Message-ID: <24981asstr$962665821@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.4.21.0007031414080.10606-100000@shell.dhp.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII
Subject: {ASSM} Deferred Pleasure (MF FMF MFM Oral Anal) {Kellis} [2/7]
Date: Mon, 3 Jul 2000 19:10:24 -0400
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
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/24981>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, newsman
Deferred Pleasure
a Novelette by Kellis
June, 2000
Chapter 2: All Over the Shoe
Speaking loudly, the judge, wrinkled but still young enough to
exhibit solidly black hair, read from a paper on his bench. "This
is the sentencing hearing for Gerald Arthur Ballard, pleading
guilty to the charge of manslaughter in the first degree. Is the
defendant present in court?"
Scones nudged Gerry, who spoke up, "Here I am, sir."
The judge focused on him. "You are Gerald Arthur Ballard?"
"Yes, sir."
"Call me 'Your Honor.' And is Philip A. Scones, appointed
attorney for the defendant, also present?"
"I am he, Your Honor."
"Very well. The court takes notice that Mr. Jardin, assistant
county prosecutor, is present to represent the state. Let us
proceed.
"Mr. Ballard, are you aware that by pleading guilty to this
crime, the result is the same as if a jury had so found you?"
"Ah ... Yes, Your Honor."
The judge paused to read through a paper before him. He frowned.
"This appears to be your signature on the confession. Did you
sign a confession, Mr. Ballard?"
"Yes, I did."
The judge read further and his frown increased. "Mr. Jardin," he
called, looking to the prosecution table, "this confession is too
skimpy."
The prosecutor's eyebrows rose. "Too 'skimpy,' Your Honor?"
"Too skimpy. Mr. Ballard admits to killing the victim in the
heat of the moment, but says nothing about how and why he did so.
How can I judge the reasonableness of your sentencing
recommendation on so few grounds?"
The prosecutor stood up and cleared his throat. "Your honor, the
defendant was caught *in flagrante delicto* with the victim's
wife."
"So *you* say! Where is the evidence of that?"
The prosecutor coughed into his hand. "Your Honor, may I suggest
a remedy? There stands the defendant, pleading guilty. Why
don't you ask *him*?"
"Very good. Mr. Ballard, please stand up."
Both Gerry and his lawyer got to their feet. The judge
continued, "Please state for the record the details of your
confession."
Gerry's eyes widened. He stammered, "I ... I ... I wasn't
supposed to have to say anything."
"It's all right," the judge encouraged. "Just tell it in your
own way."
"But, Your Honor, I don't know what it says."
"Eh? What *what* says?"
"My confession."
The judge gaped at him.
Scones said smoothly, "What the defendant means, Your Honor, is
that he needs a little time --"
The judge interrupted. "I'd prefer *him* to say what he means,
counselor! Mr. Ballard, is it possible you have never read your
own confession?"
Gerry looked helplessly at his lawyer.
Scones declared, "Of course he has read it!"
"Be quiet, counselor! *Have* you read it, Mr. Ballard?"
"No, Your Honor."
For a moment the courtroom was silent. The judge asked, "Then
why did you sign it?"
"Because Philip said I would only have to go to jail for six
years instead of 25."
Scones looked down at the table top before him. Murmurs arose
among the spectators, but a glare from the judge was sufficient
to silence them.
He asked, "That was Philip Scones, your attorney?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
The judge directed a withering stare at the unhappy lawyer, who
glanced once at the assistant prosecutor before looking away.
"Then let's start at the beginning," said the judge grimly. "Do
you admit to killing ... ah ... William Wilson Moore on the
seventh day of this month?"
Gerry took a deep breath. He raised his chin, stared directly at
the judge and declared, "Yes."
"All right. Now tell the court *why* you killed him."
Gerry looked at his lawyer, who looked away. Gerry spread his
hands. "It must be that I'm supposed to say he caught me with
his wife."
"'It must be,'" repeated the judge. His face began to redden.
"What it must be, Mr. Ballard, is the truth and nothing but the
truth."
Gerry shook his head. "Then I don't know why."
"An ungovernable whim, was it?"
When Gerry stood silent, the judge asked, "*Did* he catch you
with his wife?"
"Not in the act, Your Honor."
"But he accused you?"
"No, your honor. I never spoke with him."
"Mr. Ballard ..." The judge paused to take a reflective breath.
"Your answers are curiously unrevealing. You say you don't know
why you killed him. How is that possible, Mr. Ballard? How can
you not know?"
Gerry shook his head. Then he straightened his shoulders and
again raised his chin. "Your Honor, if I tell the truth, will I
still get only six years in jail?"
Scones winced. The judge emitted a sour bark of laughter. "I do
believe *that* statement is the most contemptuous of the court's
integrity that I have heard in eight years on the bench! And
yet, somehow I don't believe you meant it that way. What *is*
the truth in this case, Mr. Ballard?"
Scones raised his hand. "Your honor, could we approach?"
"We have no jury, Mr. Scones."
"Nevertheless I'd like to tell you a thing off the record."
"Very well. Approach."
Scones and the prosecutor closed on the judge's raised bench.
Scones said earnestly, "Your Honor, the defendant claims he has
never even laid eyes on the victim. If he is allowed to state
that on the record, well, I don't see how we can proceed without
a trial."
"Then we probably shouldn't. Why did you advise him to sign this
thing?"
"Because the prosecutor's case is overwhelming. They have his
fingerprints on the murder weapon and his semen in the wife's
vagina."
The judge looked sharply at Jardin, who said defensively, "We
originally charged Ballard with Murder Two and rape, Your Honor,
but unfortunately the wife now claims not to remember anything
about it at all. Without her testimony we certainly can't prove
rape and even a murder conviction is shaky."
"Could the wife have killed him?" asked the judge.
"No motive," Jardin responded. "The defendant is the only one
with a motive. And don't forget the defendant's fingerprints all
over the wrench that fits the dent in the victim's head."
* * * *
"Lieutenant, could I see you for a few minutes?"
Lt. Roark looked up at the grizzled detective standing in his
office door. "What's it about, Sergeant?"
"The Ballard case: the kid who murdered and raped the Moores."
"You got something new? Come on in and sit."
"Well, maybe a different way to look at it." The heavy older man
took a seat across the desk from his bald-headed but younger
boss.
The lieutenant leaned back in his swivel chair. "Shoot."
"We cut a few corners on this one, you know."
"We did?"
"Yeah. Call it up, will you? It's Case 423."
The lieutenant punched a few keys on his computer terminal.
"Okay. Here's the poop."
"Look at the check-off form."
"Yeah." After a moment the younger man cut his eye around to the
older. "You mean the lack of interrogation?"
"Exactly. We don't even have the perp's story for the record."
"So?" The lieutenant shrugged. "He'd just deny everything. But
his prints are the only ones on the murder weapon."
"Yeah, but I talked to Scones. He told me privately what the kid
has to say, and you know something? He can account for them
prints. Says the wife asked him to fix her sink with that
wrench."
"Before or after he slugged the hubby?"
"Well, he says he never laid eyes on any man in that house."
"Does he!"
"Yeah, I know. And they ain't no evidence the sink was ever
busted, much less him fixing it. But in fact we didn't check the
sink until the next day."
"Somebody could've cleaned it up?"
"Yeah." The old detective stared at his superior. "The wife."
"The wife?" Lt. Roark shrugged. "All right, except I thought we
didn't have a motive for her: no fight, no money problem. Wait
a minute! Wasn't there something about a trust fund?"
"Yeah, a nice one, too; several million dollars. But she can't
get at it until she's 30, and there's a lot of funny conditions
on it even then."
"How old is she?"
"23. The trust fund ain't the reason. But I found something
that might be. Mr. Moore got fired the day before he was
killed."
The lieutenant perked up. "Yeah? Well, go on."
"That's all I know. His employer will only say that Moore was ...
How does he put it? 'Discharged for cause.' Should we get a
subpoena?"
"And give ammo to Ballard's defense? Think again, Sergeant." He
studied the wrinkled face. "I know you. What else you got?"
"The wife says she cooked his breakfast at 9:30. What if she did
it at 8:30?"
The lieutenant studied his computer screen. "That time of
digestion is accurate stuff. It would mean the death occurred at
ten instead of eleven -- before the kid got there. What do you
have that says she lied?"
"Well, the M.E. says the body was too cool with too much lividity
to have been dead only 30 minutes."
"Does he? Every medical examiner I ever heard admits those
indicators have a lot of room for error."
"Okay, but think about this. They found skin tissue under the
stone in Moore's class ring. The DNA report says it's the
wife's, probably from that long scratch she had on her inner
arm."
The lieutenant thought about it and shook his head. "Might not
have anything to do with the crime, even if the husband did
scratch her."
"I think they had a fight. The victim had four long scratches on
his face, about the right spacing for a woman's hand. Ballard's
fingernails was cut short. A man wouldn't strike such a blow
anyway. But we never looked under the wife's fingernails."
Lt. Roark stared into space. "Over his getting fired?"
"Probably. I'd say most likely. She might have $5 million in
the bank, but she can't touch a penny of it for seven years.
Moore's bank balance was $95."
"What would she make for killing him?"
"He had a piddly-ass $50,000 life insurance policy with a much
larger one at his ex-employer's, canceled of course. Given that
she ain't got a job, that 50 grand probably looked pretty good."
"All right. Run it out. How did she plan it?"
The detective took a breath. "I don't think she planned
anything. I think she laid into him about getting fired, he
grabbed her, she got away but kept chewing, he slugged her -- the
black eye -- she picked up that wrench and whacked him beside the
head. It's a heavy one. The tang was turned just right to cave
in his skull.
"She's a housewife, but she's watched a lot of TV. When she sees
he ain't breathing, she dumps his body in the tub --"
"Could she do that?"
"Oh, yeah. That's a strong, healthy woman. She dumps the body
and cleans up the mess. Probably not much of it. Luminol showed
only a few streaks on the bathroom floor. She wipes the wrench
clean of everything and flushes her rags or towels down the john.
And then that college kid shows up at the front door.
"You gotta give her credit for fast thinking. She pulls him in
and fucks him quick. She knows she's running out of time. She
remembers the leaky sink, just as the kid said, and gets him
started putting his fingerprints all over the wrench. She goes
into that closet with the cell phone and calls 911, saying a man
just raped her and killed her husband. She comes back and is
screwing the kid again when the police get there. Hell, he even
fixed her sink!"
The lieutenant shook his head. "No evidence of that, except his
word."
"Well, we didn't check *under* the sink. Later, when forensics
has left, she gets to thinking. What if he tells about the sink?
So she cleans it up, spic and span. Let me tell you, I was there
after Ballard's lawyer asked us to check it, and even a brand new
sink don't sparkle like that one did!"
"How about the blood and tissue on the wrench tang?"
"She'd already thought how to handle that. While Ballard was
running down the hall, she grabs that wrench with a Kleenex, dips
it in the hole in her husband's head and puts it back on the
sink. You know, that's the clincher for me. She left the shower
curtain open. Ballard said it was closed, which is why he never
noticed the husband's body."
Lt. Roark smiled slowly. "Very dramatic, Sergeant. It *could*
have happened that way. But you just made a case for her killing
him in self-defense. Why didn't she call 911 right away? She
had the black eye and the scratch -- and probably other bruises
that we figured Ballard for."
The sergeant nodded. "I know. That's the weak part of my idea.
Why would she go to all that trouble -- fucking a stranger,
taking a hell of a chance on him, really? I'd like to ask *her*
that question."
The lieutenant tapped his finger on the desk thoughtfully.
"Nobody ever found a prior connection between the wife and
Ballard, did they?"
"No. According to his guidance counselor, Ballard had his nose
to the books all spring. This selling job was just about his
first sally off campus since Christmas."
Lt. Roark shook his head. "Well, you've got an interesting
theory, Sergeant. How're you going to prove it?"
"How about letting me bring the wife in and put her through the
wringer?"
"Huh! You know what she's saying these days."
The sergeant grinned. "I'll get her to take a lie-detector test.
That'll tell us if she remembers anything or not."
The lieutenant nodded slowly. "Not a bad idea, if you can keep
her from screaming for a lawyer. Do you really --"
The telephone on his desk rang, the two quick beeps of an urgent
call. He snatched it up. "Roark."
He listened at length while it rattled in his ear. "How much
time did he get? ... Okay. Thanks for calling."
He hung up the receiver, sighed, leaned back in his chair, smiled
at the sergeant and shook his head. "Well, old pal, I guess
you'll never find out now. Ballard was just sentenced to
six-to-fifteen." He punched a key on the computer keyboard.
"Case 423 is closed."
* * * *
Gerry's first impression of the state's medium security prison at
Horrypine was a sustained high noise level: the distant ringing
of metal bars, the shuffling of feet and under all, a persistent
background of masculine voices, rising and falling but never
fully dying away. Next was the odor: decaying concrete, rust
and human bodies, similar to a gymnasium except less of the tang
of sweat.
He arrived in a steel-barred van with four others in orange jail
suits. They were made to strip naked in a room of green concrete
blocks and stand side by side with their feet on a long, narrow
platform, each bent over holding to a rail, while a guard in
latex gloves walked down the line and thrust the same forefinger
in the same glove deep into one rectum after the other. Each man
grunted with pain. "Assholes clear!" announced the guard.
Next they were led into a room with a yellow-clad man behind a
counter, who eyed them one at the time and issued each a yellow
suit. Returning to the green room, they were allowed to pause
long enough to cover their nakedness and put shoes and socks back
on, the only items left from their entrance. A different guard
lined them up, demanded their names for check-off on his
clipboard, told them that were being admitted to the Orientation
Section and finally led them through several barred and clanging
doors until each was introduced separately into his own small
cell.
Finally alone, Gerry sat on the sheetless mattress and stared
around his new home. In addition to the bunk it contained a sink
and a toilet. The windowless walls were of impenetrable cinder
block. A fluorescent light fixture was recessed in the ceiling.
The hall beyond the steel barred door contained a dividing
partition down its middle. At that moment he could see no other
living persons, though he could hear them.
But others could see him. A small video camera was placed high
in the corner of the cell, staring balefully at him. A grill
above its lens suggested the likelihood of a microphone. Gerry
smiled grimly. Did they expect him to talk to himself?
Two days later a guard opened his door and led him to a slightly
larger cell, one with two bunks and *two* video cameras. This
one was occupied by a short and skinny fellow who sat on his bunk
with knees drawn up, watching Gerry closely.
When the guard had latched the door and departed, Gerry said,
"I'm Gerry Ballard."
"Fats Hawker."
"Fats?"
"Used to be."
Gerry waited but the other held his peace. Gerry sat down on the
unused bunk and returned the stare. Hawker grinned, took a pack
of cigarettes and a small butane lighter from his chest pocket
and lit a cigarette. He blew out a cloud of smoke. Gerry
glanced up at the *No Smoking* sign in large red letters above
the door, and thought that it was odd such a sign had been absent
from his first cell.
"Want one?" Hawker asked, extending the pack.
"No, thanks."
"Don't smoke, eh? When'd you quit?"
"Never did smoke."
Hawker's eyes narrowed. He took a deep drag, leaned in the
other's direction, blew a cloud of smoke directly into Gerry's
face and sat back with an oddly gleeful light in his eyes.
Gerry waited until the cloud had mostly dissipated, then said
quietly, "If you do that again, you'll lose the ability to blow
smoke."
Hawker's eyebrows rose. "How'll I do that?"
"I'll take those cigarettes away from you and throw them out in
the hall."
Hawker snickered. "Big talk! You'll have a little trouble with
that."
"Try me."
He lost the smile. Gerry was obviously younger and 40 pounds
heavier. Hawker turned away and finished his cigarette by
exhaling the smoke in the direction of the door.
At night, after the meal trustees had ceased pushing their tray
carts through the halls, the fluorescent light went off and was
replaced by small incandescent bulbs inside the same receptacles.
The result was dim enough to allow sleep but, Gerry suspected,
still bright enough for the cameras to see.
Hawker leaned close to Gerry and whispered. "This was a test,
you know."
"How?" Gerry whispered back.
"The screws like smokers. They're easy to squeeze."
Gerry thought about that. "They could've asked me."
That produced a wry chuckle. "Buddy, get used to something. As
long as you're in here, nobody's gonna believe a word you say."
Gerry resided with the smoker for two days. Then he was led to
another two-man cell. This time his companion was a tall,
heavily-built fellow with a bald or perhaps clean-shaven head.
He said his name was John Fairey.
"Fairey," Gerry repeated suspiciously.
"Yeah. Don't I look like one?"
"Hardly."
The man chuckled. "Watch out for those stereotypes."
After the supper trays were removed but before lights down,
Fairey stood between the bunks and laid his hand gently on
Gerry's thigh.
"What do you need?" asked Gerry.
"You."
"I'll give you one chance to remove your hand."
The man grinned, hand in place. "And if I don't? I'll just have
to whip your ass first, is that it?"
"Maybe you will, but I promise I'll hurt you."
Fairey stared into Gerry's eyes and saw the determination there.
"You been inside before, have you?"
"Not jail. I was raised in an orphanage."
The big man grunted and removed his hand. "So was I," he
admitted, sitting down again on his own bunk.
The next morning Gerry was led back to the original one-man cell,
or one very like it. A day or two later he spent the day in a
room with several other yellow-suited men. It contained a
television receiver tuned at low volume to soap operas, a table
of periodicals: news, sports and Playboy, and the ever-present
video cameras. He looked over a couple of the news magazines,
the least dog-eared, and ignored the other inmates, as they
ignored him.
Another day he was led into an exercise yard outside. When
invited to play basketball, he agreed, thinking he needed the
running, but applying a lesson learned in the orphanage, was
careful to make only two or three baskets. In the subsequent
showers he ignored the adjacent man, who masturbated openly under
the falling water.
After two weeks, as best he could determine, he was led to a room
with a carpet, a flower pot, padded chairs, a desk with pictures
and a suited black man behind the desk. A carved sign on the
desktop announced him to be Samuel V. Adams / Penal
Administrator. The guard who accompanied Gerry remained standing
in the back of the room.
The man behind the desk looked up cursorily. "You are Gerald
Arthur Ballard?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, a polite one. How nice!"
He glanced at his computer screen, invisible to Gerry. "It says
here you were a junior in college, studying Computer Science. Is
that right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Then you should be suitable for all our occupational
specialties. You're in luck. Galloway Enterprises has a slot
open. It pays you a dollar a day. You'll report there tomorrow.
Do you have any questions?"
"Uh ... yes, sir. Doing what?"
"They'll tell you when you get there."
"Get *where*?"
"You'll be shown." Adams took up a paper. Behind Gerry the
guard stepped closer.
"Could I ask one more question?" Gerry inquired.
Adams looked up, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. "Go ahead."
"Ah, I was told I was being sent to the Orientation Section."
"You're in it."
"Well, when do I get ... oriented?"
Adams chuckled and winked up at the guard standing behind Gerry.
"You got it backwards. Did you think it meant *you* would learn
about Horrypine?"
The guard laughed. "Come on," he growled.
Gerry was led from Adams office through many barred doors and
connecting passages, down two sets of stairs and past a
bewildering array of cell blocks, mostly occupied with men who
never looked up, finally to a single cell slightly larger than
the one he had vacated. It had one other difference: no video
camera.
A set of yellow clothing lay folded on the bunk. When Gerry had
entered the room, the guard waited outside with the door held
open. "Give me the jumpsuit you're wearing," he said, "and put
that one on."
The new one was two-piece, shirt and pants. The shirt had a
nine-digit number stenciled on front and back, the pants likewise
with the same number. The clothing smelled new. For the first
time here he had something that was his. Who else would care to
sport Gerry's own social-security number?
* * * *
*Galloway Enterprises* turned out to be a long room filled with
tables and matching benches. A man in yellow sat at each bench.
In time Gerry counted them: exactly 50 tables and 50 men. An
armed guard sat watchfully behind a wire screen on an elevated
platform at one end of the room, but he was there principally as
backup. The 50 men were controlled by a computer.
Each bench had a red light. When it turned on, the man on the
bench must leap to his feet and proceed to the opposite wall,
which contained three large metal bins. He must remove a circuit
board from the left-hand bin, return to his table and plug it
into a slot fixed in the table top. A computer screen behind the
slot then directed how the board should be repaired: i.e.,
which components to replace. Occasionally it would indicate that
the board was unrepairable, in which case it must be returned to
the second bin. When the prisoner had replaced the indicated
components, he again inserted the board in the slot. If the
computer now judged it repaired, the red light came on along with
a *Working* message. The fixed board must be transported to the
third bin and a new defective board retrieved.
One tool was supplied, resembling small tongs attached to the
table by a short chain. A number of quart-sized bins were
mounted at the rear of each table containing replacement modules.
As directed by the computer, the prisoner pulled the defective
module from the board with the tongs, took up a new one with the
same implement and shoved it into the vacated socket.
"Just like us," whispered the man on Gerry's right. Gerry looked
up to ask him what he meant. Just like new prisoners in old
cells?
"Prisoner at Table 14," rattled a loud speaker, "eyes on your
work."
Gerry recalled that *he* was sitting at Table 14.
Actually the work was not hard, nor even very fast paced. When
his first board had been pronounced *Working*, Gerry was allowed
to sit undisturbed for a minute or so before the red lamp lit.
A button on the table could be pressed to request the computer's
leave for morning break, lunch and afternoon break. One each was
granted per day. The guard on the loudspeaker notified the user
when his idle period had ended.
The room had no clock. In fact, Gerry realized, he had yet to
see a clock anywhere in Horrypine except Adams' office. He could
only guess at how much time the computer allowed to make repairs:
longer when more modules must be replaced, least when a board was
judged irreparable. He could also only guess at how many hours
he sat on the bench. He smiled grimly. So what? He was being
paid by the day, wasn't he?
Apparently not. An envelope appeared on his supper tray.
Dumbfounded at this break in so many days of the same routine
that he had lost count, he tore it open and scanned it hungrily.
Galloway Enterprises Statement of Earnings
Prisoner 737-80-1311, Horrypine Correctional Facility
August 10, 1998 through September 11, 1998
Boards repaired 1949
Earnings $23.38
Expenditures $0.00
Balance $23.38
About 1.2 cents per board! Gerry remembered learning in computer
lab that few companies considered it profitable to repair circuit
boards at the module level. At 1.2 cents per board, however,
that judgment was reversible, even if the prison system's cut was
ten times Gerry's.
The dates specified included 25 working days, considering that
the prisoners were given the weekends "off." Clearly he was not
quite earning the promised dollar a day. Somehow he doubted,
however, that it would be profitable to complain.
[Next: Chapter 3: Scraping it Off]
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+