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Message-ID: <38645asstr$1033733404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Adrian Hunter & Chelsea Shepard" <adrian_hunter@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP: Pretty Pleas by Adrian Hunter (bd, MF, lawyers in love)
Date: Fri,  4 Oct 2002 08:10:04 -0400
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Pretty Pleas
By Adrian Hunter


Richard knew he was in trouble, big trouble, when she finally managed to get 
the third ring around his cock. Definitely smaller than the first two. And 
there were probably two to go.

The judge had barely looked up when the foreman handed him the slip of 
paper. Not guilty. Shit.

Where the fuck did she go? Was she just going to leave him here standing 
spread-eagled at the foot of the bed with his dick stuck somewhere between 
raging erection and death?

The dipwad figured he got off lucky with 500 hours of litter for accidental, 
given she had pushed for attempted. She was probably right. But everyone 
seemed happy to assume that the guy had simply gotten tanked and misjudged 
the sidewalk. Hard to believe someone would intentionally point his Accord 
at the Blockbuster where his girlfriend worked and punch it. Besides, it had 
been the last case of the day, and the judge wanted to get home early 
because the Knicks were playing tonight. It was anyone's season.

He groaned as her fingers caressed, then twisted, one of his tiny nipples. 
Please, no. Not clamps. Not now.

He thought he heard her say something. She was probably asking him if he 
liked what she was doing.

Objection. Denied. Continue.

The kid didn't want to cop a plea. So he pulled the jury lever and somehow 
lined up three cherries.

The leather cuffs chafed against his thighs and ankles as he struggled 
fitfully. Good luck getting the bed to move. Real mahogany, or something 
likewise. A class suite all the way.

Too bad they wouldn't pass this way again. Never the same hotel twice. One 
of their few rules.

He found he could turn his head a little, not that it mattered with the 
collar roped on both sides to the top of the bedposts. Not to mention the 
way the stiff leather around his neck, all six inches of it, cupped his chin 
so he had to stare at the ceiling.

And he truly regretted buying that oversized ball gag, now that he had had 
ample opportunity to sample its effects on his own jaw.

Victory was often a matter of opinion. Especially when you work for the 
system defending miscreants who can't afford a proper lawyer. He put 
criminals back on the street so the D.A.'s office couldn't turn them into 
hardened professionals at Sing Sing. Nobody was exactly doing God's work 
here.

They knew they were doomed to a relationship from day one. Elizabeth was one 
of those accidental martyrs who are so fucking relentlessly right about 
everything except their own lives. He feigned shambling eloquence as a beard 
for his mirrorshade cynicism. Her tragedy was staying locked up so tight, he 
halfway expected her to explode on contact. Which they did. His secret mine. 
Especially when they finally figured out why such opposites had attracted.

One night, she was furious. She'd lost a three-pointer because some cop 
smudged the grip when he found the gun at the scene. When he had dared to 
smile at her snarling, she threw him on the bed, tied his wrists behind his 
back with her stockings, and did his ass with the vibrator.

Things slid downhill fast from there. Hyperlinks are a marvelous tool for 
extremists in search of the proper dynamite. When he discovered ponygirls, 
he had to increase his credit line.

And, oh, how she hated animal training. So he did it all the time. Lose a 
case, win the race. Hi ho, Silver.

His eyes started to water as she pinched the head of his cock until it went 
limp between her fingers. Fourth ring, definitely smaller.

He wriggled his fingers in the leather prisons hanging high from a short 
strap buckled to the back of the collar, elbows pointing out and wrists 
criss-crossed awkwardly behind his back. "Bondage mittens" sounded too 
innocuous for a plaything that precluded any sort of safeword signaling when 
combined with a gag the size of a softball.

Not that she cared if she occasionally beaned the batter. Not that he did 
either when it was his turn to pitch. This wasn't some demented ballet in 
public with a stranger. More like consensual rape, speaking of scenic 
oxymorons. Pleasurable torture. Loser tops.

He tried to adjust to the fifth ring nestled just beneath the pilgrim's hat, 
the sound of blood pounding in his ears and groin. Same size? Smaller? Hard 
to tell.

She stood up and dangled something silvery in front of his eyes. Clamps. The 
kind that don't slip off easily. Which meant weights. She attached the first 
one on his right nipple (warning: some assembly required), and left its 
partner hanging next to his navel. A preview, he supposed.

The lead dog on the D.A.'s sled does not consort with a public defender. 
Especially in a city with competing tabloids. He marveled at their luck to 
date. Of course, they knew all the tricks. Never seen in public. The hotel 
drill. A new Hotmail account every few days...he tended toward scientific 
names for reptiles, she used whatever variation of "bitch" the system barfed 
up for her. Scowls and snarls in the hall. People simply presumed they were 
mortal enemies. Which they were, in a sense. But it was so much easier to 
run the prison camp this way.

She knelt back down in front of his crotch, his eyes straining to see more 
than the top of her much-too-pretty head. Despite excessive stimulation to 
the contrary, his cock was hopelessly inert inside the rings. So it didn't 
take her long to work number six around its tip. Lucky seven took some doing 
though, given its diameter couldn't measure more than an inch. When she 
finished, she gave his swollen balls a powerful squeeze, then tightened the 
straps around his scrotum until he could scarcely breath.

More than anything, she hated a perp with a tongue for the media. And he had 
known she would extract her pound of flesh for all that wigger jive on the 
courthouse steps after the verdict this afternoon.

Was that a smile? Defcon five. She picked up the loose clamp and twisted it 
down savagely on his other nipple. Like a piranha attacking. Then she 
produced another chain, a long one with a clip on one end and what looked 
like a metal golf ball on the other. The clamps tugged, then jingled.

She reached down to his caged cock and hooked the middle of the links to the 
last ring. Her fingers glanced against his torso as she lifted the rest of 
the chain, and the weight, into his range of vision.

"Whoops," she said tonelessly as she allowed the ball to drop out of her 
hand.

Richard stiffened, then groaned miserably, his extended cock stretching only 
slightly downward because of the chain to the clamps, yet still supporting 
most of the weight swinging between his knees.

Elizabeth turned and gave him an uncharacteristic wink.

"Looks like I'd better get ready for bed, too."

She yawned ostentatiously, but her eyes stayed riveted to his, soaking up 
his mounting, and quite palpable, panic.

"You like?" she asked as her fingers crept down her sides and started 
untucking her turtleneck.

The grey cashmere improbably slipped skyward, replaced by French vanilla 
flesh and shimmering lingerie.

I can deal with this, he lied to himself.

By the time she got to her satin briefs, his shaking made the ball swing and 
bounce like a Yo-yo on the finger of a beginner.

She slipped a finger between her legs, then reached up and pasted her scent 
under his nose.

"Sweet dreams," she whispered theatrically as she drifted backwards to her 
suitcase laid open on top of the bureau. She pulled out their biggest plug 
and kissed it.

"A midnight snack," she said.

Then she was behind him. The covers rustled. The lights went out.

Richard wasn't sure how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been more 
than an hour before a match flared.

"I feel guilty," he heard her say just before the long tapered candle 
sputtered into view sideways in front of his groin.

So did his next client. Couldn't stop bragging about it, actually. A 
charming tale of love, revenge and leaded baseball bats. Took the judge 
maybe a minute to send the joker upstate long enough to miss all three Star 
Wars sequels. Richard logged onto My Yahoo as Helodermatidae, a particularly 
nasty breed known for their venomous behavior, and sent a simple message to 
Bitch37489@mail.com: "Newark Airport Marriott."

"Room 925," she said flatly when she picked up his call from the lobby.

The door wooshed open with nothing more than a nudge from the edge of his 
large suitcase, but it closed like a vacuum-sealed airlock. Must be a 
blackout room for pilots and crew on layover. Soundproof.

Elizabeth didn't look up as he walked past, her gaze intently focused on the 
mottled carpet under her hands and knees, but he could see the edges of the 
leather-coated ring holding her mouth open. As instructed. Right now, his 
interest was focused exclusively on another suitably suggestive entrance, 
the one raised high in the air and quivering ever so slightly. The one she 
loathed being taken by. The one he always started with.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out a joint he had purloined 
from the evidence room. Such choice material these days. His counterparts in 
Humboldt must be slacking off, or more likely skimming 50 percent.

The way her back dips, she looks like a Stratocaster, he decided as he 
suctioned extra air to send the smoke on its merry way deep into his lungs. 
Or a big cat who hates her leash.

Damn, the new heels looked good. Special delivery from Brussels. Seventeen 
centimeters. Hold for guest arrival.

He stubbed the roach into the ashtray on the bedside table, stood up, and 
started unbuttoning his jeans.

It always took forever when he was stoned.

By the time he pulled out, they were both seeing stars. Still kneeling 
behind her, he reached over her shoulder to pick up the lead off the floor. 
As he rose, he gave her cheeks one final slap, but they were already too 
reddened for his open fingers to leave much of an impression.

No need for words when a tug would suffice. Her training was starting to pay 
off. He led her crawling to the open closet space in the entrance hall 
across from the bathroom. When she was directly in front of the full-length 
mirror haphazardly bolted to the door, he pulled her upright on her knees.

His suitcase yielded several coils of thin rope shanked into tight loops. He 
separated one and pulled out a line maybe eight feet long. She watched 
intently as he slowly crafted a slipknot out of one end, then closed her 
eyes tight as he threaded a big handful of her hair through the open noose. 
The other end went up and over the closet bar, then down to the back of her 
collar, where it replaced the leash on the back ring.

She didn't start losing it until he picked up one of her ankles and pushed 
it flat against the top of a thigh. He loved when she started making those 
little sex noises of hers. A combination of a machine gun and a kitten 
mewling.

He centered a new line and started by lashing it around her foot. To make 
sure her shoe stayed on. Then ankle, then thigh, then together. Knot. And 
again, until she was balanced precariously on her bent-over knees.

Next came her waist, with two long strands left hanging dangerously in front 
of her quite-open crotch. Followed closely by her wrists in front of her, 
with a little slack between the 10 or so wraps around them. But just so he 
could get them up, over, then behind her head. Slack, meet strands. Wrists, 
meet pussy. Pulling back her sweet lips to brutally expose the secret spot. 
Bump, actually. For now.

She shot him the look. He laughed. Out loud. Grind on, baby.

For all he knew, this was the last time.

She couldn't quite believe it either. Her, a judge? End of the month, 
apparently. The district's superstar goes supernova. What passes for justice 
in New York.

Just a handful of cases between now and then. Last one decides it for keeps.

Not that anyone would know. Not that anyone had ever known. Their little 
forever secret.

Make it count.

Luckily, he'd been shopping. The Kmart for the plastic broom and the Charms 
Pop. The net for the rest.

He debated a second joint, and went for it.

Serious machinery, he noted as he slipped the leather loop around her neck 
and nestled the support pad between her breasts, noting the 1985-model Lars 
Ulrich heartbeat in her left one. Master of puppets, indeed.

He buckled the strap tight behind her back, her breasts heaving heavily over 
the black band. He noted a leftover foot of line hanging down from her 
pinioned wrists. What the fuck.

Ingenious, really. A long threaded screw stuck out from between her breasts. 
A smooth rod crossing it perpendicular like a little T. With two 
clamps...no, make that presses...welded to the ends. One simply twisted the 
butterfly nut, and the rod headed in the opposite direction of the wearer's 
nipples. Causing them to stretch. Along with the breasts. Eventually.

A judge, he marveled. Could they continue? How could they continue? Could 
they continue, please? Did they have a choice?

One last case. Total luck of the draw.

Suspended like that, her breasts looked a little like pink daschunds. He 
hesitated for only a moment, then used the last of the rope to bind them.

Richard hummed the Stones while peeling the wrapper off the lollipop...my 
favorite flavor is cherry red...

He stuck it through the ring in her mouth and rolled it around on her 
tongue. Good and wet. Then he knelt down behind her and worked the pop part 
under the two ropes pressing against her asshole. It wasn't going to take 
long before she relaxed and swallowed it whole. He wondered if it would melt 
in there.

Some day, he would really have to go to town with the duct tape. But 
tonight, all he needed was a little strip. To paste a single strand of 
artificial straw surrendered by the broom. A blue not found in nature. But 
long and strong and thin and plastic. To the side of the vibrator.

Turn it on. High. The way it oscillates is hypnotic, he thought. A blur 
that's almost solid. Off. Tuck the bulk of the party penis under the ropes 
near the top of one of her thighs. Adjust it so the skinny spine is just 
barely touching her clit. On. Whee. Now, that's flicking.

His balls burned as he imagined what it felt like to be whipped by something 
like that. Based on her reaction, he was probably underestimating the 
effect.

She's really starting to lose it now. Surrendering to her fate. So rare to 
see her so uncomposed. And the waves probably haven't even started crashing 
yet.

He figured about an hour before she'd be ready. His cock stirred expectantly 
at the thought of her tongue working it over. Such a sucker.

"You're such a dick," she hissed, redundantly.

"And you're my bitchin' betty," he replied, as always, before he stuck the 
handle of the flogger between her teeth. She didn't dare drop it, but he 
could always pinch her nose when he was ready.

Her eyes stayed cemented to the monitor as he clicked the bookmark list. 
Time for a little insex.com. Those puppies are sick, but creative as hell. 
No mercy on their options menu.

He moved his hand from the mouse to the keyboard to type in his ID and 
password, only partially aware of the twine wrapped around his wrist going 
taut.

Tied to the other end, her nipples had a very different opinion.

The simple things were sometimes best. A spreader bar between her feet. An 
arm binder. A ball gag with a rubber strap around her neck, waiting for the 
inevitable failure with the flogger.

He sneaked a glimpse down to her crotch to admire the design he had 
carefully applied around her newly-shaved pussy. He wasn't wild about the 
color of the mehendi, but he did like the delicate sworls and curlicues. He 
resisted the urge to reach over and push his fingers deep inside her. 
Mustn't smudge and make it that much harder for the tattoo artist to follow.

Or maybe he would settle for his initials for now. One letter on either 
side. She could always grow it back to cover them.

He knew it was going to take several weeks before he decided. In the 
meantime, he really needed to get started on her piercings. Nipples and 
tongue for sure. Maybe down there, too.

She squirmed fitfully on her stool as he pointed and clicked at various 
inspirations. They'd already spent over an hour at the Frederick's site 
selecting her new intimates collection. To wear under her new robes.

Coincidentally, they argued their last case in front of the judge she was 
replacing. Another fuckface with a trunk full of snort. Pulled over for 
doing 90 on the expressway. Probable cause. Search. Seizure. Of course he 
howled entrapment. No dice. Three to five for possession with intent to 
sell. The gallery cheered as the D.A.'s office notched another kill. A 
little party afterwards before he headed to Vermont. How nice for her to go 
out a winner. Could've gone either way. But everybody was too tipsy to 
second-guess.

All-day butt plug. He liked the sound of that. "Add to shopping cart." 
Click.

He imagined her splayed over the stool, her arms pulled down toward the 
spreader bar, defenseless. He'd always wondered if you could really whip a 
girl there until she came. He'd soon find out.

The old fart had actually winked as he climbed into his new Range Rover. A 
parting gift from the good guys. Dee-fense, dee-fense, he had whispered as 
he handed the judge the keys.

Well, she was worth every penny.


***
Copyright (C) 2002 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved.
Please do not repost nor repurpose without permission.

***
 From "Crash Your Party Dress," a collection of bdsm short stories and 
novellas now available from Renaissance Ebooks

bttp://www.renebooks.com

***
AdrianHunter.com
Superlative bondage fiction by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard, including 
our newly revised bdsm serial adventure, "Association"

http://www.adrianhunter.com

_________________________________________________________________
Chat with friends online, try MSN Messenger: http://messenger.msn.com

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