lucy said "Open, sesame," and the doors obeyed. Abby helped me in, but didn't say a thing. She was real different with Lucy around. Lucy sat in the back, facing us. "Homeward bound," she told the car. She fiddled with my remote and it gave a few beeps and blinked some red letters I couldn't read, but I didn't get a charge out of it. She set it down beside her, opened the fridge and cracked a split of vintage bubbly, loading up three flutes that had been chilling inside. She gave Abby one and then held up the other two.
"A toast to our cock-of-all-trades!" She clinked her glasses with Abby's and tilted one to my lips. "Sorry, I'm afraid we'll have to keep those restraints in place for a while; after all, you are a dangerous sex-predator, and a valuable investment besides. I'd hate to have to damage you. We must keep you pretty for dear Abby and all the rest of the sluts who pay to mount your maypole. One hundred percent to the house, of course, unless you'd prefer the knife. No point to it really, since your voice has already changed."
The Bulgemobile thrummed, thrusting me deep into the cushy red leather upholstery. We must have taken the Flyway. Abigail gave a hopeful look and embraced my shoulders. Lucy snickered, "Yes, you can enjoy him, but remember he belongs to me now. How much is he worth? Enough to make you give me what I want?" Lucy pushed a button on the console and played the greatest hits from Abby's love-mail, the parts about "darling dumpling" and "honey buns" (she favored pastry-centric endearments) and couldn't she set me up in a little hump hut for just the two of us.
Abby blushed profusely. Lucy suggested, "Let's you two viddie stars make a sequel. Of course, we'll splice in some new faces for the pink market DVD." She turned up the lights. The monitor showed Abby and me perfectly lit, centered and focused.
Following Lucy's direction, Abby slowly disrobed, moaning and gasping in embarrassment at the porno moves Lucy put her through. Funny thing was, the redder she got, the sexier she looked. Aroused and ashamed bear a remarkable resemblance. Lucy made her put her fingers in her mouth and pinch her nips till they poked
out like pencil erasers and suck on my tongue and unzip my jumpsuit down to
the pouch around my parts and pat and slap and squeeze till I pushed out hard
against the stretchy fabric and my remote went bad-a-bing and my bat and
balls were riding the lightning and I was flopping like a fish out of water
and Abby was howling and her goldilocks were rising up off her scalp but she
couldn’t let go until the current stopped after forever.
"Cut and print! Now for Scene 2. Abby, this time I want you to use your mouth."
