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<20000605204931.05836.00007664@nso-ch.aol.com> Subject: {ASSM} Tales of the
Booty Bandit, vol.1: The St. Mary's School for Troubled Girls
{MichaelD}(Mf, teen)(1/2) Date: Tue, 6 Jun 2000 12:11:36 -0400 Path:
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AUTHOR'S NOTE AND LEGAL STUFF
I did not e-mail you this story. If you unexpectedly found it in your
mailbox, it's because your kid and/or your spouse is subscribing to adult
newsgroups without your knowledge. Flame them, not me.
This story contains explicit sex. If you're a minor, you've obviously
gotten past whatever paltry filters your parents tried to put on your
computer, so hell, you might as well read it. No one ever died from
reading about sex.
This story is mine. Free reposting and archiving is okay; commercial
use is not (that includes using it on some slimeball banner farm). Contact
me if you have any questions; cross me and I'll have you fed to rabid
weasels.
This piece will, I hope, be the first in a recurring series of stories
featuring the same cast of characters. If you like them, let me know.
My stories, including this one, are archived at:
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/MichaelD/www/ www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Bissell/www (all the work of
my alter ego) www.storiesonline.net (complete but not always up)
--
THE BOOTY BANDIT v. THE ST. MARY'S SCHOOL FOR TROUBLED GIRLS
Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com. No commercial use without prior
authorization.
<->
LAWYER, n.: One skilled in circumvention of the law. LIAR, n.: A lawyer
with a roving commission.
--Ambrose Bierce, "The Devil's Dictionary"
<->
1.
I'm on the phone with two people at once--an assistant D.A. named
Melissa Coquesaughquet bitching at me about a plea bargain I backed out of
last week on line one, the mechanic from Lube Boys about my Jaguar on line
two--when my secretary sticks her cute little tush into my office and drops
a phone message in front of me. It's from someone named Sister Margaret
O'Reamme of the St. Mary's School. I look up at Rachel and lift my
eyebrows at her, and she points to the note underneath the name. It says
"CC 510.4," which is the state code section for eviction.
Now Rachel's not exactly a lawyer, but she's been doing this long enough
that she knows all the ins and outs well enough, and that's enough to keep
me from trying to teach her any other kind of ins and outs. I could
probably get her on her back with a few hours of work, but pretty soon
she'd be making noises about rings and flowers, and at that point I'd have
to find another cute blonde secretary with tits big enough to fill Rachel's
36D brassiere and a brain big enough to keep my office running smoothly,
and that's not the easiest task around, as you could probably imagine. So
I content myself with looking down her blouse now and then. I think she
knows what I'm doing, because when she's in a good mood, she won't wear a
bra to the office. Days like that I tend not to get a lot of work done.
Coquesaughquet is still bitching at me.
". . . and if you think I'm going to give you one atom more than I have
to in Malcolm material, you've got another thing coming."
The "Malcolm" she's referring to is the state supreme court case that
requires the DA to turn any exculpatory evidence she has over to the
defense.
"Melissa, you know as well as I do that I have to follow my client's
wishes. He changed his mind about the plea."
She scoffs into the phone.
"Jason, don't give me that shit. That pervert would bend over and kiss
his ass in front of the jury if you told him to. If you make me go to
trial on this, I'm going rip you a new asshole. You and him."
Actually, she was right. My client was a serial flasher who was facing
his fifth conviction for lewd conduct after exposing himself in the produce
section of various local supermarkets. He would wait until he saw a woman
browsing the cucumbers and then display his erection, remarking that the
woman might like trying the real thing for once. I had represented him
twice before, and would no doubt represent him again when he got out after
his current stint in the slammer. I would have pled the case out a long
time ago except that Melissa Coquesaughquet had a grade-A behind on her,
and I wanted a few more chances to see it in those tight DKNY skirts she
wore to court. Unfortunately, I suspected she was also a lesbian, which
made her name all the more ironic.
"I'll talk to him. I can't promise anything."
"You are not going to put that poor woman on the stand and make her
describe his penis like you did last time. I will not let you do it."
"I'll see what I can do."
"All right. You call me back the instant he changes his mind."
She hangs up, and I spend another minute dealing with the mechanic from
Lube Boys, who tries to convince me the Jag needs a new oil pump. I dicker
with him just out of principle before giving him the go-ahead. As soon as
I'm done, I call Rachel back in.
"Rach?"
She reappears in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. She's in a good
mood today, which means her tits are clearly visible through the silk
blouse she has on.
"What is this nun thing?"
"Sister Margaret O'Reamme of the St. Mary's School for Troubled Girls.
She says they're being evicted because the landlord wants to tear the place
down and build some condos. She wanted to know if there was anything they
could do to stop the eviction."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her about the city code about condo conversion, but that she
would have to talk to you."
"Did you ask her about landmark status, historical preservation, that
kind of thing?"
She shakes her head.
"The place was built in 1969. According to Sister Margaret, it's
nothing special, basically just a converted apartment house."
I run through a few theories in my mind, seeing nothing too useful.
"What exactly do they do?"
"It's a halfway house for teenage girls just getting out of juvenile
hall. They're licensed by the state, but it's a non-profit charity
organization."
I nod.
"Call her back. Set up an appointment."
--
2.
Sister Margaret O'Reamme shows up the next day to go over her case. I'm
expecting some withered old hag in one those big flaring habits, something
like Sally Field in "The Flying Nun," but instead she turns out to be a
fairly cute redhead in her mid-thirties, wearing normal street clothes.
With her is an even cuter brunette of about sixteen, with a black leather
jacket on her back and "bad attitude" all over her face. Something about
her looks vaguely familiar, but I can't quite place it now.
Rachel shows them into my conference room, and I let them wait a couple
of minutes before heading down the hall and introducing myself.
"Sister Margaret, I'm Jason Boutey. Very nice to meet you."
She shakes my hand.
"Thank you for seeing us. This is Jaime Lefeu, one of our girls."
The brunette gives me a look that's half smirk and half leer.
"What was your last name again?" she goes.
"Boutey. B-O-U-T-E-Y."
"Oh. Because it sounds like--"
"I know." I give her a grin. "Shall we get started?"
I sit down and Sister Margaret pushes a pile of papers across the table,
all of which I recognize immediately.
"Our lease ran out late last year," she says. "We've been month to
month with the landlord, but he kept assuring us that he was going to write
us another lease. Then we were served with this just two days ago. The
landlord didn't give us any warning at all. When we tried to negotiate
with him, he said it was too late. He had already started the planning for
the condominiums."
I review the paperwork for a minute. Everything seems to be in order.
The city housing code has fairly strict guidelines for condo conversion,
but as near as I can tell, this guy is following them to the T.
"Why don't you tell me a little bit about your organization, so I have
an idea of what we're working with here?"
She nods and begins her spiel. The place has been around for almost a
hundred years now, and they moved into their current digs in 1969, as
Rachel told me. They're licensed by the state as a halfway house for girls
who get paroled from the state youth authority. She spends about ten
minutes telling me about all the things they do, but my mind starts to
drift, especially seeing as how the brunette is still sitting there giving
me the eye. When she leans back in her chair and stretches, I notice that
she's got quite a rack on her--not as big as Rachel, but with Rachel
pushing thirty, this girl has a lot more gravity-defiance going on than my
secretary does, even on her best days. The look she gives me when she
settles back into place tells me she saw me looking and doesn't care.
Hell, she probably did it just to see if I would check her out.
Sister Margaret pauses to catch her breath, and I make a show of
reviewing my notes.
"I won't lie to you," I say as sagely as I can manage, "this won't be
easy. But there are some things I can do to at least delay the eviction
and give you more time to find somewhere else to go."
Actually, this case looks to be as big a turkey as anything that's
walked into my office in the last month or two, but I could see enough
entertainment value to want to take it.
Sister Margaret gives me pained look.
"You don't think there's anything you can do to stop it?"
"I didn't say that. I just said it would be tough."
"All right. Thank you so much."
I run through my standard terms for the retainer and hourly rate, which
she agrees to. I stand up and show them out of the conference room.
"I think it might help if I had a chance to look around the home," I go,
"to meet the girls and the other nuns, just so I can get a better feel for
the case."
"Of course," she says. "When would be convenient for you?"
"Talk to Rachel on your way out. She handles my calendar."
Sister Margaret heads towards Rachel's desk, but the girl lingers behind
her, smirking at me again.
"I bet that's not all she handles," she whispers.
I grin.
"Not really. That's what clients are for."
Her eyes swell in surprise, and I give her another grin on the way back
to my office.
When the two of them leave, I have Rachel go into my pleading bank and
print out a boilerplate Hayes motion. This is standard tenant tactic,
based on a state supreme court case from a few years back, designed to
prevent landlords from evicting tenants based on their race or religious
beliefs by forcing a hearing on the issue. It's a complete bullshit
maneuver that does nothing but delay the eviction for at least a month, but
since we've got both race _and_ religion going on here (even though I know
the only color motivating the landlord is green), I fill in the blanks and
tell Rachel to file it anyway. The messenger shows up an hour later and
takes it off to court.
I bill them just three hours for the whole undertaking, since I'm in a
good mood.
--
3.
Rachel has me scheduled for the visit to St. Mary's School for Troubled
Girls a couple of days later, during which I get a call from the landlord's
lawyer and have to listen to a tirade about sanctions and frivolous
pleadings, but we since both know that a) I can easily delay this eviction
by six months even though we don't have a case, and b) there isn't jack
shit he can do to stop me from doing it, I know he's just blowing hot air.
Besides which, the longer this drags out, the more we get to bill, so I
know he doesn't mean it anyway. He's just making lawyer noises at me so he
can tell his client he chewed me out.
When he lets me go, I call the cucumber flasher at the county jail and
discuss his case for a few minutes. During our conversation, I get the
distinct impression that he wants a chance to expose himself to Melissa
Coquesaughquet, and as much as that idea appeals to me, I know that the
judge isn't likely to be amused, so I begin making plans to plead this guy
out after all. I want to see Melissa Coquesaughquet's ass as much as the
next guy, but the secret to enjoying yourself as a lawyer is to never
misbehave in front of people who can toss you in jail for contempt.
Rachel is in an usually good mood today, having arrived at the office
wearing some sort of loose knit tank dress and precious little else, so I
contemplate having her reschedule my visit to St. Mary's, but a glance at
my calendar shows no other opportunities for at least a week, and I really
do need to get over there. I have a feeling that Rachel knows this and
deliberately dressed the way she did anyway.
On the way out, I stop at Rachel's desk to pick up the directions.
Competent secretary that she is, she has them waiting right on top of her
outbox, but she has somehow placed them so that she has to bend over far
enough to let the front her dress fall open as she reaches for them, giving
me confirmation--as if I needed it--of her lack of undergarments. I
haven't seen her nipples in a few weeks, and it's enough to sustain me for
the drive to St. Mary's.
I find the place a couple miles from downtown, not too far from the
Sunshine County Courthouse. It's nothing but a bland two-story apartment
building with a chain-link fence around it and a little sign saying "St.
Mary's School for Troubled Girls" out front. I had been holding onto the
idea of applying for historical landmark status despite what Rachel told
me, but after seeing the building, I decide that even I'm not that
shameless.
I park the Jag, with its new oil pump, out front and walk up to the
gate. Some woman's voice comes out of the call box, and after I introduce
myself, she buzzes me in. In the lobby, I see about half a dozen sullen
teenage girls lounging around, most of whom aren't worth a second glance. I
look for Jaime but don't see her.
Sister Margaret appears from the hallway to my left.
"Mr. Boutey, it's good to see you again."
"My pleasure."
She shows me around the common areas as I explain what I've done so far.
She's thrilled that I've delayed the eviction for another month, so I don't
bother telling her that I've done nothing a first-year law student couldn't
handle.
St. Mary's is laid out like a college dorm, with the resident rooms
around the outside and the common areas toward the center. Sister Margaret
explains the rehabilitation programs they offer, and she shows me a room
with about ten girls trying to weave baskets. I wonder what good
basket-weaving is going to do them once they get out, but I hold my tongue.
Sister Margaret completes the tour in about fifteen minutes.
"Sister, if it's not too much trouble, I'd like to talk to one or two of
the girls face-to-face. Just so I have some innocent kids to wave in front
of the judge when he has to make his decision."
"Of course. Would you like to talk to Jaime again?"
I've lied my ass off in front of a hundred judges, so there's no way she
can tell that's exactly what I'm hoping for.
"She would be fine."
She nods and shows me to a table in the empty cafeteria, then goes to
get the girl. The two of them return in a few minutes, and Sister Margaret
leaves us alone.
Jaime gives me a half-wary, half-intrigued look as she sits down. She's
got on just a white T-shirt and cargo pants, but either she's practicing
for a posture contest or she knows damn well where my interest in her lies.
"So what do you want?" she finally goes.
"I just want to get to know you a little better. Something to make the
judge feel sorry for all of you."
"You think they're gonna kick us out?"
She has that typical teenage
if-I-suspect-for-a-microsecond-that-you're-bullshitting-me-forget-it look
on her face, so I play it straight.
"Probably. There isn't much I can do besides delay things a while."
She shrugs.
"Fine with me. I hate this fucking place."
"So how'd you end up here?"
She snorts.
"You want some sob story to peddle in front of everybody, is that it?"
"I just want to get a feel for things."
Another snort.
"I bet that's not all you want a feel for."
I stare at her for a few seconds.
"You shave your pubic hair, don't you? You're not supposed to in here,
but you do it anyway because it makes you feel like a bad girl."
Her eyes bug out for a second, and the sullen attitude evaporates. She
looks at me like she doesn't know whether to slap me or yell for help.
Then she looks away, fighting an embarrassed grin.
"That's what you're going to tell the judge?"
"Might liven up the hearing a bit."
She still can't look at me.
"How the fuck do you know that? Did somebody tell you?"
"I'm a lawyer. Reading people is what I do."
She looks back at me now, and for the first time I see some sparks of
real interest.
"You really want to know what I did to get in here?"
"Yes."
"I set my folks' apartment on fire."
"Why?"
"I was bored. No reason. I set a fire in my waste basket and it got
out of control. Burned down half the fucking building."
"You weren't acting out some neurosis? Getting back at people?"
"No. My mom is pretty cool and my stepdad didn't molest me. I just
like setting fires."
"Do they call you a pyromaniac?"
She grins.
"Yeah."
"Are you?" I ask.
"I like fire."
"It gets you hot?"
"Yeah," she says.
"Probably don't get much of it in here."
She licks her lips.
"They don't even let us smoke. There isn't a lighter in the whole
fucking place."
I smile at her for a few seconds.
"You know, I think I'm going to need to get some official testimony from
you, something under oath. I can't do that here. You think they'll let
you out for a couple of hours?"
Her eyes swell with anticipation.
"You could ask."
It takes a little work to convince Sister Margaret to let me take Jaime
out of the building, but when I explain about needing to get a sworn
statement from her and how it's a lot easier to get it done in my office,
she goes along with it.
"Is there anything else we can do?" she asks.
"I'll let you know. Right now I'd concentrate on finding somewhere else
to go, just to be sure you have a fall back."
I see the disappointment filling her eyes, which is just what I'm hoping
for. This way, if we lose, as seems likely, she won't be too upset, and if
we win, I might just find out how serious she is about her vow of celibacy.
--
4.
Jaime and I head out to the Jag. After she gets in, she caresses the
leather of her seat for a few seconds, looking around.
"Nice car."
"Thanks."
"Are you rich?"
"I'm a lawyer."
She grins.
"You keep telling me that."
I live in a nice townhouse just outside of Kelsey Hills. It's not quite
in the high-rent district where all the movie stars live, but it's close
enough for my taste. I show Jaime inside and get her a beer from the
refrigerator. She twists the top off and takes a long swig, then begins
wandering around the place. She finally reaches the master bedroom, where
the fireplace in the corner faces the bed.
"I should tell you something before we do this," she says.
"What?"
"I'm a virgin."
I can't tell whether she's bullshitting me, and she laughs at the look
on my face.
"You don't believe me."
"Should I?"
"I thought you said you could read people."
"Nobody's perfect."
She gives me another grin and then kneels on the floor in front of the
fireplace. She opens the grille and starts building a fire. I sit on the
end of the bed and watch her.
She goes into a trance almost, piling the firewood carefully into a
square like a log cabin. She wads up at least fifteen sheets of newspaper
and places them meticulously into the pile of wood, moving them around from
place to place as if she's creating some kind of sculpture. When she's
finally satisfied, she takes one of the long matches out of the box beside
the fireplace tongs and strikes it on the bottom. She lights each corner
of her construction and then sits back on her feet, staring raptly at the
growing flame.
For fifteen minutes both of us are motionless, me on the bed watching
Jaime, her two feet from the fire watching it grow. Pretty soon the wood
is snapping and popping, the dry pine catching fire rapidly. I can feel
the heat now, and Jaime has to be getting to be scorched as close as she
is. But she still doesn't move.
I slide to the floor and crawl up behind her. She doesn't notice me
until I put my hands on her waist from behind, but when I do, she lays her
hands over them, pulling them around to her belly, leaning back against me.
She turns her head around and tries to kiss me. I let her, but I when I
open my eyes halfway through the kiss I can see she's still staring
straight into the fire.
I run my hands up her abdomen, cupping her breasts, and the front of her
body is almost hot enough to sear my palms. She fits into me perfectly,
like my hands have taken over for her bra, and I start kneading her tits
like bread dough. She moans, pressing back against me harder, then breaks
the kiss and turns back toward the fireplace. I bend down to kiss her
neck, licking up the heat she's absorbed from the fire. She's breathing
harder now, breasts heaving in my hands, and a second later she's pulling
her T-shirt over her head. I've hardly grabbed her tits again before her
bra comes off in my hands.
She twists around again and kisses me as I play with her naked breasts.
Her nipples are tiny little nubs of flesh, but her tits are like two
grapefruits, firm and hard. She's sucking on my tongue now, leaning hard
back against me. She's still facing the fire, and I can feel her bare skin
heating up. She's going to get a burn if she stays this close, but she's
showing no inclination to move.
Something lets loose in the fireplace, and a loud crack explodes through
the room. Jaime lurches back against me, trying to grope at my clothes
without turning away from the fire. I jerk my tie from around my neck and
then pull my shirt over my head without unbuttoning it. We press our naked
flesh together, and Jaime rises up off her feet, on her knees a foot from
the fire. She's still trying to kiss me as I'm massaging her tits, and
suddenly she grabs one of my hands and shoves it into her pants.
I dig under her waistband into her panties. I expect her to be turned
on, but it's like I just shoved my fingers into a bowl of melting Jell-O.
Her crotch is so wet I can hardly find my way around at first, but when I
do, I discover that her twat is as scorched as the rest of her. And was
right about her shaving--she's as bald as a beaver's tail. She lets out a
little cry as I get her firmly in hand.
I've got one hand in her snatch now and one on her right tit. I play
with her for only about ten seconds before she's thrashing in my arms,
shaking and shivering in climax, as hot as the fire she's worshipping with
her body.
I can't stand it any longer. As she starts to come down, I'm already
trying to get her pants off. She unbuttons the waistband, braces herself
with one hand to rise off her knees, and two seconds later, she's
completely naked. She backs up against me, pushing her butt against my
crotch, and I get the message: Do what you want, but don't get between me
and the fire.
No problem for me. I drop my pants, shove down my boxers, and plant my
cock between her thighs. As wet as she is, it takes only a single thrust
to get into her, even though I have to get past her-
Oh, fuck me.
Jaime lets out a screech, and the sensation of busting into her suddenly
jerks me back to reality. She laughs around her considerable arousal.
"I told you."
She had, but I hadn't believed her for a second. So much for being able
to read people.
I start thrusting into her, keeping a tight grip on her hips. She
practically has her head in the fireplace by now, and I'm worried about her
hair getting singed. But she's coming like an out-of-control freight
train, screeching and slamming back against me. I lose what little control
I have by this point and start hammering into her. It's what she wants,
even if she's clearly fucking the fire, not me, and pretty soon we're like
a couple of bumper cars at the county fair. She comes again, then a third
time, and finally I dump my load into her gut, leaning backwards to shove
every inch of myself into her. She sinks back against me, still grinding
herself down on my dick, and finally withdraws from the fire.
The stench of burnt hair swirls around me. She giggles.
"That was fun."
"Yeah," I gasp. Jesus Christ, I think to myself.
Eventually I get up and wash myself off. Jaime collapses on the bed.
She looks like a boiled lobster--the whole front of her body is bright red.
"Are you okay?"
She nods but doesn't answer me. I convince her to do it normally about
twenty minutes later, but this time she's a dead fish. She just lays there
staring up at the ceiling until I finally relent and let her get on top,
facing the fireplace again. She goes crazy and nearly breaks my dick off.
I take her back to St. Mary's. Sister Margaret asks if everything went
all right.
"We're fine," I tell her. "I might need to interview her again,
though."
"I'm sure she'll be glad to help. She's done so well now, what with
everything that's happened to her."
I nod sagely, trying not to think of everything that just happened to
me.
"She told me about the fire."
"That, and her father. She's had so much to deal with."
My interest suddenly returns.
"Her father?"
Sister Margaret looks at me curiously.
"Didn't she tell you? Her father is Richard DeShaunessey."
My entire field of vision narrows to a tiny point around her face.
Richard DeShaunessey is one of those infamous cultural markers, one of
those defining moments of a generation like Charles Manson or Jeffery
Daumer. I was still in high school when he was arrested, still essentially
a kid when I watched those unforgettable images of the Sunshine City Police
carting one dismembered, decomposing body after another out of his
basement. He pled guilty and then rather blithely detailed everything he'd
done for the court. Most of it was unfit for broadcast even though the
local TV news squeezed as much of it onto the air as they could manage.
The cops never figured out just how many people he killed (they couldn't
quite put all those parts back together right), but the body count was well
into double digits.
No wonder Jaime had seemed so familiar the first time I met her. Her
father's face is only imprinted on the mind of every adult in this state.
I drive back to the office carefully. I try not to dwell on the fact
that I've just spent most of the afternoon deflowering Richard
DeShaunessey's daughter. He's currently sitting on Death Row up north, so
halfway back I call Rachel and ask her to look up his status online. He
has a couple of habeus appeals going, but Rachel assures me it's nothing
but standard death penalty boilerplate.
"That was his daughter who was in here the other day," she says after a
moment, "wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
I hear her laughing softly over my cell phone.
"Don't worry, Jason. He's never getting out of jail."
"Okay."
"Come back to the office. I'll get a beer out of the kitchen for you."
--
The Booty Bandit v. The St. Mary's School For Troubled Girls Copyright
2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com. Free redistribution permitted; no commercial
use without authorization
Michael
~Story Archives~ www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/MichaelD/www/ www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Bissell/www
~Other Archives~ www.storiesonline.net
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/BitBard/www/forray/michaeld/
-- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all
rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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