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Message-ID: <39961asstr$1040379003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Homer Vargas <vargas111@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} CROMWELL'S COURT CASE (MC, Mdom, preg, humor)
Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2002 05:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Author: Homer Vargas
Title: Cromwell's Court Case
Part: Sequel to Cromwell's Court Case 
Universe: 
Summary: Cromwell avoids a sexual harassment suit and
so much more.
Keywords: MC, Mdom, preg, humor
Redistribution: No restriction except that the story
may not be changed/edited and the title, author's name
and email, and request for feedback must remain
intact.
First Posted 12/18/01
Last Edited 12/18/03



CROMWELL'S COURT CASE (MC, Mdom, preg, humor)
By Downing Street
Twisted and re-posted with his permission
by Homer Vargas
vargas111@yahoo.com

Everyone knows by now that Downing Street is my
favorite writer.  His way of telling how uptight women
gradually are transformed into tarty sluts is without
peer.  But is it "conceivable" that he is telling the
"full" story?  The "expanded" consequences of these
changes "bear" further examination.

*****
I
*****

"This is the best deal you have any reason to expect,
Cromwell," the woman said coldly; "I suggest you take
it."

Cromwell looked back at the slender blonde in the
masculine black suit, barely noticing the sheaf of
papers in her hand.  He felt utterly defeated.  Even
his own lawyer thought he was scum. "Penelope, can't
we fight this?"

If anything, the lawyer's voice became even colder. 
"First of all, my name is 'Ms. Parnell,' not
'Penelope.'  Second, your former employee has a case
against you on which the court will convict. 
Especially with one of the best legal firms in the
city behind her.  Take the plea bargain.  And try to
remember this the next time you feel like assaulting
your secretary."  She tossed the papers in front of
him and sat down behind her polished desk.

Cromwell sat there, feeling numb.  He stared past her
for a moment, out the second-storey window.  The trees
lining the street were brilliant in the early autumn
sunshine, indifferent to the morass his life had
fallen into.

"Penelope," he tried again, "I mean Ms. Parnell.  It,
it wasn't like that.  I didn't mean anything.  Hell, I
was drunk, it was a party, everybody was fooling
around, having a good time.  I just got a little
carried away.  She led me on."

"She has videotape," the blonde lawyer snapped back,
"and multiple witnesses.  Her case is airtight."

"But, but those witnesses are all her friends.  Of
course they'll corroborate her story; the judge will
see that."

"The judge will also hear testimony from each witness
that you made persistent and inappropriate advances to
all of them too, won't he."  Her blue eyes flashed.

Cromwell hung his head.  How could this be happening? 
Two weeks ago he had gotten a little loose at a
company party, nothing that hadn't happened a dozen
times before.  Now that little minx of a secretary,
barely 20 years old, was dragging him through the mud
and making his life hell.  He shook his head.  The
damndest thing was that the girl had the most awesome
legs.  Irrelevant, but still true.

At last he said, "I need some time to think about
this."

Ms. Parnell said, "Don't take too long about it.  The
trial gets underway day after tomorrow.  The deal
drops the criminal charges if you settle for the full
amount in the civil suit.  That option won't be
available once the case is in session.  I'd like to
get this off my desk."

For a moment Cromwell rebelled.  He was being shuffled
aside like so much paperwork!  "You're supposed to be
MY lawyer!" he charged.

The blue-eyed blonde was unmoved.  "Not my idea,
Cromwell.  I'm only on this case at all because Mr.
Ferguson doesn't want to touch it.  I can see why.  I
have other cases to deal with, real people with real
problems; I haven't got time to waste on a middle-aged
cad who treats his employees as playmates for his
sexual gratification."

For a long moment they glared at each other.  Her hair
was tied up in a businesslike bun on the back of her
head, hiding its true length.  Her high cheeks,
flushed with anger, were surprisingly pretty.  She was
young, not even a junior partner yet.  She had been
assigned to his case when Ferguson, his friend and
confidant for years, had suddenly become "too busy"
for him.

Cromwell rose and snatched the papers off her desk. 
"I'll look at these," he said, knowing he was
conceding defeat.

Ms. Parnell did not get up.  "Be in my office with the
papers signed at 9:30 tomorrow.  I need time to talk
to the judge."

He let himself out.

*****

Fifteen minutes later Cromwell was seated in his
favorite chair at his regular club, nursing his wounds
with a strong drink.  It wasn't his fault, he told
himself for the one thousandth time.  It was all a
set-up.

Things hadn't been going well at home.  His wife was
incredibly sexy, but had lost interest in sex; maybe
she'd never really had any.  He loved her, but,
rebuffed each night and morning, he went to work each
morning horny and frustrated, which combined with his
driven personality to make him short-tempered and
sullen.  More and more he found himself noticing all
the attractive young women in the office.

Then one day Tawny had waltzed into his office, pert,
cheerful and gorgeous.  She announced, as if she had
just won a school prize, that Human Resources had made
her his new secretary.  Cromwell had been stung.  She
was perfect.  She was beautiful.  She came to work
each morning in yet another foxy miniskirt, apparently
unaware of Cromwell's weakness for legs on high heels,
unlike his wife who WAS aware and refused to wear
them.  She seemed so innocent. . .

He sipped his Scotch, staring at the floor.

"Quite a jolly mess, isn't it?" said the man beside
him.

Cromwell looked up.  "Excuse me?"

The man put down the newspaper that had hidden him so
effectively.  He was thin and bespectacled.  "This
mire you've gotten yourself into, Mr. Cromwell.  This
awful legal proceeding."

"Excuse me," Cromwell said again, "Do I know you?  I
don't think I remember--"

The man interrupted him smoothly.  "Just look at your
situation.  You're facing both a private suit and a
criminal prosecution.  Your adversary is a
twenty-year-old secretary the judge will love.  I
understand you've drawn Judge Martha Harris; a
competent jurist, but something of a crusader on
harassment issues.  The case against you is
formidable, even though there is no convincing
evidence of impropriety on your part, aside from
inebriation.  If you decide to fight it, the best you
can hope for is a conditional discharge and a criminal
record.  Or you can accept the sleazy deal they're
offering and pay a six-figure sum for having too much
to drink at a party."

"What --," blustered Cromwell, "Who are you?  How do
you know  all --"

"Have you considered the, ah, social implications of
your predicament?" the man asked, ignoring Cromwell's
questions.  "How much respect will you retain at work
once your whole staff sees you convicted as a lecher? 
What will be your chances at that vice-presidency you
have worked toward for so long?  You will probably
have great difficulty even finding a new secretary. 
Not to mention the effect on business when word of
this gets out to your customers.  Most important of
all: how long do you think you can hide this little
adventure from your wife?"

"You leave my wife out of this!" Cromwell stormed,
fighting to keep his voice down.  Then, after a
moment:  "She will ... understand."

The thin man regarded Cromwell patiently through his
dark-framed glasses.  "Certainly she will ...
understand.  She will understand that you have handed
her powerful new ammunition with which to belittle and
intimidate you any time she wants something.  She will
understand how to exact a steep and continuing price
for her forgiveness; she will understand how to use
this incident to get her own way for years to come. 
She'll never have to fuck you again."

Cromwell felt his face flush with anger.  He started
to say something, but the other man raised a hand,
cutting him off.  "Please, Mr. Cromwell, be honest
with yourself.  Your wife is a self-centered,
manipulative bitch.  She married you for money and
prestige.  I suspect you were so bedazzled by her
looks that you didn't see her true nature.  I can't
say I blame you: fabulous tits and fucked like a
banshee before you married her, didn't she?"  He spoke
in the same tones a man might used while discussing
England's chances in the World Cup.

Cromwell leaned toward him, his face a thundercloud. 
"Now look here, whoever you are, I --"

"Mr. Cromwell," the man interrupted, "when was the
last time your wife allowed you to made love?"

Cromwell said nothing for a long moment.  He looked
away.  Finally, in a low voice, he asked:  "How do you
know all this?"

"We do our homework," the man replied.  "Thorough
background research is the key to ensuring our clients
are satisfied."

"What?  Clients?"

The man reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a
plain white business card.  He handed it to Cromwell. 
"I represent a company that specializes in situations
like yours," he explained.  "I believe we can help
you."

Cromwell said:  "I already have a lawyer."

"Ah yes, MS Parnell," the man responded, buzzing the
title ironically as if they were discussing golf.  He
folded his hands like a steeple.  "Your lawyer is part
of your problem.  She is an ambitious, if sexy little
sourpuss who only wants to put this whole matter
behind her.  You need a more permanent solution."

Cromwell studied the man sitting next to him.  He was
tall and proper.  Dressed in a conservative grey suit
and tasteful silk tie, he could have been an
investment banker or a professor of economics.  He
spoke with a crisp, slightly British accent.

"Permanent solution?  What are you talking about?"
Cromwell asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

"I mean, quite simply, that we can make this whole
ugly situation go away," the man said evenly. 
"Disappear.  Vanish.  Cease to be a vexation to your
spirit."

"You can win my court case?"

"We can do better than that.  We can have all the
charges withdrawn, with an apology.  We can make the
parties involved regret that they ever displeased you
and sincerely want to make you happy.  We can do away
with all these petty annoyances that are preventing
you from enjoying life as it ought to be enjoyed.  In
short, Mr. Cromwell, we can FIX things."

"But, but -- I still don't understand.  How do you
propose to do this?"

The man flexed his fingers for a moment.  "I'd rather
not go into the methods themselves.  In any case it's
rather technical.  When you have decided to go ahead,
just call the number on that card.  They will take
care of fee transfers and scheduling.  I urge you to
call soon, today if possible.  We don't have a great
deal of lead time."

Cromwell was staring at him, nonplussed.  Was he
really having this conversation?  "How-- how much?" he
found himself saying.  The man beside him named a
figure that made Cromwell's eyes go round.  "It's
entirely reasonable," he explained, "when you consider
what you receive in return.  Besides, it's less than
you would pay in legal fees and penalties, assuming
the suit against you is successful."

Cromwell stopped to consider.  The man had a point;
the court case was bound to cost him dearly.  And if
they could do what he said they could do....

His companion got to his feet, folding the newspaper
neatly beneath his arm.  "Do give us a call this
afternoon if you can.  You won't regret it.  Good day,
Mr. Cromwell."  He walked away briskly.

Cromwell stayed behind.  He looked at the business
card in his hand.  It was entirely blank but for a
telephone number, printed exactly in the middle. 
Cromwell couldn't decide if that was the strangest
thing, or whether it was the fact that the man beside
him had been reading the Times of India.

*****

Two hours later, Cromwell was sitting in his office,
still staring at the business card.  The chill in the
office when he came in had been palpable.  Friends and
colleagues avoided him.  People whispered behind his
back.  His outer office was empty.  Tawny had been
transferred, at her request.  Human Resources had
decided it would be best if Cromwell got by without a
secretary, for the time being.  He picked up the
telephone and dialed the number.

"Hello!  Thank you for calling," said a sexy female
voice.

"Uh.  Hello.  Uh, yes.  My name is Cromwell, I--"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Cromwell!"  The voice sounded delighted.
 "Have you decided to go ahead with the procedure?"

"Well, I, I guess, I mean, I think -- Listen, I'd like
to know a little more about it."

"Oh, don't worry about the details.  Trust me, you'll
love our work.  Did our representative talk to you
about the fee?"

"Yes.  Yes, he did.  Shouldn't I meet with your people
to discuss my case?"

"No need for that.  We have all the information we
need in our files.  We can begin as soon as the funds
are transferred."

"But, but, I still don't understand --"

"Mr. Cromwell," the voice said pointedly, "we offer a
full money- back guarantee.  None of our clients has
*ever* asked for a refund."

There was silence for a long moment.  Eventually
Cromwell said:  "How do I pay the fee?"

"Make an electronic transfer to this account."  She
named an account number of a bank in the Cayman
Islands.  "You've made the right decision, Mr.
Cromwell.  We'll get right to work.  Oh, one more
thing.  Did you write that account number down on a
piece of paper?"

"Yes."

"When you're through, throw it away, won't you?  Bye
now."

Cromwell hung up the telephone.  He turned to his
computer and transferred a large sum of money to an
offshore account.  He took the sheet of paper with the
bank and account number written on it and dropped it
through the paper shredder.  Then he went home.

Cromwell's wife was not home when he arrived.  There
was nothing unusual about that.  Shana was usually
out, ostensibly shopping, or running him down with one
of her rich friends, or playing tennis, or
participating in any of the innumerable events that
constituted the social whirl in which she lived.  In
fact Cromwell suspected she was having her gears oiled
regularly by some stud at her gym.

Cromwell didn't mind.  He was grateful for the free
time.  He still hadn't told Shana about the court
case.  He was not looking forward to the fireworks.

Shana did not come home for dinner.  When she hadn't
returned by late evening, Cromwell began to worry.  It
wasn't like Shana to go so long without calling.  He
stayed up late, nursing a drink.  When Shana still
hadn't returned by midnight, he decided he might as
well go to bed.

He was awakened in the night by the sound of movement.
 He turned on the bedside lamp.  Shana was there,
changing into her nightgown.  She looked haggard.

"Shana!" Cromwell cried.  "At last.  Where have you
been?"

His wife looked at him wanly.  "Honey, I'm really
tired."  She clambered into bed beside him and closed
her eyes.  She actually seemed to smuggle close.

Cromwell stared at her incredulously.  "Shana, it's
--" he glanced at the bedside clock -- "it's 3 a.m.! 
Where have you been?"

"mm not sure," she mumbled, without opening her eyes. 
"Thin' I wzz 'ducted.  These two men. . . put me 'n
van."

"WHAT!"  He sprang up in bed.  "What?  I mean, how? 
Who?  Did they hurt you?  Are you all right?  Shana?"

His wife was breathing regularly, fast asleep.

After a moment Cromwell turned off the lamp.  He
stared into the darkness, perplexed.  This had been
one strange day.  He lay down and his wife schoonched
against him for the first time in years.

*****

Cromwell was having a dream.  It was a pleasant,
erotic dream.  It had something to do with a beautiful
secretary seducing him.  His eyes fluttered open. 
Early morning sunlight poured through the bedroom
windows.  His bed covers had been pulled back.  His
wife was astride him, on her knees, slowly and
lovingly lowering herself onto his cock.

"Wha?" said Cromwell.

Shana raised her glistening cunt lips from his member
for just a moment.  "Good morning honey," she cooed,
looking at with enraptured devotion.  "Did you sleep
well?"

Evidently it was a rhetorical question, because she
immediately lowered herself and her pussy drew him
back in.  Cromwell groaned.  Through the intensely
pleasurable sensations that Shana was producing, his
mind registered astonishment.  In the nearly seven
years that they had been married, Shana had ridden him
exactly twice, both times with ill grace and only when
he had made it a condition for granting some
especially extravagant indulgence.  Now she was
spontaneously giving him the best cowgirl fuck he'd
ever experienced.  Shana did something with her cunt
muscles and Cromwell twitched.

There was something else odd too.  As he watched his
wife's pussy slide eagerly up and down his tool,
Cromwell realized Shana was already wearing her
make-up.  Earrings too.  The big gold ones he had
bought her but she had never worn, flashed and flew
about as she bounced.  She was dressed in a red,
strapless teddy, a Valentine's or Anniversary gift
from years ago but which until now Shana had refused
to put it on.  "Whorish," she had judged.  The cups
thrust her half-covered chest up and out, highlighting
her spectacular tits.  Her legs were clad in shiny
stockings with ribbons and bows on the garters.  Her
gaudiest pair of high-heeled red pumps were on her
feet.

How early had she gotten up to prepare for this?  And
whatever for?  Cromwell tried to ask a question, but
Shana bent down and put her tongue in his mouth. 
Nothing came out but a squeaky gasp.  Then she began
to fuck him hard, long hair flying on each downstroke.
 She brought Cromwell to the brink in moments. 
Groaning, he reached behind him with both hands and
clasped the headboard.  A moment later she had impaled
herself on him hard.  His back arched upward and he
erupted like a geyser into her dripping cunt.

The relief was exquisite.  Shana stayed with him,
riding hungrily until at last he subsided into sighs
and twitches.  She licked him clean when she
reluctantly let his softening shaft slip out of her
pussy. "There," she said with satisfaction, "isn't
that a nice way to start the day?"

Without giving her astonished husband a chance to
answer, she slid gracefully to her feet.  "Don't hurry
about getting up, honey," she said.  "I'll get your
breakfast while you shower, 'K?"  She slipped on a
long, transparent robe, and without pausing to do it
up, sauntered out of the room, unconcerned that a
thick glob of semen was sliding down her leg.

Cromwell lay there for a long time, catching his
breath.  What on earth had gotten into Shana?  She
only LET him fuck her when she wanted something; she
never took the initiative, never seemed to enjoy it,
never NEEDED it.  Sex was just her most effective
means of manipulating him.  He went to the bathroom
for his shower.  Shana had laid out clean towels.

When Cromwell walked into the kitchen a little while
later, straightening his necktie, he received another
shock.  Food was sizzling on the stove, filling the
room with delicious smells.  Shana was sashaying about
the kitchen, humming to herself.  She seemed perfectly
at home in her high heels.

Shana cooking?  For a moment Cromwell didn't know what
to think.  If someone had asked him, what is the one
thing your wife is less likely to do than wake you up
with an early morning fuck, Cromwell would have
answered: cook breakfast for him.  "Uh, Shana?" he
said uncertainly.

His wife turned to him, beaming.  "Hi honey!  Come and
sit down, breakfast is almost ready."  She gestured to
the kitchen table, where an elaborate setting was
waiting for him.

"But, but, wait a minute.  Last night, you were out,
late; you said you had been abducted."

She gave him an amused look.  "Abducted?  Don't be
silly.  Yesterday I went out shopping with Nichole,
and then. . . .  Well, I don't remember.  Come on,
sit.  Don't let the toast get cold."

Cromwell sat.  Breakfast was excellent.  He sipped his
coffee, watching his wife totter about the kitchen
with a wary eye.  The outfit she was wearing clearly
reminded him of how she had gotten him to marry her in
the first place.  Below the rich cascades of cinnamon
brown hair her figure was perfect: smooth, curved and
sensuous, leading downward to the flawlessly tapering
legs that seemed to go on forever.  Despite what Shana
had already done for him that morning, Cromwell felt
his cock stir.

Eventually, however, he had to face reality.  "Shana,"
he said, "come here and sit down for a moment.  We
have to talk."

"Of course, darling," Shana chirped.  She approached
the table, but instead of taking the seat next to his,
she slid into his lap.  "What would you like to talk
about?"  She slid both arms around his neck.  This
action brought Cromwell distractingly close to those
mesmerizing mounds that the man in the club had so
accurately described as "fabulous".  He felt himself
stiffening.

He drew a deep breath.  "Shana, there's something I
have to tell you.  Tomorrow morning, I have to appear
in court to answer charges."

She stroked his hair.  "Oh, darling, that's awful.  Do
you want me to go with you?"

"Wh-what?"  It wasn't the response he had been
expecting.

"You know, to keep you company.  I'd be glad to come
along if you want."

"Uh, no, that won't be necessary."  She hadn't even
asked what the charges were.

She brightened. "In that case, do you mind if I do a
little shopping?"

Cromwell was confused again.  Since when did Shana
feel she needed permission to spend his money?  "Uh,
no, I guess not," he answered cautiously.  "What in
particular did you have in mind?"

She leaned closer, presenting him with an even better
view of her glorious globes.  Her voice sank an
octave.  "Well, I know how fond you are of teddies and
things.  But this is the only one I have."  She
frowned prettily, as if puzzled by how this sad state
of affairs could have arisen.  "I'd like to get more
pretty new things.  You know, for just around the
house, for you."  Her fingers gently massaged the back
of his neck.

"Oh, uh, I see.  Well, yes then, please, go right
ahead!"  He looked at his watch.  "Oops, honey, I have
to get going.  It's almost nine, and I have to meet my
lawyer at 9:30.  I'd better get to the office."

Shana planted little kisses on his cheek.  "You could
do that, I s'pose," she whispered, snuggling up close.
 "You could hurry off to the office, just for half an
hour."  She paused to kiss him very thoroughly.  "Or,"
she husked, her lips close to his, "you could stay
here to eat your very horny wife."

Was this Shana?  She had never allowed his lips to
approach her pussy.  She kissed him yet again and
slipped her hand down to his iron-hard prick to sway
his decision.  She succeeded.

It was well past 9:30 by the time Cromwell wrestled
himself from between the arms and legs of his newly
amorous wife.  A long session between her thighs
leading to several mouthfuls of Shana's cum naturally
led to another fuck, this one from behind with Shana
clawing the sheets and chewing the pillow as Cromwell
pounded her.  Daylight and doggie sex were two other
firsts for Shana who heretofore had only permitted
missionary with the lights out and never allowed
herself to orgasm.  Even after he had come into her
overheated, spasming pussy, Shana begged him to leave
it in her for a little while longer.

He called the law office from his cell phone on the
way to apologize for being late.  The receptionist
told him that Ms. Parnell had been detained in an
earlier meeting, and would not be available to meet
with him until later.  She would call when she was
free.  Cromwell turned around and headed for the
office.

The law office had not called by noon, so Cromwell
called them.  The receptionist told him that Ms.
Parnell was "out", but she promised to call back. 
Cromwell called again near the end of the day.  The
receptionist, now clearly covering for Parnell's
absence, passed him on to another lawyer, equally
junior.

"Ms. Parnell has been called away from the office for
a day or so," the man lied, "so I'll take your case in
her absence.  I understand we have a plea bargain in
place, so the court appearance is mostly a formality."

Cromwell hung up the telephone, frowning.  Why didn't
anybody know where Parnell had gone?

As he drove the few miles home from his office,
Cromwell turned to wondering about Shana.  Perhaps her
behavior that morning had been a ploy, softening him
up for a megadose of bitchiness or some new
bank-account shattering purchase.  Shana put that idea
to rest when she greeted him at the door in a black
velvet bustier that thrust out the flawless half-moons
of her chest without covering the nipples, matching
black velvet panties, shimmering dark pantyhose and
funky black ankle boots.

Cromwell had a bit of a weakness for heavy ankle
boots, but he could remember the row it had caused
when he shared that secret with his indignant wife. 
Right at that moment, as he watched Shana slink toward
him with a look of almost predatory lust, Cromwell was
surprised he could remember his middle name.  She
melted into his arms, kissing him as if he had just
returned from six months in the jungle.  "Come on in
and have a drink, darling," she urged.  "Dinner's
almost ready."

Dinner was sumptuous and delicious.  Shana did not
change to eat.  She sat across from him, her
distended, red-topped nipples on full display, and
gazed at her husband adoringly.  Cromwell barely
noticed the food.

After dinner Shana insisted that Cromwell relax with a
second drink while she modeled all the pretty things
she had bought that afternoon.  She put soft music on
the stereo and slowly changed out of one exotic outfit
and into another in front of him, getting thoroughly
worked up in the process.  She was less than half way
through the collection before she gave up.  Cromwell
was hard, anyway and they ended up back in bed again,
or rather in an urgent rut on the livingroom rug,
which was as far as Shana could go before getting
Cromwell stuffed into her.

They made it into bed eventually.  Cromwell hoped the
neighbours hadn't heard Shana screaming out his name
during her orgasms.  The next morning, his wife once
again roused him without an alarm clock, allowing him
to eat her to multiple orgasms for the second time in
their marriage before insisting on riding him to an
orgasm that delayed his arising.

*****

II

*****

Cromwell did manage to make it to the law office on
time the next morning, but it was a near thing.  Shana
had decided that there was no need to wear underwear
beneath her black lace bodystocking "just around the
house", but nevertheless opted for the high-heeled,
mirror-black pumps.  She had a regular luncheon with
some of the other rich wives in the neighbourhood. 
When Cromwell mentioned it she waved a hand and told
him she would rather stay home and clean house.  She
saw him off only after insisting he take her one last
time bent over the counter in the kitchen, proving the
wisdom of her decision to dispense with undergarments.

"Probably just as well you didn't take this to trial,"
Cromwell's new lawyer told him as they waited in the
courtroom.  "I wouldn't relish tangling with that
lot."  He nodded toward the other bench.  Cromwell's
substitute lawyer was a young black man, thin and
earnest.

Tawny was sitting on the other side of the courtroom,
accompanied by two lawyers, both older and clearly
experienced.  She was dressed conservatively, in a
very long grey skirt, worlds away from the cheerful
little minis she used to wear to the office.  Her hair
was pulled back in a bun, giving her the look of an
old fashioned school mistress, not the little vixen
who had come onto him at the party, practically
begging to be fucked.  She didn't meet Cromwell's
eyes.

A back door opened and the judge entered the room. 
Judge Harris was younger than Cromwell expected.  She
would have been pretty but for the air of harried
impatience about her.  Black robes swished as she
marched to her seat behind the bench.

"Well, what have we got this morning," she said
briskly, shuffling papers.  "Sleikbody vs. Cromwell. 
I understand the parties have agreed to a resolution
to this unfortunate business."  She looked over at
Cromwell's table as if examining some lower life form.
 "Excuse me Counsellor, but I have a Ms. Parnell
listed on this case."

Cromwell's lawyer got to his feet.  "Uh, yes, that's
correct Your Honor, but my colleague is, uh,
indisposed at this moment and, uhm, hasn't been able
to attend.  However, no formal representation will be
required, as we have negotiated an out-of-court
settlement with the aggrieved party.  My client is
willing to --"

The door to the courtroom burst open.  "Wait!  No plea
bargain!" cried a female voice.  Heads turned toward
the attractive blonde rushing into the room.  "So
sorry I'm late, Your Honor."  She stumbled up to
Cromwell's desk and flung her briefcase on the table. 
"Penelope Parnell, representing Mr. Cromwell."  She
rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Penelope!  What the hell?" her associate whispered.

"Ms. Parnell, what is the meaning of this?" the judge
demanded.

Cromwell was wondering that himself.  Ms. Parnell
looked different.  She was wearing a fetching pink
suit over a frilly white blouse.  Cromwell couldn't
remember seeing Parnell in anything except black
pantsuit.  The skirt on the suit was rather brief for
a barrister to wear to court, especially with the pink
high heels she had chosen to go with it.  Still, as he
admired Parnell's shapely legs Cromwell couldn't
imagine anyone complaining.  She had changed her hair
too, letting the tight curls flow loosely down her
back, with two locks trained to fall on each side of
her face.

"I beg the court's pardon," Ms. Parnell said formally.
 "I was detained by... an urgent medical situation. 
However, I am prepared to go forward with this case as
planned, so with my colleague's permission I will take
over from here."  She squeezed Cromwell's shoulder
possessively.

Cromwell's other lawyer, clearly taken by surprise,
started to protest.  Parnell glared at him.  "I
*said*, I'll take over from here, John."

He wilted.  "Uh, very well then," he muttered.  He sat
down.

Ms. Parnell turned to the judge, smiling.

Judge Harris did not smile back.  "Well, if we have
sorted out who is in charge, perhaps you would like to
explain that dramatic outburst, Ms. Parnell?"

Parnell said:  "Your Honor, I have come into ... new
information pertaining to this case which may
influence my client's decision regarding the proposed
plea bargain.  If I could be granted a brief
continuance, perhaps until tomorrow, to discuss this
with my client --"

"I'll give you an hour recess," the judge said sourly.
 "A continuance is hardly warranted just to decide a
plea.  Court will reconvene at 11."  She scowled at
Parnell.  "Don't be late."

Ms. Parnell was in motion almost before the judge
banged the gavel.  "Come on," she said urgently,
taking Cromwell's hand.  "We have to hurry."

"But, but, wait --" Cromwell protested as the
lithesome lawyer almost dragged him out of the
courtroom.  Heads turned to admire the miniskirted
blonde as she hurried down the hallway, walking with
surprising speed and agility in her precarious pink
pumps.

She was still holding his hand as she made her way
down the courthouse steps.  "Hurry!" she said again,
"we have less than an hour."  She led him to a sporty
red car parked haphazardly in front of the courthouse.
 "Come on, get in."  Ms. Parnell grabbed a parking
ticket off the windshield and tossed it away, then
fairly threw herself behind the wheel.

The car was in motion before Cromwell had his door
closed.  The blonde lawyer drove with reckless speed
through the morning traffic.  She didn't paused to do
up her seatbelt or pull down her skirt, which had
ridden up fetchingly around her hips.

"That, that light was red, I think," Cromwell
suggested, holding on.  "Penelope, what in blazes is
going on?"

"Wait till we get to my office," she told him tersely.

Ms. Parnell jerked to a stop in front of her office
building with one wheel on the sidewalk.  She grabbed
a package out of the back seat and bolted up the
steps.  She was halfway through the front door before
Cromwell caught up with her.  "Penelope!" cried a
surprised secretary,  "Where have you been?  I have
messages--"

"Later," she growled, without slowing down.

At last they arrived at Parnell's small office.  The
lawyer dragged Cromwell inside and locked the door. 
She threw her package on the desk.

"Finally!" she said.  "I couldn't get out of that
courtroom fast enough."  She slipped off her suit
jacket and tossed it over a chair.

Cromwell was breathless.  "Penel -- I mean, Ms.
Parnell, what is this all about?  Why don't you want
me to accept the plea bargain?  And where *were* you
all day yesterday?"

She stood still for a moment.  "Where?  Well, I... in
a hospital, I think."  Her voice softened, as if she
were trying to remember a dream.  "Maybe.  There were
doctors . . . and nurses or something . . . and
machines . . ."  She brightened.  "Well, whatever. 
Let's concentrate on the case."

"All right, but first you told me Tawny's case was
airtight, and now you turn around and -- what are you
DOING?"  Ms. Parnell's blouse fluttered down on top of
her jacket.  Underneath she wore some kind of tight,
pink bustier, the kind Cromwell liked.

"I'm getting undressed, so you can fuck me, of
course," the shapely blonde answered eagerly.  She was
already working on the skirt.  She stopped abruptly. 
"You will fuck me, won't you?" a note of concern in
her voice.

Cromwell had no ready answer to that.  "I-- I-- what? 
What are you--, I mean, Penelope, you can't m-mean --
holy Toledo!"  The miniskirt fell to the floor around
her feet.  Underneath she wore an elaborate pink
garterbelt clipped to flesh-tone nylons that sleeked
up her legs from the pink high heels.  She wore no
panties.

"You do find me attractive, don't you, honey?" Ms.
Parnell asked, stepping over the skirt toward him.  "I
mean, you wouldn't *mind* fucking me, would you?"  She
reached up and unfastened the clip holding her hair
back.

Cromwell was bug-eyed.  Was this the ice queen that
had called him a middle-aged cad and practically
thrown him out of her office two days ago?  She
advanced toward him, her eyes misty with desire.  Her
lips were parted slightly.  She wore bright pink
lipstick that matched her underwear.  Her lower lips
were naturally pink.

"Come on, baby, we only have a few minutes.  Please?"
the blonde entreated, snuggling up close.  "Barely
time for a good quickie but I'll make sure you like
it; I promise."  She pressed her soft lips against
his, slipping her tongue in his mouth while she began
to work his belt buckle.

When she let him up for air half a minute later,
Cromwell was gasping for breath.  "Ms. Parnell, I--"

"Call me Penny," she husked, between kisses.  "Look,
I've got something to show you."  Holding him by his
tie, she led him to her desk.  She swept one hand
across it impatiently.  Files and papers and the
telephone crashed to the floor.  She hopped up on top
of the desk.  Leaning back on her elbows, she
carelessly kicked her pink high-heels across the room.
 Then she reached into the bag she had brought from
the car and extracted a pair of black stretch boots.

Without taking her eyes off Cromwell, Penny swung
around so one foot rested on the desk, displaying her
well-curved leg in profile.  While Cromwell watched,
she slipped the tight boot on her foot and pulled it
up.  The boot was barely calf-high, with a three-inch-
thick platform and big block heel.  She swung the
other way and squeezed on the other boot.  Then she
lay back again, legs spread wide, short boots dangling
over the desk, her pussy open and inviting.  "You
like?" she asked softly.

Cromwell licked his lips.  He felt his resistance melt
like butter in the hot sun.  The boots were glossy and
sexy and didn't match anything else she was wearing. 
Somehow that only made them look hotter.  How had
Penny known about his fetish for funky boots?  "But,
but, what about the case?" Cromwell asked blankly, as
his pants slid down his legs.  He was as hard as a
diving board.

Penny sat up and flung her arms around his neck,
drawing him closer.  "The whole thing is a set-up, it
has to be," she said.  "We are going to fight this
trumped-up bullshit every step of the way and I am
going to get you a full acquittal.  There is no way
some underage tramp with a vendetta is going to
*touch* you as long as I'm around, and I don't care if
she has the best fucking lawyers in the country."  She
spoke vehemently, but distractedly, her hands were
still busy, pulling down his underwear and stroking
his rigid member urgently.

It was more than Cromwell could stand.  He surged
forward, groaning, letting her guide him into her. 
Penny Parnell gasped in delight as his cock slid home.
 "Fuck me, honey," she cried, wrapping her long legs
around him.  "Fuck me with my boots on.  I need you so
bad!"

The sexy young lawyer was too hot to take it slow. 
The couple began to piston rapidly, Cromwell standing
in front of the desk with his pants around his ankles,
the blonde babe in bustier and boots lying on top of
it.  She slid back and forth on the polished desk as
Cromwell thrust into her again and again, grunting
with exertion and primal lust.  She was tight, wet,
wanting, and utterly divine.  Cromwell held her by her
knees, delighting in the feel of sleek nylons along
her luscious legs above the heavy ankle boots.

"Hurry, sugar, hurry," Penny panted, urging him on.
"I'm so close!  You are so gooooood!"  A light sheen
of sweat glistened on her face.  One pert breast
popped out of her strapless top from the force of her
oscillations across the desktop.  The nipple pointed
at the ceiling like a glazed raspberry.

Cromwell lifted both her legs to give himself a deeper
thrust.  He kissed the top of one boot.  "Penny,
Penny, we have to, (gasp) to go b-back into court in a
minute.  What are we (huff, huff) going to do?"

"Don't stop," Penny gasped, throwing back her long,
loose blonde hair. "Don't ever stop.  Almost there,
almost there...aw shit, it's so good.  Don't worry
'bout the huh! huh! case, sugar, I'll ask for... oh
yes, ask for, for, forrrrrr a continuAAAANCE!"  Her
shout was so loud, as the orgasm overtook her, that
the entire office undoubtedly became aware of her
defense strategy.  Cromwell felt her love tunnel spasm
around his dick, and the sweet sensation drove him
over the edge to his own release.  With a series of
deep grunts he came powerfully inside her.

There was little time for further discussion.  By the
time Cromwell and his sex-happy lawyer had cleaned up
and gotten dressed again they were due back in court
in a few minutes.  Penny dashed across town with the
same reckless speed as before.  She abandoned the car
in a stall reserved for judges.

Maybe it was the glow of sexual satisfaction that she
radiated or the sexy new wiggle in her walk, but Penny
turned even more heads as she clipped down the hallway
to the courtroom.  Cromwell found he had to look up at
her.  "Penny," he cried as they entered the court,
"You forgot to take your boots off!"

*****

Tawny and her lawyers had already returned.  As
before, Tawny refused to look up as Cromwell went by. 
The older lawyer looked at Penny though, in her
mini-length suit and fancy platform boots, a little
spunk trickling down her shapely leg.  His face
registered envy cloaked as disapproval.  Penny stuck
her tongue out at him.

The court appearance did not go very well.  Penny
entered a new plea of not guilty on Cromwell's behalf.
 She stood with her briefcase carefully positioned in
front of her feet.  Then she asked for a two-week
continuance to prepare a proper defense.

Unfortunately, Tawny's lawyer objected.  He told the
judge how this matter was terribly painful for his
client, how any delay constituted a continued affront
to her rights to restitution, and how obvious delaying
tactics on the part of the accused should not be
indulged when they had turned down a very fair
settlement at the last moment.  He spoke eloquently,
presenting clear and elegant arguments and citing
cases without notes.

It was enough to persuade Judge Harris.  "I'll give
you one more day," she told Parnell flatly.  "Then
this trial begins without further delay."  She banged
down her gavel and stomped out of the room.

"What do we do now?" Cromwell asked, as the courtroom
emptied around them.

Penny leaned close to him.  "Well, since I'm already
wearing my fuck-me boots ," she said reasonably, "I
think you should take me back to my place, and drill
me silly with that *gorgeous* big peter of yours." 
She sighed in anticipation.

"But the trial begins tomorrow!  Shouldn't we be
planning strategy?"

"Oh ... sure.  We'll do that, too."

*****

It was near dinnertime when Cromwell finally made his
way home.  Penny left him with a long, deep kiss at
her door, promising to spend the evening preparing his
case.  She was still wearing her boots, but she had
pretty much lost everything else.

Cromwell was nervous about the case.  He hoped he
could sleep that night.  It helped that his wife met
him at the door with a warm kiss and his favorite
drink.  If she smelled another woman on him or was
distressed about his late arrival, she failed to
mention it  The house was spotless.  Dinner was
delicious.  Afterward, Shana brought him another
drink.

She was dressed like a high-school cheerleader.  She
wore kneesocks, and there were little pom-poms on her
gym shoes.  He sipped his drink while she giggled
giving him a long, satisfying backrub.  Well, it began
as a backrub.  Cromwell hardly thought about the case
at all that night.

*****

"Penny, where is everybody?" whispered Cromwell, late
the next morning.  They were seated in the courtroom,
waiting, along with Tawny's legal team and the rest of
the court personnel, for the judge to arrive.  Tawny
wasn't there either.  The junior lawyer on her side
kept slipping out to make telephone calls.  The older
man looked irritated.

Penny said:  "This is so unusual.  Judge Harris runs a
tight ship.  She's never late."  Penny had pinned her
hair back in a long ponytail.  Her gold silk blouse
was as frilly as on the previous day.  She was wearing
a tight, wrap-around skirt of some stretchy material. 
The skirt ended well above the knee, but it was
designed to flash a lot more leg every time she took a
step.  At least she had remembered to wear proper
shoes today.

For someone who had stayed up most of the night
working on his defense, Penny was in a remarkably good
humor.  She even offered Cromwell a little head, to
calm him down before court.  Cromwell declined
politely.  He didn't mention that he had already had
two delightful bouts with his wife that morning.  He
had awakened to her invitation of a 69 and she had
insisted on his banging her over a dining room chair
"for luck" before she would let him out the door. 
Shana seemed to enjoy them as much as he did.

"I just want to get on with this," Cromwell grumbled.

"Oh, now you are nervous, aren't you sugar," Penny
commiserated.  "Here, let me help."  She took his hand
in hers and guided it to her lap.  With her free hand
she lifted the edge of her skirt a little and slid
Cromwell's hand underneath.

"Penny, what are you --"

She smiled at him.  "This way we can both relax. 
Here, up a little higher.  Use your fingers.  Oh,
that's nice."

Cromwell looked around nervously.  "Penny, we're in
court for the lovagod, and you -- you're not wearing
any --"

"They'd just get in your way," Penny whispered,
guiding his hand.

Finally, Judge Harris walked into the courtroom.  The
judge was in much better spirits today.  She didn't
seem nearly as hurried.  She strolled deliberately,
almost lazily, to her place behind the bench, a
peaceful smile playing on her features.  She had
changed her hairstyle.  Her walk was different too. 
Cromwell only caught a glimpse as she walked by, but
he could have sworn she was wearing spike heels.

"Good morning everybody," the judge said brightly.
"Sorry I'm a bit tardy.  Couldn't be helped.  Are we
ready to proceed?"  Penny had released Cromwell's hand
when she stood for the judge, but the moment she sat
down she pulled it back again.  Judge Harris waved a
hand at Tawny's attorney.  "Counselor, where is the
plaintiff?"

"Your Honor, my client has not yet arrived in court,
and as yet we have been unable to locate her.  I
suggest we recess until --"

"I suggest you find her," the judge cut him off. 
"Maybe she went home to mother."  The few spectators
tittered.

"Uh, no, apparently not, Your Honor, she isn't at home
or at work or at the home of any known relatives.  I
think perhaps she just has a case of courtroom
jitters."

"What does this mean?" Cromwell whispered to his
lawyer.

"It means they're screwed," she answered, still
guiding his fingers.  "Oh, you're making me so wet." 
She squirmed in her chair.

Judge Harris said:  "It is a principle of fundamental
justice that the accused has a right to face his
accuser.  I am not prepared to proceed with this trial
until Ms. Sleikbody is in the room."  She tapped her
fingernails on the benchtop.  They were painted bright
red.

The lawyer began treading water.  "Uh, in that case,
Your Honor, I see no recourse but, uhm, to request a
brief continuance, to give us time to, uh, locate my
client."

The judge was not sympathetic.  "Counselor," she said
coolly, "yesterday it was you who would brook no
delays in bringing this case to trial.  It was you who
argued so passionately that any delay was a denial of
justice to your client.  Well, that sword cuts both
ways.  If a delay is unacceptable to the complainant,
it is equally unacceptable to the defendant.  This
poor man" -- she paused here to give Cromwell a
protective smile -- "has been pestered enough by these
unproved accusations.  I will not tolerate any further
harassment."

"But Your Honor, if we could just have --"

"Oh be quiet.  The case is dismissed."  She banged the
gavel over the lawyer's shocked protests.  She winked
at Cromwell.

"Yes!" Penny enthused.  "Oh yes, Yes, YES!"  Her eyes
were half closed.  Cromwell wasn't sure if she was
responding to the judge's decision or to the action of
his fingers in her pussy.  He felt it clinch before
groaning and bathing his hand with girl juice.

"What does this mean?" Cromwell asked.  "Am I clear?"

Penny didn't answer until her breathing was more
normal.  "Oh, they could, mmmmm, still pursue the,
oohhhh my, criminal case, I suppose,"  Penny
responded, thrusting her hips below the table, clearly
going for round two, "but it has, has, oh yes right
there, no hope of suc -succeeding after summmmmmary
dismissal of the, oh, yes, oh, civillll suit.  God, I
think I'm about to commmme!"  Without dislodging his
questing fingers, she turned toward him, throwing one
leg over his lap.  She clenched her teeth and
shuddered through a second orgasm right there in the
courtroom.

"Oh, my word that turned out nicely," Penny sighed,
when she could breath again.  She licked Cromwell's
ear.  Then she buried his lips in a long, hot victory
kiss.  "Let's go some place and celebrate!"

*****

Cromwell was in such a good mood the next morning that
he was almost whistling.  After an afternoon of mostly
horizontal celebration with Penny, he had taken Shana
out for dinner and dancing, something she hadn't been
willing to do for years.  His wife shared his
excitement that the charges against him had been
dropped, although she didn't seem very interested in
what those charges had been.  She was too busy trying
to grope him on the dance floor, notwithstanding the
stares that a woman in an extremely short skirt,
skyscraper heels, an almost transparent blouse and no
panties attracted.  Where the Hell had she learned the
lambada?

*****

The chill in the office was replaced by warm
acceptance.  Everyone told him how relieved they were
that his ordeal was over.  Colleagues became friends
again.  One of them directed him toward the bulletin
board, where he found a full-page retraction and
abject apology from Tawny.  She had posted the same
message to everybody's e-mail, just to be sure.

Cromwell walked into his office.  A scorchingly sexy
young woman was lying on top of his desk, like a
centrefold model posing for a photoshoot.  "Ga!" said
Cromwell.

It was Tawny.

"Good morning Mr. Cromwell," Tawny said in a
little-girl voice.  His former secretary was wearing a
tight-fitting, leopard-pattern minidress so short it
made her regular minis look prudish.  The dress was
low-cut across the bodice to reveal the top third her
proud young breasts, so perfect and round they almost
looked polished.  Sleek, dark nylons graced her legs,
capped off with tight, over-the-knee boots patterned
in the same leopard-skin motif as the dress.

"Ga!" said Cromwell again.  "I mean, T-Tawny.  What
are you doing here?"

Tawny was lying across the desk with her legs bent and
her head elevated so her thick brown hair tumbled
down.  "I came back to apologize," she said
contritely, "for everything.  For everything I've done
to you.  I've been *sooo* bad.  I guess I should be
spanked."  She swung her legs around and got to her
feet gracefully, despite the challenging high heels on
her animal-skin boots.  "I'm sorry Mr. Cromwell, I
really am.  Please, can you ever forgive me?"

"Tawny, what are you talking about?"  He struggled to
avoid staring at her legs.  He failed completely.

"It, it wasn't my idea, not at first," Tawny replied. 
"It was Klara."  She referred to another office
lovely, the one who had held the video camera.  "S-she
said that you were always, like looking at her, and
flirting, and saying things, like you did with me,
and, and if we made sure you had lots to drink at the
party and kind of goaded you a bit, we could get it
all on tape and, well, she said kind of get even and
maybe get some money too."  Tears threatened her
mascara.    "Oh, I don't know why I went along with
it.  I-I mean you've been so g-good to me, and, and
you're such a wonderful man to work for, I was the
luckiest girl in the world, and now I've gone and
ruined it."  She stood forlornly in the middle of his
office, looking marvelous and miserable.

Cromwell said, "Tawny, it's over now.  The case was
dismissed."  Her tight dress stopped a few inches past
the curve of her bottom.  Just looking at her legs was
a sexual experience.

"Please, Mr. Cromwell, there's one more thing.  I, I
know I don't deserve it, and I won't complain if you
say no, but, but, could I, maybe . . ."  She
hesitated, then blurted:  "Could you give me my.. my
old job back?"  Her voice broke into sobbing.

This caught Cromwell by surprise.  "You want to work
as my secretary?"

She took a step toward him, hands clasped.  "Oh yes,
please, please, please.  Let me be your secretary
again, please Mr. Cromwell.  I'll do a really super
job, I promise.  I'll take a big pay cut if you want. 
I'll make it up to you for what I've done.  Just give
me another chance, please?"  She looked up at him
tearfully.  Cromwell felt his underwear stiffen.

"Well, I don't know, after all that..." Cromwell
demurred.

"Please, Mr. Cromwell," Tawny gushed.  "Let me be your
secretary.  I'll do anything if you'll let me work for
you again."  She stepped up close and slid her arms
around his neck.  She wore leopard- pattern gloves
that came up past the elbow. "Please?"

Cromwell found himself speechless.  Standing this
close to her, with her dewy eyes gazing into his, he
could smell a delicate perfume floating up from the
deep shadows of her cleavage.  He opened his mouth to
say something.  Tawny kissed him, suddenly, tenderly,
as if taken by an impulse she couldn't resist.

"Please give me just one more chance," she whispered,
her lips an inch from his.  "I'll do lots more than
just type."  She kissed him again.  "Look, let me show
you how I'll take care of you."  She was already
sliding down, using his body for support as she sank
gracefully to her boot-covered knees on the carpet. 
Cromwell just stared in amazement as his former
secretary unzipped his pants, then reached in with a
gloved hand to free his maleness.  He was hard
already.

"Mmmmm, yummy," Tawny whispered.  She cupped him in
one hand, lifting his rod like an offering toward her
waiting mouth.  She slid her crimson lips over him,
somehow taking inch after inch of his cock into her
mouth until her throat began to bulge.  When had she
learned how to do that?

Cromwell was beyond caring.  He gasped in delight as
her mouth and tongue worked magic.  He glanced at the
clock on his desk; it was not yet nine-thirty in the
morning, yet Cromwell was receiving his second
masterful blowjob of the day.  As Tawny's head began
to bob rhythmically up and down his shaft, he had
already decided to take pity on the girl.  In
gratitude, she swallowed every drop.

*****

"Of course I will.  Thank you, R. J."  Cromwell put
down the telephone and announced:  "It's official. 
 From the first of next month I'm the newest
vice-president."

 From her place behind his chair, Tawny squealed with
delight.  "Oh, Crommie, that's wonderful!"  She was
dressed in one of her office outfits, a bright silver
microskirt coupled with a tight black sweater and
tight black boots.  She was standing behind Cromwell's
high-backed chair, massaging his shoulders while he
worked.

Cromwell put his feet up on the desk and contemplated
how much life had improved in the last several months.
 His legal difficulties were almost forgotten.  At
home he had a loyal and insanely passionate wife so
far removed from the cold demanding bitch she had been
that they might have been two different species. 
After years of refusal even to discuss it, one night
after some wine and an especially good fuck, *she* had
brought up the question of children.  Not IF, but how
many he would give her.  Cromwell had talked her down
to four, but suspected Shana was planning for several
extra "accidents."  After all, she had informed him
she was already pregnant with twins the night she
broached the subject.  She confessed to switching from
birth control to fertility pills some months ago
without telling him.  His sexy wife's eagerness to
make babies with him, and her newly kinky imagination
both in bed and out, still amazed him.  As Cromwell
knowingly fucked his wife's pregnant pussy for the
first time, she giggled that once her tummy began to
swell with his baby, she'd REALLY be hot.

In the office he had a sex fantasy for a secretary and
a sharp young lawyer who insisted on doing all his
legal work pro bono.  He grinned.  Pro "boner" would
be more accurate.  It was the least she could do, he
reflected, for the man who had put that delightful
little bulge in her tummy.

They had done it: that man in the club, the sweet
voice on the telephone.  He had no idea how they had
done whatever they did, but the result was certainly
satisfactory.  More than satisfactory.  Maybe he
should let them know.

"Tawny, hand me the card file, will you." he said
absently.  Cromwell could have reached it himself, but
Tawny's locomotion was always worth experiencing.

"Sure, Crommie" she replied.  She wiggled around to
retrieve the card file off the front of the desk.  The
little metallic skirt shimmered with the sway of her
spreading hips.  Cromwell admired the slender
perfection of her legs, displayed so fetchingly by
sheer nylons and stretch boots.  The only condition
Cromwell had imposed in return for her job was that
Tawny dress to show off those marvelous legs.  Her
compliance exceeded even Cromwell's expectations.  Her
swollen tits jiggled delightfully as she handed him
the card file.

Now, where was that card?  As he flipped through the
file Tawny sat on the desk and casually crossed her
knees.  The micro-miniskirt hiked up around her
thighs.  Cromwell was distracted.  She had done the
same thing yesterday, and ended up with her back on
the desk and her high-heeled sandals pointing at the
ceiling.  He wondered how long into her pregnancy she
could keep that up?

That sort of thing took Tawny's time away from her
regular secretarial duties, but Cromwell wasn't
concerned.  Klara, Tawny's co-conspirator in the
assault case, had happily volunteered to take over any
extra work, in addition to her regular job.  She was
in the outer office at that moment, all business,
catching up on correspondence.  But Cromwell had the
suspicion that if Klara could ever pry him away from
Tawny long enough, she would like to give him a nice,
"Can-you-forgive-me?" fuck.  Perhaps he would show her
there were no hard feeling with her own
"All-is-forgiven" baby.

This change in attitude appeared just after Klara
disappeared for two days without explanation.  She
worked diligently, only stopping every fifteen minutes
or so to check her make-up.  The third witness to
Cromwell's indiscretion at the party had started
wearing fishnet nylons to work.  Since she began to
show, she brought Cromwell fresh flowers and coffee
every morning.

At last Cromwell found the card the man had given him.
 He flipped it over.  The card was completely blank. 
If he looked very closely, Cromwell could make out the
outline of one digit of the telephone number that
hadn't yet faded away completely.

Cromwell chuckled.  He tossed the card in the
wastebasket.  He looked at Tawny, preggy, leggy and
luscious, posing like a pin-up girl on his desk.  He
cocked a finger at her.  Smiling, she slipped off the
desk and into his lap.  "Let's celebrate, Mr.
Vice-President," she cooed.

*****

At that same moment, in another part of the city, a
man about Cromwell's age was standing on a driving
range.  He had been there for some time.  He was
hitting golf balls everywhere, driving with far more
energy than accuracy.  His mind wasn't on his swing.

"Mr. Samson," said the man beside him suddenly,
"suppose I were to tell you that divorce is not
inevitable."  He hit his ball cleanly and knocked it
for a long drive.  He watched it fall thoughtfully. 
"Suppose I were to tell you that not only would your
wife forgive you for knocking up your mistress, she'd
let you make her pregnant again, too?"  He paused to
tee up another ball.  He was tall and wore glasses. 
"And that even your wife's sister could be persuaded
to reverse the rather rude rebuff she gave you at last
year's Christmas party.  Wouldn't she look cute in
maternity dresses?"

He leaned on his golf club and regarded the other man
calmly. "Would that be worth something to you, Mr.
Samson?"

*****

"Judge Harris?  Of course.  Put her through, Karla,"
Cromwell replied trying to calm his breathing as
Tawny's sat astride him, thrusting herself busily on
his manhood.  Her recent return from maternity leave
found her as ardent as ever and, it appeared, eager to
go on another.  The timing wasn't bad as Klara would
be delivering quite soon and Penny had just announced
she was expecting again.

<pause>

"Margaret!  So good to hear from you.  It's been a
while."

<pause>

"Huh?  So soon after the twins?  Why that's wonderful
news!"

<pause>

"This one, too?  Oh, Margaret, you devious girl.  So
that's the reason you said I needn't use a condom all
that weekend at the hotel!  And you swore up and down
you'd gone on the Pill!  Tsk tsk!," Cromwell chuckled.
 "Next April, eh?"

<pause>

"Well of course I think we should celebrate.  I'll
drop by the courthouse around four."

<pause>

"No, not sooner, baby.  I'm, uh, deep into something
right now."  The spasms of Tawny's climaxing pussy had
him on the brink of an inopportune orgasm.  "I
understand sweetheart, I'll come as soon as I can." 
(Tawny would see to that, he thought.)  "But you'll
just have to make do with the vibrator until then."

<pause>

"You have?  Why, sure.  I think Oliver would be a very
appropriate name."

The End


=====
My stories are now found on
http://www.storiesonline.net (Thanks Lazeez) 
http://www.eroticstories.com (Thanks, Art)
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Vargas/www/stories.html (Thanks Kristen)

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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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