Judging Georgina

Georgina answered the phone. "Hello?"

She was drunk, because her words on the telephone billowed out, as though alcohol was pushing them unwillingly into the world. The "Hello" came out loud (a lot louder than Georgina permitted herself when sober). Also, the "Hello" was sort of slurred. Altogether, it was pretty obvious that she'd drunk her Southern Comfort and was flying high.

"It's me," I said.

Well, of course it was. The judge was out of town, wasn't he? It was almost inevitable that I would call, right?

I could sense her lushy smile creeping crookedly onto her face. "Oh, hi sweetie pie." She sighed and gave a little giggle. "I've been thinking about you."

Yes, she was thinking about me. Her husband goes off with his buddies on a golfing trip, and she's left alone. When she's left alone, she knows I'm very likely to call. She wants me to call. In fact, the minute His Honor leaves, she starts thinking about me, wanting me to call. When she thinks about me, her fingers start itching for her crotch. Her sex juice starts flowing. (I'm not kidding about this. She tells me it's true, and I'm sure that it is. Georgina can unleash a mighty flood of sex juice when she really puts her mind to it.).

But when the sex juice starts dripping, the guilt does, too. One leads inevitably to the other. Georgina is a God-fearing woman of old-fashioned upbringing, with guilt-trips aplenty. She hates her husband, but she can't bear the thought of divorce: the impact on her children (all over twenty, but still), the loss of status in the community, and what will the women at the First Methodist Church say, yada yada yada. She tortures herself. Her crotch aches. The Judge leaves, the sex thoughts start up, and she needs to calm herself, so the secret bottle of Southern Comfort that she's stashed beneath her pink and yellow sweaters in the closet comes out, she takes three quick drinks, gloop, gloop, gloop, and then she's loaded. The guilt is still there, but it's bearable, and her befuddled mind can ease its way onto the path of sexiness without regret or further delay.

As she drinks those drinks, her fingers find her wet pussy, and her fingers make her even wetter. Yes, she told me that, once. That time, she was really very, very drunk, and she told me about the entire ritual with the Southern Comfort, the bubble bath, the fingers in the pussy, her own yelps of pleasure. She prepares herself, works herself up, knowing that I will be around to see her eventually, and she needs to get herself completely ready for What She Needs.

She's never told me why she drinks like that, and ours isn't the sort of relationship which normally permits me to delve deeply into her motivation or foibles. What I know about Georgina is mostly surmise, although there have been the few occasions when she's told me things, and I can put two and two together.

I do know that I am there for one reason and one reason only.

I have a prick.

Georgina may be old-fashioned, God-fearing and Church-going, but she was really made for one thing only, and that is for having sex, and enjoying it. What irony: her upbringing, most cherished views, and husband all conspire to create such conflict in her life. So, she has sex, and the way things have turned out, she has it with me, and she feels terribly, horribly guilty about it even as she screams at the top of her lungs in her big house when her husband is away and I have my prick pounding her.

One thing is certain, the judge isn't pounding her pussy. He's got too many other things on his mind. (Just as we don't really discuss Georgina's drinking, she and I don't really discuss the judge's sexuality. However, reading between the lines, I strongly suspect that he's got erectile dysfunction or something. Maybe he won't admit it. But despite all of Georgina's faults, she's not the sort of woman you'd grow easily tired of fucking, so I assume there's a reason why the judge isn't doing his duty and forces her to find other outlets for her passion.)

"Are you coming over soon, Jimmy?" she asks.

"I'm thinking about it."

"Well, don't take too long," she says. And giggles again. Man, she really does sound drunk.

"I'll be over soon," I say. And then I hang up.

Okay, I know you're going to ask. Why do I want to go to the Judge's house and fuck Georgina, when she's drunk?

Well, here's part of the reason, which I alluded to earlier. Georgina is one crazy, wonderful fuck. Really.

The Judge is about fifty-eight, and he's jowly and has an ass on him that would sink a battleship. I'm sure that wasn't the case when he married Georgina, which was when she was twenty and he was thirty-five. And, obviously, at one point his cock worked okay, because they had three kids, now all in college or otherwise away from the house. But I know he's not doing her today, this week, this month, or maybe even this year. To my knowledge, only one guy gives her the jollies.

Me.

Georgina is forty three. She's about five-eight, with ridiculously lush curly hair. She washes that hair twice a week with fragrant shampoo, and her hair turns all sparkly and sweet smelling.

I'm not sure what she eats. I'm sort of thinking that she doesn't eat much. Of course, I wouldn't know, because our relationship doesn't take us out to restaurants or anything. She's fed me the occasional bottle of beer, and once or twice a sandwich, but I've rarely ever seen her eat anything she's prepared. Her refrigerator isn't loaded with anything. Most of the time when we eat, I do the cooking.

So, the Judge may be Mr. Lard, but Georgina is lean. She works out. I can tell. She has one of these big old indoor treadmills, not to mention some hand weights. I'm sure she uses them every day. The woman has muscle tone like spandex and a set of abs to make any bodybuilder proud. I should also mention that she has long, luscious legs and a set of hooters that sort of float above her chest. I kid you not.

So what do I care if she's drunk when I have her? I'd be crazy not to take what she's offering.

I mention another good reason for fucking Georgina. It isn't that I like her, not really. I mean, I'm sure if she were sober, I probably couldn't stand her. After all, she's a God-fearing, evangelical Republican who thinks George Bush walks on water. All she really cares about in life is showing off that she's Mrs. Judge, that she's got the big bucks, that her daughters are in the Cotillion, her son's fixed up with J.P. Millionaire's daughter, yada yada yada.

I appreciate none of this. I appreciate her big tits and sweet pussy, and that's about it. Frankly, it's fortunate that she's such a hypocrite that her pussy juice won't flow until she's drunk.

About the best I can say about Georgina is that I sort of feel sorry for her. I mean, here she is, the Great Lady, and she needs a regular pounding by a guy who's done jail time. She doesn't know that, but it's the truth.

Right. I did three years. And who do you think sentenced me?

Aha! Now you understand.

You're probably wondering how we met. She's Mrs. Uppity, and I'm Mr. Jailtime. Believe me, it took some doing.

I wouldn't have even thought about it, except about two months after I got out, one of my first jobs was bussing dishes at hoo hah banquets. For this I got minimum, but it was welcome at the time. I got to wear a white bus jacket, a black tie, and be inconspicuous as I shoveled dishes off the tables.

It just so happened that the Judge and Georgina were there.

I knew the Judge right off. I doubt he remembered me. Why would he? He must sentence lots of guys every month, and he gave me mine three years before, for a small-time heist that I wish I could forget. Worst mistake of my life, believe me. (Unless you count banging Georgina. I suppose that really could turn out badly, too, but thus far, it hasn't, so I continue).

Judge Faraday sat at the table, laughing with one of his buddies. Next to him was this knockout woman with sparkling hair, floating breasts, and a sappy, drunken smile that showed she was in the bag and probably didn't care.

I probably wouldn't have thought about it, except fate stepped in.

I was bussing a table not far from the Judge and Georgina. There was no one at that table, but there were two women at the next one. Gossiping women.

I reached for the dirty dishes and glassware, and one of them said, "Georgina Faraday, she's sure drunk."

Giggle, giggle, goes the other one. "Not really sober as a judge's lady, is she?"

The other one sputters at the stupid joke. I clink the glassware, but a lot slower. This I want to hear.

"She was sloshing down the Comfort before dinner."

"Why she do that?"

"We were in high school together, and she was the same." Chuckle, chuckle. "Only time she'd let herself make it with a boy was when she was loaded. Then she was red hot."

"She's married now."

"Unhappily married."

"She should have an affair."

Chuckle, chuckle. "She couldn't get up the nerve unless she were drunk. And what kind of affair would that be?"

What kind of affair would that be? I decided to find out.

So I waited. No problem knowing when the Judge would be out of town, because they published his schedule down at the courthouse. He had a circuit that took him up to Holman, once a month for three days. It's a hundred miles north, and he doesn't come home at night.

I should know. He tried and sentenced me in Holman.

So on the second night of the Judge's next trip to Holman, I decided to try my luck. First, I telephoned the Judge's house.

"Hello?"

It was the Hello I soon came to know. The one powered by Comfort.

I pitched my voice a bit higher than usual. "Mrs. Faraday, please."

She didn't hiccup, but she gave a slightest giggle. "This is she."

"This is Bloomsday Flowers, Mrs. Faraday. Would this be a good time for us to make a delivery? A dozen roses."

Puzzled silence. "Are you sure you have the right person?"

I rattled off her address. "You are Georgina Faraday, correct?"

"Well, yessss . . . "

"Thank you. Our truck will be there in about fifteen minutes. Enjoy the flowers, ma'am."

And I hung up before her stewed mind could start thinking of questions. Like -- who would be sending me a dozen roses at 8 o'clock on a Thursday night in March?

Fifteen minutes later, I was there, roses, clipboard, and all. Dressed in a clean jumpsuit, with a neat plastic tag that read "Bloomsday Flowers," and "Jimmy Gorman" below it. Not my real name, of course, but there's nothing like identification to give confidence.

The door opened. I smiled my Bloomsday smile.

Georgina was incredible.

Yes, she was drunk. Naturally. And she was wearing a low-cut blouse that made her tits bloom out at you like balloons. A silly smile was plastered on her face.

"This is so nice of you," she said. She squinted at my tag. "Jimmy."

"No problem," I said. "Bloomsday Flowers is happy to please. Could I bring them in for you?"

Now, of course this was odd -- what flower deliveryman brings the flowers into the house? But I smiled a winning smile and held those roses nearly up to my face.

And she was drunk.

"Well -- " she said, and took a step back.

I moved past her, then turned around. And as luck would have it, there was a large, empty vase on a table right there.

"That vase would be perfect for these," I said. Without waiting for her reply, I took the roses, thrust them into the vase, and picked it up. "The kitchen's this way, right?"

I took off in the likely direction of the kitchen, leaving her behind.

By the time she arrived, I was running the water and had the package unwrapped.

"This is our special service," I said.

There was a glass half full of a drink on the kitchen table. There was a half-empty bottle next to it, and even another glass. She looked at me. She looked at the drink.

Then she licked her lips and sidled towards the half-full glass.

I started filling the vase. Georgina slowly sat down. Her fingers wrapped around her glass.

"It certainly appears special."

I laughed heartily, took the flowers, and fluffed them into the vase.

I turned. The glass was at her lips.

"Your roses, ma'am," I said, with a flourish. "A beautiful woman deserves roses like this."

She blushed. Then she took a big swig of her drink. Yes," she said. "I am a beautiful woman, aren't I?"

Well, duh!

But not too "duh." Because I don't think Georgina allowed herself to ponder over her own beauty very much -- how it was going to waste on the Judge who didn't care and who couldn't get it up.

I didn't waste much time. I marched over to the table and put the flowers down before her. I picked up the bottle, poured more into her glass, some into the empty one, sat down, picked up my own drink, and said, "Here's to flowers in your future, ma'am."

I had my drink in right hand and my left hand on the table. She held up her glass. "Thank you so much." Then her left hand found mine and her eyes (slightly glazed) looked deeply at me. (Or the look was drunken and unfocussed -- hard to tell).

Not too many moment later, I was leaning across the table and kissing her. Then her hands were on my face.

You know how that goes after that.

I had arrived at 8:15. At 8:35 (by her bedroom clock) her knees and elbows were on the bed, ass was up in the air, my hands were fondling those big knockers, and I was taking her doggy style.

It was lovely. And knowing that I was fucking Mrs. Judge made it all the sweeter.

I held back really well. After pounding her from the back, I rolled her over and slobbered all over her cunt, which tasted -- hmm -- fishy, I guess is the word. I've tasted a lot better in my time, but I dove in, while she moaned and squirmed.

Finally, I stopped. My chin was dripping. She reached for me, kissing me through her sex juice. She grabbed my cock, which was puffy and red.

"Hmm . . . yeah," I said. "Want to play with me?"

She looked at me almost cross-eyed. "Yuh!"

Then her head was down. Her mouth swallowed me, nine inches and all, and her fingers were on my balls and in my ass simultaneously.

I was in heaven. "YAAAHH!" I shouted, and I spurted like a madman.

When I was done, she lay back, a silly smile on her face, her lips slathered with cum.

Then she passed out and started to snore.

This gave me time to think. Should I stay or should I go? After awhile, I figured I'd stay. She kept snoring. I covered her up and took the other side of the bed.

Round two started at around two in the morning. Actually, I set the alarm on my watch for then. It woke me and not her. I looked over at her. The cum was still on her face, along with a beatific little smile. Maybe she was dreaming.

I crept out of bed, went into the kitchen, got the Comfort off the table along with the glasses and some ice, and came back. Still sleep. I went into the bathroom and got a big towel and a washcloth with warm water.

I took the warm cloth and pressed it to her face, cleaning up the cum gently. She stayed asleep, but made happy murmurings.

When her face was clean, I turned my attention to her pussy. It was a pretty cunt, hair well trimmed, lips a pleasing pink. The cloth was still hot and moist, so I starting rubbing, going for the clit with the warm cloth and driving three fingers in and out of her hole.

In, out, rub, rub, in, out, rub, rub.

"Oooooh!" she said, eyes still closed but arching her back.

This went on for several minutes.

Then I stopped.

Her eyes opened. "Jesus!" she said. "Sweet Jesus! Don't stop!"

I moved my face close to hers.

"Was it good?" I asked.

"It was fantastic!" Then she focussed on me. "Who are you?"

"Roses?"

Her eyes unfocussed. "Oh, yeah . . ."

"Want me to lick your cunt?"

She threw her hands high. "YEESSS!"

So I did.

It turned out that she didn't need more alcohol. Her pussy was drooling, and she couldn't stop. Our second session lasted nearly an hour, and then we both snored off.

In the morning, I made breakfast. I mean, she wasn't in any condition still, and I can turn some mean eggs and coffee when I put my mind to it. I didn't have pyjamas, so I made sure the blinds were closed and cooked naked. It was fun.

"Want some coffee?" I asked finally, standing over the bed. I had a steaming cup in my hand.

She stirred and sat up slowly. Her boobs were still alive, though.

She reached for the coffee. Her eyes finally found me.

"Roses," she said. "I remember." She took a trembling sip of the coffee. "God, do I have a hangover!"

"There's breakfast in the kitchen," I said, heading back that way.

"Wait!" She cried. "What time is it?"

"About six," I said.

"You gotta be outa here by seven thirty! The maid's coming today!"

I looked back. "Don't think she'll be coming as much as you did last night, sugar."

I was eating my eggs and drinking my coffee when she stumbled in, the cup in her hand. She had on a pink negligee, but she might as well have been nude.

"Your eggs are getting cold," I said.

She made her way to the table and collapsed in the chair.

She looked at the eggs. She looked at me. She sighed. "Do you think you could get dressed?"

"My negligee is at the cleaners."

She picked up her fork and started working on the eggs. The first bite was slow, but then she started tearing into them.

I sipped coffee and waited. She finished.

"Thanks," she said finally. "It was good."

"For sure."

Suddenly, she put her hands over her face. "What was I thinking of?"

"Sex, maybe?"

She brought her hands down. "How many times did we do it?"

"Two or three." I finished my coffee. "You seemed to like it."

She closed her eyes, then opened them. "I've got to stop denying it. I do like it. I love it! I want it!" I don't think she was talking to me.

"So," I said. "This means we'll do it again, huh?" I smiled my little knowing smile.

She got up. She almost look angry as she brushed her hair back, nearly snarling. She reached out, and she grabbed my prick. "Nice cock," she said, looking at it. She drank some hot coffee. "My husband goes out of town for three days every month."

"Good," I replied.

"We'll do it next month, then, right?" She looked my square in the eye, even as her head got lower and lower.

"Sure."

"We'll make sure you don't forget."

Her mouth opened, and my prick disappeared as she rubbed my balls.

I closed my eyes. "This is better than breakfast."

The Holman routine came around regularly in April, May, June, through the summer, and on into September. For Georgina, the routine was for one thing, and one only -- to cool the hot ravages of her flaming pussy.

For me, on the other hand, it started out as a lark, with the added pleasure of a good fuck and the chance (secretly) to Get The Judge. But, as things went on, they took a darker hue. I have to admit it.

For instance, in May, Georgina tied her Comfort on so tight, she was barely coherent when I arrived the first night. Frankly, she sort of disgusted me. Moreover, I had had a run-in with my parole officer, who was something of a hard ass, and I was feeling particularly peeved at the Judge and the entire legal system. And there was Georgina, tits, ass and all, lying in a stupor.

So I took advantage of her. I'd brought a big tube of slither cream. I rubbed it on my cock, shoved some into her ass, and fucked her asshole but good.

I felt like a rapist. Well, I guess I was a rapist that night, because she wasn't there to say yes or no. Did I feel guilty? Yes, in fact I did. I tried to make it up to her. When she woke up finally, I licked her pussy until her moans ran out.

Over breakfast (I cooked as usual), she said, "My ass feels strange."

"How strange? Strange good or strange bad?"

"Strange like maybe you fucked me in the ass, damn it!"