No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 05

She thumbed through the pictures, while the Headmaster tucked his hamster back in it's cage and pulled up his pants. He took his time buttoning and fastening, being careful that no lapses in attention to detail were left to betray him to Imogene, and, when he had dressed, he stepped into the private bathroom adjoining his office to adjust his necktie and comb his hair. She heard only vaguely the faint trickling of water as he relieved himself and the swooshing of the commode when he flushed. The sounds reminded her of the nights when she lay in her bed in her tiny room next door to the bath she shared with the boys on the third floor, and listened to their water draining and tried to identify them by the volume of their flows.

He was humming to himself in the bathroom, while she examined the pictures. She remembered them all, or at least the events, though the conclusions were a bit hazy to her. She reached the bottom of the stack before he returned, and, so, by the time he had finished restoring himself, she had a pretty clear idea of what worked best to crank ole Rufus Justice's tractor. Knowledge is power, she thought, and she smiled smugly to herself. The pictures had warmed her in spite of herself, and her frustration gnawed at her loins.

He stepped into the room, still humming, just as she was returning the photos to his desk. She leaned into the light and he stopped to admire her. Her breasts were full, filled with her longing and her nipples were distended. A blush of color darkened the light, untanned skin at her bikini line and rose up her throat to her cheeks. Her hand trembled as she put the pictures down. She looked at him uncertainly again, and their eyes met across the expanse of his desk, and he read her mind. He read her mind as surely and certainly as if she had reached for his hands and placed them on her breasts and begged him to help her.

"I have neglected you, haven't I?"

"Yes," she whispered abashedly.

"Your needs." He spoke matter of factly.

She nodded, too embarrassed to give voice to her feelings.

"Come here," he said gently.

She nearly raced around his desk, and he stepped back to allow her to position herself between him and the edge of his desk. She panted like an eager puppy. He brushed her nipples with the backs of his fingers, and she threw her shoulders back offering herself to him. He caressed her nipples, and she chewed her lips with desire. She longed to kiss him, to pull his lips to hers and thrust her tongue into his mouth but feared to lose him and did not. He twisted her nipples and pulled them up, away from her body and she rose on tiptoes to follow. Pain and pleasure commingled in her breasts and flowed like molten metal in a river of fire to her loins.

Her eyes swept his features restlessly, and she found him disturbingly attractive. She desperately wanted to reach out and fondle him and glanced hopefully at his fly but found no encouragement there. Her hands rose and she cupped her breasts and held them out to his caresses, captive doves in the palms of her hands, cooing for the gentle stroking of his fingers. Bright flames of desire licked at her loins, and her fingers tightened on her flesh.

He pushed her gently and said, "Sit," as her buttocks bumped the edge of his desk.

She wiggled her fanny and squirmed up onto the cool, hard surface. Her legs spread wantonly as she waited for him. He released her nipples and pulled his chair closer. He sat and rolled between her knees. She thought of stirrups and her last gynecological examination, but he told her to put her feet on the armrests of his chair and that was nearly as effective. She leaned back, supporting herself with her elbows, and looked across the heaving mounds of her breasts and the smooth expanse of her belly at his face poised above the junction of her widespread thighs. For the second time that night, she opened to his examination, and, this time, she was prepared, eager, in fact, and her moisture flowed from her. He rolled closer, and she felt his eyes touching her there. Her toes curled and gripped the arms of his chair, and she tried to pull him still closer. She prayed for the touch of his tongue, shutting her eyes and willing with all her might for him to lick her. He blew softly, through pursed lips, and her thick hair parted and lay back. She moaned at the gentle pressure of his wind, and imagined the soft, curled petals of her wet flower opening to receive his touch.

He said, "Hold yourself open for me," and her fingers flew to her mound. She laid back. Her head dropped to his desk top, knocking over the lamp, which clattered noisily beside her. They ignored it, oblivious to the sounds, and the ceiling spun crazily above her as her fingers clawed at her opening. She spread herself, fingers pulling apart thickened folds of soft flesh like generous slices of sweet peach, and revealed her delicious splendor to him.

"Touch yourself," he said, and her finger extended to lightly tap the taut core of her desire.

Her touch, the answer to her yearning, flooded her with warmth and she sighed, "Ohhhhh."

He leaned to put his lips on her, but hesitated, reconsidering, and she sighed again hoping to invigorate his desire. Still he hesitated, and she felt him opening the drawer beneath her buttocks. She heard him rummaging in the drawer, and groaned in frustration. Her finger pressed against her throbbing button, and passion clicked on like floodlights in her brain.

"There we are," he said, and withdrew a pencil with an oversized rubber eraser on the end. She lifted her head and squinted to see what he had found. It was a fat, red eraser, wedge shaped, tapering to a broad point at the tip, and it appeared to be unused.

"Move your finger," he instructed, and, holding the pencil like a scalpel, he returned his attention to her loins.

She floated breathlessly on the desk aching for his touch. Her head hung limply off the far edge, and the world turned upside down. Vague images from across the room spun dizzily in front of her, but she ignored her disequilibrium. She looked up and there was Cletus' cigar ash marring the perfection of Imogene's Persian rug. She looked down and the clock under the doorway told her it was twelve thirty. She batted her eyes and recognized the inverted image of Ronald Reagan smiling insincerely at her from the opposite wall. She recoiled in disgust, and, in that instant, the eraser touched her flesh.

"Yesss," she hissed, and the noxious image washed from her mind on a wave of erotic delight.

He rubbed her softly, caressing her with the flat sides of the eraser, and she widened herself to him. He slipped the edge along the side of her button, around the bottom and up the opposite side, and she gasped with pleasure. He brushed the tip back and forth across her sensitive flesh causing the muscles in her buttocks to flex with tension. He pressed the tip against her and rubbed in short digging strokes, like he was erasing a particularly stubborn spot, and her legs jerked reflexively.

"Oh God, yes," she burbled as the friction of the hard rubber abraded her tender flesh and fanned the hot flames of her lust. Anything, anything at all to relieve the terrible, quick yearning of her need, and she remembered the wicked assortment of implements that she had used to console her loneliness in college.

"Oh, yes, like that," she urged, when he lightly flicked her tense flesh with the stiff rubber edge. Her hips bounced lewdly on the desk causing the eraser to wander off course, and she moaned her disappointment.

"Be still," he urged gently.

"I can't,” she panted excitedly.

He pressed his hand against her belly and stilled her wild jerking. The eraser settled in her slot and resumed its slippery caresses.

She gurgled in wanton delight as he erased her modesty and brought the lofty dome of her composure down about her shoulders in a crumbled ruin.

"Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted as he masturbated her to orgasm. "Yes, like that," she urged and lifted her hips to increase the pressure of the eraser on her body. "Yes," she screamed at the zenith of her pleasure, and she writhed in her completion.

Her cries subsided, and the unrestrained jerking of her limbs diminished. He stared into her in wonder and felt the heat of her on his face and hands. It occurred to him that she might have melted the rubber off his pencil, but a quick examination of the tip proved him wrong. He whistled softly in astonished admiration for her uninhibited responses, and regretted, in passing, his earlier rejection of her invitations. Ample time for that in the future, he reassured himself, and dropped the pencil into the drawer. Her fingers still held her open, her flesh was inflamed and streaked with red, where the eraser had dug too deeply, and he bent to kiss her swollen lips. She sighed again and moved, and he felt her wetness sliding under his lips. She filled his nostrils with her heavy animal scent, and his tongue shot out to lick the length of her.

"Ooooooooooo," she squealed at the slithery touch of his tongue and melted against him. "Pleaseeeeeeeee," she begged.

"Sorry, baby," he said, pushing away from her reluctantly and standing up, "no can do." The scent of her followed him, and he fished in his pocket for a piece of Dentyne to mask his breath. “Don't want Imogene sniffing me out like a goddamn Beagle when I get home,” he chortled to himself. He patted her open mons consolingly and said, "Tomorrow, baby." He reached across her body and picked up the photos and slipped them into his bottom desk drawer.

"Don't even think about taking the pictures, darling. I have the videos right here with me and that's all I'll need, if you give me any trouble," and, with that, he turned and walked out of the building into the night.

She lay on the desk breathing heavily, one half relieved, the other half anxious, and she groped for answers to a million questions. Why did this have to happen? Where's the fault? What'll happen next? What will he do to me now? And, she remembered his selection of photos and the clear direction they pointed and knew the answer to that question. She was lost in her thoughts for a while and didn't hear the squeaking of the wheels on old Jackson's mop bucket till it was nearly too late. She scampered to the little pile of her clothes and yanked them on in a rush. She stuffed her underwear under her arm, and hurriedly restored Mr. Justice's office to its usual condition, except for one small, wet triangular stain on the edge of his blotter, which she couldn't remove. She tiptoed to the door and looked down the dark hall to assure herself that Jackson, the janitor, wasn't looking. Satisfied that the gentle old man was occupied elsewhere, she slipped through the hall to the main entrance and raced down the walk to her car.

* * *

"Hot Goddamn," Caleb whistled softly, when he reached the end of the page. He was startled to find loose bits of rubber floating around in his mouth, and, realizing he had been unconsciously chewing as he read, he threw his pencil with its well-gnawed eraser onto his desk with a grunt of disgust. His penis was screaming at him from the tight enclosure of his pants, and he felt a nearly overwhelming desire to relieve himself on the spot. Get a grip, he chided himself, and he stood to walk off his urgency. He passed the credenza and paused to pour a finger of scotch into his empty glass. He drained the drink in a quick gulp and poured himself another before walking to the windows behind his desk. Night had fallen and the street circling the courthouse square was deserted. Not rolled up and put away for the night just yet, but close, he mused, remembering the lament of every teenager, including himself, who ever grew up in a one horse town.

Moon Dog's report lay, inert and innocuous, on the desk behind him, and he undertook to put the steamy images from his mind by concentrating upon the smoky flash of the scotch in his throat, but the pages held him like heroin holds an addict, and he kept turning his head to look at the report and the photo lying beside it. He carried his drink to his desk and stood looking down at the girl in the picture. His fingers stole toward his groin and groped for the throbbing need in his pants. She looked so sweet and virginal with those innocent eyes and her frank gaze, but he couldn't shake the image of her laying on her back with her legs lifted, opening herself wantonly to any depraved demand, and his prick jerked spasmodically. His fingers toyed with his zipper, and he took another sip of scotch in the vain hope of a diversion. It wouldn't be the first time, he rationalized; not the first time events had so stimulated him that he had masturbated in his office. He remembered the trial of little Lisa Marmady's uncle, whom he had tried on seven counts of statutory rape of the child when she was only fifteen. She was eighteen when the case came up, and, to protect her from embarrassment, he had taken the extraordinary step of allowing her to give her testimony in his chambers with no one present but the two of them and Shawna, the court reporter. She had been reluctant at first, and terse, but he explained that she couldn't gloss over the details without losing her credibility, so, after a few faltering starts and some encouragement, she forgot all about the court reporter in the corner behind her and opened up. Pretty soon, she was leaning toward him, confiding her experiences and describing the details of her sexual encounters in a husky, excited voice that clearly betrayed her eager acceptance of her uncle's attentions. He had heard her out, struggling to maintain a semblance of judiciousness for the reporter's sake, if not the witness', and long before she finished, she had him on the sexual ropes of intense longing, and, worse, she knew it. She wound up weaving her story with much the same relish as Moon Dog was exhibiting in his, and, somewhere around the middle, she had abandoned decorum and began using vulgar, vernacular terms like "prick" and "cunt" and "cock" and "fucking" to describe the things her uncle had done to her and which she had, reciprocally, done to him. She had left nothing to the imagination and in the process left the indelible impression that she bore greater responsibility than did her mother's brother for their transgressions. He struggled to maintain the poise his office demanded, but she teased him and stroked his desires wickedly with her sultry glances and earthy words, and, under his robes, he was seething, hot and quick, for her. When she finished, or, as he later recognized, tired of the game and relented, he returned to the courtroom and dismissed the charges against her uncle on account of a lack of evidence and immediately adjourned to his chambers with the tape recording of the girl's testimony, where, in the dark solitude of his office, as her tantalizing words recalled again her sordid pleasures, he fantasized himself in her uncle's place and masturbated till his cum shot in heavy, thick streaks across the polished surface of his desk.

Not again, he groaned, recalling the god-awful mess he had made of his desk and the knowing grins Shawna kept tossing toward him for weeks afterward, when his disinclination to return the tape recording had become apparent. The reporter had become so emboldened by the intimacy of her knowledge, that, one afternoon not long afterward, while he was in chambers during a recess, she had leaned over his shoulder on the pretext of finding for him a line of questioning in a transcript, and she had rubbed herself conspicuously against his back. When he looked up at her, she had smiled a conspiratorial sort of smile and confided that Lisa Marmady's testimony had turned her on every bit as much as it did him, and that confession was the precursor to any number of intra-office ejaculations, none of which, fortunately, had soiled his desk quite as badly as the first.

He sought diversion from the tension in his loins and tried to focus on the photo on his desk. His hand trembled as he reached to position the picture under the light. He studied the face in the photo and took a sip of scotch. Sweetness and innocence radiated from her eyes and the slightly curving smile on her thin, sensuous lips and the openness with which she returned the camera's gaze. Inconceivable, he thought, that one so angelic in appearance could have been caught up, willing or not, in the devilish things Moon Dog was describing, and a vision of Rufus Justice's cum defiling that pretty countenance materialized in his awareness to scold him for making a judgment on such flimsy grounds. Moon Dog, he acknowledged to himself, didn't make things up, and he wouldn't report events unless he was certain they actually had occurred.

He was just closing his eyes to the image of cum streaming down that lovely face, when suddenly, the light of the bright dawn of recognition hit him. "Gweneth Paltrow, of course," he nearly shouted in exclamation. He had recently rented "Shakespeare in Love," and had been so taken with the young actress' beauty, that he had gone out immediately afterward and endured that horribly dreary movie, "The Talented Mr. Ripley." He found his lust for the attractive woman not in the least diminished by his distaste for the second movie, and her attractiveness, particularly the pertly upturned smallish breasts that she had casually revealed in "Shakespeare" had haunted him for months. "They could be twins," he murmured in a half-whisper as he leaned for a better examination, and the thermometer of his passion soared toward the boiling point. "Well, nearly," he argued with himself, retreating just slightly on closer inspection of the picture in the new light of revelation.

His friends always said he was a poor observer of the female form, accurately accusing him of being inherently guilty of transferring the pleasing attributes of one woman onto the person of another in order to dupe himself into infatuation. Sort of a variation on the theme, "if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with," those who knew better had laughed, when he had described his court reporter, Shawna, as being the spitting image of Zena, the Warrior Princess. Let them laugh, he thought studying the photo intently, he was right this time, the resemblance is uncanny, and he drifted into a fantasy of Gweneth reclining on his desk, opening herself to the wet homage of his tongue, and he knew, then and there, that there was no power on earth that was going to keep him from going to Missouri to meet the girl or from bringing her back to Tennessee with him.