Author: Bulgroz the Third
Title: Pride Cometh Before A Fall
Summary: During a group therapy session, a mind controller tells the story of how he set out to right a wrong.
Keywords: MF, Mdom, mc


Written for Wesley King's 2009 Fabled February Free-for-all.



		      PRIDE COMETH BEFORE A FALL

			 By Bulgroz the Third



"This sucks big strawberry-flavored cocks! Why the fuck are we here
anyway?"

"Dude, you suck lots of strawberry cocks in your time? Your momma had
none of 'em nipples?"

"You shut your fat mouth you fat fuck or I gonna -"

"Please, everyone, calm down. James, sit down please, I will have no
violence here, as you all know. There, thank you, James. Ferguson, I
believe you owe James an apology."

Ferguson mumbled something under his breath that may have been an
apology. He shifted his great bulk in the wooden chair, and refused to
look up from the floor. James, sitting across from him, glared in his
direction, but did not resume the verbal sparring.

"Thank you, both of you. Now, James, you were wondering why we were
all here. Since you are still new to these group sessions, we should
explain. Lazarus, would you mind explaining to James what is the
purpose of these sessions?"

Dr. Valerie MacKenzie leaned back in her chair, and allowed herself
some time to relax while Lazarus explained to James what these group
therapy sessions were all about: to share their feelings and
experiences, to discuss how their past behaviors could be understood
and transcended in the light of calm rational introspection, and to
build a path towards an eventual release and reintegration into
society. Good old Lazarus, regurgitating the party line like a good
boy.  Group therapy helped, no doubt about it, but the illusion that
once they got better they would be released was, well, just that, an
illusion, reflected Dr. MacKenzie.

The tall brunette's lower back complained when she moved, and she
tried hard not to flinch in response. Those patients in a circle
around her could be very perceptive, and it would not do at all to
have them realize her discomfort. Hell, half of them would probably be
able to guess that she had spent most of the previous night getting
thoroughly fucked, and they would not let it go.

The memories of the previous night awoke pleasantly tingling
sensations deep down in her crotch. Dr. MacKenzie shifted in her seat,
hoping no one would pay too much attention. A few patients glance at
her questioningly, and she casually let the hem of her skirt slide
down one thigh, contrasting with her primly crossed legs. As expected,
that distracted them. She was playing with fire, she knew, but did not
adjust her skirt.

"Fuck you, man, fuck all of you. I don't need no fucking group
therapy. You're all a bunch of pussies anyways, sittin' 'round like
girls at summer camp. I'd have fucked the crap out of you a month
ago."

"James, please, calm down, or I will have to call the orderlies to
take you away for timeout," intervened Dr. MacKenzie.

James mumbled something under his breath, echoing Ferguson earlier,
and settled down in his chair, arms crossed, an expression on his face
that was more a sulk than the tough guy's won't-take-no-shit stare he
was hoping for.

James, our latest arrival, reflected Dr. MacKenzie. He had been caught
outside a mall in Michigan a few weeks earlier, after someone had
spotted strange happenings in the Victoria's Secret store inside. It
seemed that James had been busy getting the employees to stage an
impromptu fashion show for him and other store customers. Before he
had known what was happening, James had been neutralized, brought to
the Center, kept in isolation for a week, and treated by the phase one
staff before joining Dr. MacKenzie's group.

The group was small with twelve patients. Most of them were drugged
out of their mind and near catatonic. Considering the meds they were
under, that was hardly surprising. Dr. MacKenzie wondered why the
powers-that-be insisted they attended at all. They did not disrupt the
proceedings at least, she thought, and they did serve as a useful
graphic deterrent, an illustration of what might happen to anyone that
did not behave.

Of the patients that could be considered active, four monopolized
discussions. James Statler, full of attitude but wet behind the ears,
Lazarus Rosencrantz, perpetually in need of acceptance and validation,
the Great Mysticus, born Antoine Deville, a third-rate stage hypnotist
with a first-rate side business corrupting young co-eds, and Ferguson
Jenkins, the big man (the slob, thought Dr. MacKenzie) with an axe to
grind towards everyone that had rejected him throughout his life,
which included pretty much everyone he had ever met. All were more
than eager to discuss their lives, their experiences, their
perversions, what they had done with the powers they were given. It
was Dr. MacKenzie's job to obtain a greater understanding of the
psychology of mind controllers through this lot.

Dr. MacKenzie brought the meeting to order. "Good afternoon
everyone. Today, let's do a roundtable. Anyone read anything
interesting this week?"

There was the expected awkward silence before Lazarus weakly set
forth.

"There... there was an interesting article on redemption in a magazine
a few days back, in Heart and Soul."

"Heart and Soul is a fag mag, bub. Why the fuck you reading that
crap?"

"James, please," said Dr. MacKenzie. "Lazarus, tell us, why did you
like the article?"

"Honestly, at first because it had some pretty pictures,
very... classic, black and white. About some fella going down to Hell
with some ghost and meeting folks there, folks getting punished. But
then I started reading, and it was... I don't know... it scared
me. Made me think that I'm probably off to Hell myself, and that I
should atone for what I've done."

"Bunch of catholic drivel just meant to make you feel guilty," spat
Ferguson, disdain evident on his face. "Like there's some big guy up
there who cares."

"Yes," piped in Mysticus after a pause. "the thought of a Great
Puppeteer behind the scenes, directing the action, controlling
destinies, is somewhat ridiculous when contemplated in the stillness
of contemplation."

"Hey, Great Zamboni, weren't you like a big fuckin' puppeteer
controlling things behind the scenes yourself?" said James.

"Well, yes, but I am the Great Mysticus, my young friend. That's
different."

Ferguson was not easily distracted. "Besides," he said, heating up,
"just look at sins. Can't avoid them. The deadly sins. All about
emotions that can't be controlled, emotions we can't help but feel. It
just guarantees that you're always doing something bad you have to
feel guilty about. I mean, we can't all be frickin' Ghandi, we all get
angry."

"Fuckin' A, man! 'Sides, everyone says it's unhealthy to keep anger
inside."

"I don't know," said Lazarus, softly. "Maybe they are onto
something. They've been around for a long time, after all -"

"Yeah, well, so have the pagans," interrupted Ferguson.

"- and the sin of lust is what landed us here," continued Lazarus,
undeterred. "Lust is the bane for us all, lust of the flesh, lust of
the carnal act, the carnal thought. Lust is the bane, of the worse
kind."

"No it's not, kid."

Everyone else was shocked into silence. Dr. MacKenzie turned to the
patient that had just spoken, trying to hide her surprise. He was one
of the quiet ones, but not because of meds. He kept to himself, and
had never spoken in her presence, or anyone else's. He fascinated her,
so unlike all other controllers who tended to develop God complexes
that produced expansive overreaching individuals. His file said his
name was John Smith, but his real name and any other information had
been kept from her for reasons she knew better than to question.

"Hey, look at that, Eastwood talks!" said Ferguson. Dr. MacKenzie had
to admit there was a certain Sergio Leone aura about John Smith.

Smith reached slowly into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a
cigarette. In his right hand he produced a wooden match, that he
struck on the rough material of his jeans. The flame was bright. He
approached it from the cigarette.

"Mister Smith," Dr. MacKenzie said, "we are in a no-smoking building,
so I will ask you to put that away."

Smith, lit match poised an inch from the tip of his cigarette, looked
at her. She held his gaze for a few seconds, and remained still as a
long shiver traveled up her spine. Panic snapping at the heels of the
thought, she feared that he still had his powers, whatever form they
might have taken, and that he would just take over her mind. She had
been lulled into a false sense of security by the umbrella of the
Center, and she had forgotten how dangerous these people were. They
were animals. I'm lost, she thought, hysterically. They'll just take
turns with me.

Smith snuffed the match, the flicker of a smile tugging at his
lips. Unlit cigarette still in mouth, he turned to Lazarus.

"Lust is not the worse, not by a long shot. Pride is." The words were
careful, the cadence slow. His voice gruff, a machine unused for too
long starting up again.

James scoffed. "Pride! What's this, fuckin' Doctor Phil? What next, we
all hug and feel better? I'm with Doormat on that one: our game's
lust. Hey, gotta love lust. That's why we're here, ain't it?"

A quiet look from Smith. "I don't know about the others, son, but
you're here because you're an idiot."

He paused. His gaze shifted to the center of the room, lost its focus,
and his voice grew softer.

"Let me tell y'all a story."

				* * *

It was spring, started John Smith, and every pretty and not so pretty
girl in the city had blossomed like a flower in the sun. It was a
pleasure to walk around Central Park and just take in the sights, and
I'm not talking about landscape here, although that was nothing to
spit at, no sir.

I was at the bar of this upscale cafe, sipping a cold one after a nice
lunch generously offered by a lady friend of mine whom I had every
intention of bedding later that night. The lady in question was off
powdering her nose in the restroom or something, and I was left to
enjoy the buzzing of conversation around me. My lady friend would see
to my needs for the next few months, so life was pretty good.

"For God's sake watch what you're doing you stupid cunt!"

I frowned at the commotion. A tall blonde, stunning in her business
suit, had stood up quickly while shouting, banging her chair down onto
the ground. She stepped quickly away from her table, on which a
rapidly expanding pool of what must have been wine was threatening to
spill onto the floor. Her male companion had simply pushed his chair
back from the table, saying nothing. The waitress, who could not have
been more than eighteen years old, was staring, looking not unlike a
deer caught in headlights.

"Can't you pay any attention? Is that too hard? Dammit, you almost
ruined... I'm gonna have your scrawny little... Hey! Be careful!"

The waitress was ineffectually trying to wipe off the spill, but only
managed to spread the wine further, spilling much of it onto the
ground.

"Are you totally incompetent? Your boss is going to hear about
this..." She grabbed the poor waitress by the arm and shook her.

Before I had thought about it, my beer was down on the bar and I was
on my way to their table.

"Ladies, please -"

The blonde turned to me. "Who are you?" I noticed two things
simultaneously. She was as tall as I was, helped by what I figured
were four-inch heels, and she was beautiful. Like every other man in
the room and several of the women, I had seen the long blonde hair and
the trim physique emphasized by the cut of her clothes, and her pants
were tight in all the right places, suggesting legs that must been a
pair of head turners, but up close, it was only her face that called
for attention.

I stared at her perfect features, her lovely mouth with just enough
lipstick to give it a wet look, her high cheekbones, thin nose,
luscious blue eyes, long lashes. Even the frowning brow and the angry
eyes did not mar her looks. And I am saying this after have seen my
fair share of beautiful women in my days. Hell, doc, she was almost as
beautiful as you are, and half as sexy, and that's saying something.

"Mind your own business, pal," said the tall blonde, before dismissing
me with an angry wave of the hand.

Before I could reply, the cafe's manager materialized out of nowhere,
and after assessing the situation started both apologizing to the tall
blonde and scolding the waitress, who was still fumbling with her
wiping cloth and getting more and more upset.

"Look," I said, "it was just an accident. I don't think -"

"Sir," the manager interrupted, "please, everything is under control
here. May I will ask you to -"

"I told you to mind your own business," piped in the tall blonde,
abruptly. "I don't care if you have a hard-on for the little cunt
here. Go." She turned to the manager. I do not take well to being
interrupted and then ignored. I do not hit women, but that tall blonde
was a prime candidate for a slap if ever there was one. I took a deep
breath. My lady friend had returned from the restrooms, and was
looking at me from the bar with a question on her face.

I nodded to the manager, gave an angry glance to the tall blonde, and
turned to go. The waitress (Nadine, said a name tag above her left
breast) caught my eye when I did, and she mouthed a silent "thank
you", and I could see fear in her eyes. That look touched something
inside. I had seen that poor kid earlier while my lady friend and I
were eating - she had been friendly with the patrons, got most orders
right, and was altogether a small ray of sunlight in a place that was
suddenly cold and dark. The tall blonde was arguing with the manager.

I returned to the bar, simmering. My lady friend was waiting for me,
looking worried. I finished my beer, silently, thinking. The cafe was
quieting down, the tall blonde and her companion were gathering up and
getting ready to leave, the manager and Nadine were in a corner of the
restaurant, Nadine with a tearful expression on her face. I watched
the tall blonde and her companion leave, and decided to follow them. I
told my lady friend to just go on without me, that I would see her
that night. She told me she was looking forward to it, and made to
kiss me. I'm afraid I didn't pay her as much attention as I should
have. I simply nodded, then hurried out of the restaurant.

There were a lot of people outside, a typical midday in Manhattan, and
I could just make out my tall blonde and her companion walking up
Center Street. They walked fast, and it was clear that the tall blonde
was leading. The crowd helped me keep up with them. They turned into
the New York County courthouse. Lawyers. Of course. I followed them
inside the building.

I spotted them heading down a hallway, stopping to chat with another
couple that also looked like lawyers. I turned my back to the group
and pretended to be interested in some billboard ("Have you been
injured in an accident?...") but kept an eye on them. I had a more
leisurely look at the tall blonde. I fancy myself something of a
connoisseur, and let me tell you, she was beautiful and it was not all
physical. Don't get me wrong, she was physically very attractive, at
least if your style runs towards tall slim blondes with long legs,
small waists, decently sized chest, and a face that would make angels
damn themselves with envy. But mostly it was her attitude, her
posture, the way she held her head. It spoke of strength, endurance,
self-reliance, self-confidence.

I saw them enter a courtroom a little further down the hall. I
followed them a few minutes later. In the course of the next hour, I
figured out that my tall blonde was a defense attorney and that her
companion was her assistant. I did not follow the details of the civil
case she was defending - something to do with something that sounded
like embezzlement. Why it was not tried criminally I had no idea. And
did not especially care.

I kept my eyes on the tall blonde, who stole the show every time she
was up. She was, as they say, tough as nails, and her questions for
the various witnesses were searing. She was formidable. And there was
glee on her face as she quite literally humiliated the witnesses, and
managed to insult and demean the plaintiff at every opportunity. The
judge, surprisingly, did not step in beyond a carefully worded warning
or two.

I stayed in the back until the trial adjourned, and the courtroom
slowly emptied. I could see the tall blonde and her assistant
discussing up front, and noticed him first blanch at something she
said, then turn red before nodding. The tall blonde took off at a
quick pace. I could not hear the man from where I was sitting, but I
could swear I saw him mouth "fucking bitch" as he watched her leave.

I asked an old woman sitting and knitting quietly a few seats from me
if she knew the defense lawyers in the last trial. She nodded, never
lifting her eyes from the needlework on her lap. "Oh yes, that was
Amanda Russell," she said. I soon learned that Amanda Russell was one
of the most feared lawyers in the county, the Russell in the James,
James, and Russell law firm.

Amanda Russell was very much on my mind as I headed uptown to my lady
friend's penthouse on the Upper East Side. She was waiting for me in
her living room, a delightful sight that was surprisingly effective at
clearing my mind of tall sexy blonde lawyers.

My lady friend had just stepped out of the shower - her short black
hair was still wet and she was wearing a long plushy terry-cloth robe
under which, she wasted no time to reveal, she was naked. I stared,
her curvy toned body, large breasts, flat stomach and long legs as
nice as the rumors had suggested. She was beautiful, and her eyes
looked at me with longing. Like they had looked at me since the
Waldorf that morning.

I took off my jacket and threw it on the couch. I moved to her,
grabbed her face in my hands and kissed her, hard. I had a lot of
pent-up frustration from this afternoon's adventure in the courthouse,
and needed release. She didn't complain, and in fact surrendered to
the kiss, pressing her body against mine; I could feel her hard
nipples poking into my chest through my shirt and her thighs were
rubbing up and down my legs. Oh, she was definitely a nice choice, I
thought.

I should explain that for the previous dozen years, I had taken to
support myself by seducing rich single women, staying with them for
months at a time. I had been looking for a new sugar mommy for about a
week, having decided to let my previous one go. While she had been
beautiful and smart and all manners of good things, my powers of
persuasion lost their effectiveness over time and repeated
exposure. So I had started asking around, going to the handful of
friends that passed along tips on the scene in exchange for services
like convincing otherwise uninterested ladies to give them a chance,
and they had pointed out this juicy little dish as a likely
candidate. She was single, and had inherited a small fortune a year
earlier following the death of her parents. There were rumors she was
into girls, exclusively, but I knew from experience that that would
not cause a problem.

And indeed, there had been no problem. She had been easy to track
down, and after observing her a few days to make sure that she would
be suitable, I had made my move that morning. I was leaning against a
car outside the Waldorf when she stepped out, alone, and I caught her
eye. People respond differently to being stared at, but the girl had
guts, and she held my gaze for a few seconds. I focused on her, and
saw the usual multicolored aura around her head. As I had done several
times before, I manipulated the colors into a pattern I knew
corresponded to trust and love, with just a hint subservience. I'd
done the brainless doll bit in the past, and it's boring as hell after
the first rush. I like my dames feisty. That's probably a flaw of
mine, but I don't really care. After a quick chat in which I suggested
that she might want to invite me over to stay at her place, to which
she agreed with a huge beautiful smile, we took a walk and found a
place for lunch, and, well, you know the rest.

The kiss lingered while I reminisced, and my lady friend's hands were
now busy unbuckling my belt and fumbling with the buttons on my
jeans. Her tongue was doing incredible things in my mouth, and her
skin was smooth under my hands as they ran down her back to her
buttocks. I knew she had an incredible body from my time observing
her, but this was the first time I partook in its pleasures. I was
looking forward to what was about to follow. In anticipation of this
moment, I had refrained from screwing anyone in the previous week. I
was rearing to go.

She managed to unbutton and pull down my pants, and I grabbed her arm
to keep her from sinking to her knees. She looked at me, frowning,
until I told her that we would be much more comfortable on a real
bed. She smiled wickedly, and pulled me down a hallway towards what I
assumed was the master bedroom. I almost stumbled before I could kick
off the pants that had bunched up around my ankles.

We spent a good eight hours in the bedroom, most of it on the bed. My
lady friend was insatiable, without me having to affect her reactions
at all. Lesbian my ass. That woman could suck a basketball through a
straw, and not one of those super slurpie straws either. She did admit
to being bisexual, though, and regaled me with very descriptive
accounts of various encounters she had had in recent years, as I
hammered into her. She was a screamer, and must have scorched her
throat raw as I dished it out. She asked me, begged me to take her
every way I could, from the top, from behind, in her pussy, in her
ass. I came on her breasts and on her face and each time she sucked me
back to hardness.

It must have been around midnight, as we were lying in bed, my lady
friend's head resting on my chest and me with a smoke going, that she
sleepily mentioned the events at lunch.

"By the way," she said, "you know the waitress at that cafe place
there, where we were today, the one that spilled the wine?"

"Nadine, right?"

She lifted her head, looking at me with an inscrutable
expression. "Oh, you noticed her name, didn't you? Did you think she
was pretty?"

"She definitely was cute, though a bit young. Nice legs, and a tight
behind, if I remember well."

She smiled mischievously. "She was cute, wasn't she? Perhaps we should
go back and ask her to join us one of these nights. I sure wouldn't
mind having the little pixie between my legs licking me up. You can
get behind her and fuck the daylights out of her while she did that. I
bet she'd like that."

"Maybe..." I said noncommittally. Until I knew exactly how she would
take to my control, I would play it safe. Mind control is not an exact
science. But I'd be lying if I said the image did not have its
attraction.

"Though she may be hard to track down what with her losing her job and
all," she added.

"What?"

"Oh, that's right, you left. Yeah, the manager it was, I guess, pulled
her to the side and talked to her and fired her, on the
spot. Something about embarrassing him in front of important
customers, or some such. The poor thing was in tears, too."

Damn. The visual was way too clear on that one, way clearer than the
mythical threesome. And just like that, the anger returned. Amanda
Russell, bitch lawyer. I must have clenched something fierce, because
my lady friend yelped. "Hey, what's wrong?"

I took a deep breath. "Nothing, it's okay. You go to sleep, or... do
whatever it is that you do at bedtime. Mind if I use your computer?"

And thus I found myself online, looking up all I could uncover about
Amanda Russell. And there was a fair amount available, and it made for
some fascinating, infuriating reading. It seemed that Miss Russell - I
could confirm she was not married - was a self-made woman, and her
success went hand in hand with her attitude.

A graduate of the Harvard Law School, she had inherited none of the
odd altruism from that faculty. She was snatched up upon graduation by
a prestigious law firm that specialized in high-rolling clients, and
had never looked back. At the tender age of twenty eight, she moved to
New York City, and partnered with fellow lawyers James and James to
form a high-profile firm that specialized in defending, for lack of a
more polite way of phrasing it, rich assholes. Miss Russell herself
took pride in what she called "defending the indefensible", and had an
impressive tendency to be successful at it too. Her defense of
companies in the face of litigations for failure to respect
environmental agreements made her the latest enemy of the Green
Left. Miss Russell seemed to suck up the hate and the scorn, however,
and thrive on it. Article after article described her using variants
of the same qualifiers: beautiful, ruthless, cold, stubborn, proud. An
article in the Atlantic Monthly about the top twenty rising figures in
the New New Right, of which Miss Russell was number fifteen with the
distinction of being almost equality hated by both her enemies and her
supporters, quoted her as saying "I will not be bested. Out there, in
the courtroom, in the city, beyond that in everything I do, I am the
best. It is my playing field. I own it. No man or woman will take it
away from me." That even the individuals and companies she defended
were leery of her was a tribute, although a tribute to what exactly no
one was eager to say.

I leaned back in the study's chair, a picture of Miss Russell from the
Atlantic Monthly's article up on the computer screen, her beautiful
face framed with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, with a wide
smile that never quite reached her eyes and suggested hunger more than
pleasure.

In my book, people are judged by their actions, not their words. And
of all actions, those involving children and animals reveal more about
the soul than any other. And actions involving helpless waitresses
hardly more than children. My earlier anger, temporarily satiated by
sexual release, was seeping back slowly. Miss Russell needed to be
taught a lesson, I thought, a lesson of the kind I could convey. She
will not be bested, she said. We'll see about that, I thought. You may
think you are the best in your arena, but at my game, I am king. No
one can resists my control if I put my mind to it. No one.

Two days later, I entered the lobby of the James, James, and Russell
law firm. Getting past the receptionist was easy. While I could have
controlled her, control was hard work, and tended to leave traces;
frankly I liked to fly below radar. So I contacted a friend with
connections, and I made it on the appointment calendar as the dashing
Gregory Terrence.

The receptionist smiled at me and told me to wait a few minutes and
Miss Russell would be out to see me.

I took the time I had on my hands to take in the office: modern
furniture full of right angles and neutral colors, a lot of glass, a
few black and white photographs on the walls. It was not a
particularly warm environment.

I was interrupted in my contemplation by a voice I recognized from the
cafe and the courthouse. I had a flash of worry that she might
recognize me in return.

"Mister Terrence, I am sorry to keep you waiting," said a smiling
Amanda Russell.

She extended a hand and I took it and shook it. Unsurprisingly, her
grip was firm and conveyed much as far as first impressions.

"Miss Russell, glad you could see me on such short notice."

"Not a problem, Mister Terrence, not a problem. Shall we go to my
office?" She gestured, pointing the way. I smiled at the receptionist
as we passed her desk. She smiled back.

"Oh, Nancy?"

"Yes, Miss Russell?" I could not help noticing the slight tremor in
the receptionist's voice. She must have been better attuned to her
boss' inflections than I was.

"Mister Holland called about his last visit. Next time you tell him
that he will have to wait, you're history, understood?"

"But..."

"No buts, Nancy. One more complaint, and you are out on your lovely
little ass." Miss Russell stared at her, hard.

Nancy the receptionist flushed red, but said nothing beyond a soft
"Yes, Miss Russell."

"Good." Miss Russell turned to me. "Decent help is so hard to
find. Please follow me, Mister Terrence."

I fell in step beside her, while Nancy the receptionist tried to hide
her embarrassment by shuffling papers on the desk. I followed Miss
Russell, thinking. The scene I just witnessed was so cliche it almost
was funny. Were I writing a screenplay with a heartless boss as a
villain, I would have refused to put in a scene where the boss
threatens the poor receptionist, thinking it too over-the-top for good
drama. But life is not drama, and it seemed Miss Russell was one of
those rare beasts, a living cliche.

She was dressed along the same lines as she had been during the cafe
incident, except her jacket was off, and her long-sleeved white shirt
was starched crisp. She had traded her suit pants for a tight black
pencil skirt that went down mid-thigh, revealing an exquisite pair of
legs. Tall red stiletto heels completed the picture. It was hard to
keep my eyes from roaming over her body. I was getting hard, half
because of her ass moving in a tight skirt leaving very little to the
imagination, and half because of what I was setting myself up to do. I
felt a dark thrill deep within me, a feeling of power I had not felt
in a long time.

Reaching her office, Miss Russell motioned me to a couch lining a wall
of the office, closed the door, and picked up a candy-filled container
from the glass coffee table.

"Care for a sample of a new M&M line of candies? We represented the
company a few months ago, and they have been supplying us with sweets
every since."

I grabbed a few, mindlessly, keeping the pretense of politeness for as
long as needed. Just like she was, I suspected. The M&Ms were pretty
good, and said so, making small talk.

"Yes, they are. But I find it difficult not to indulge. It is easier
not to have any at all. It is hard enough for me to keep this line
without adding chocolate addiction to the mix."

Miss Russell casually gestured to her body when she said that, and I
felt obligated to look her over once more. I had a definite sense she
was playing with me. It was probably what she did with all of her
clients, ensnared them or at least mollified them with sexual innuendo
until they were ripe for the picking. Or the crushing. She would find
me a harder nut than her usual crop of victims.

Miss Russell sat down next to me on the couch, smiling.

"So, Mister Terrence, how can my firm help you?"

Her skirt had crept up her legs when she sat down, and exposed a
mouth-watering expanse of tanned thigh. Nice, very nice. Of course, I
was meant to appreciate.

"Well, Miss Russell, I'm actually here to see you about some events
that occurred at the Lounge Cafe a few days ago. Do you remember?"

"I lunch there nearly every day I am in court. Good menu, although the
service has gone downhill lately. I'm afraid you will have to refresh
my memory, Mister Terrence. What are you referring to, and what
concern is it of yours?"

I munched on M&Ms. "There was a slight... incident, involving spilled
wine at your table, I believe."

Miss Russell made a show of remembering. "Ah yes, the wine spill. That
little waif of a waitress nearly ruined my suit with her thumby
hands. Stupid little girl. She had no business waiting tables."

"You should know she lost her job after the incident"

She looked at me, nodding her head. "Good, she had it coming. She was
an incompetent goof, and if there's any justice she won't be working
as a waitress again any time soon."

"Is that not a bit extreme? It was an accident after all."

Miss Russell stood slowly, all pretense at being friendly and
seductive gone. She smoothed down her skirt, and made her way to a
little bar in the corner of the room.

"Not really. I don't have to justify anything to you, Mister Terrence,
but I will explain anyway. You see, I believe that the world is in
such bad shape nowadays because of incompetents dolts that are too
lazy to succeed and do something worthwhile with their lives. Only the
strong survive in this world, or at least only they should. The rest
are, well, fodder, really. To be used since that's all they're good
for anyways. But let me ask again," she said, pouring herself a glass
of water, "why do you care?"

"Because it is not fair," I said, seriously.

Miss Russell laughed a dry and unfriendly laugh. "Fair? Why should it
be fair? Is life fair? When the cheetah snatches a gazelle, breaks its
neck and feasts on the remains, is that fair? Fairness is an illusion
born in the flames of ideological socialism. It is unnatural, it is
against everything that this world is about. I did not get to where I
am because of fairness, Mister Terrence. I got here because I am
strong, because I wanted it the most. No, fairness is a mirage. So
excuse me for not feeling bad for a little twit too stupid to manage
even as simple a job as waiting tables."

Miss Russell had a mocking expression in her eyes and a smile of
superiority on her lips.

"You may be strong, Miss Russell, but you are not the strongest."

Her smile got wider.

"Is that a threat, Mister Terrence?"

"I don't do threats, Miss Russell." This was starting to sound like a
bad movie. Time to move on.

I caught her eye. She held my gaze, still smiling, and the familiar
rainbow of colors emerged around her head. They were strangely muted,
in a way I had never seen before. Perhaps she was indeed stronger than
I gave her credit for. Good, I thought, darkly, this would make things
more enjoyable.

Gaze still locked with Miss Russell's, I manipulated the cloud of
colors around her head, which turned out to be more difficult than it
had ever been for me. I did eventually manage, with much effort, to
shift the colors to a more complacent aura, providing me with light
control but keeping her aware of her actions. If I wanted this to be a
lesson, she had to be in a position to learn from the events about to
unfold.

My head started to hurt under the strain. A quick look at Miss Russell
found her still smiling slightly, but she looked like she was
waiting. I stood up and went to pour myself some water as well. My
head felt slightly better after that.

Miss Russell had remained standing by the little bar, following me
with her eyes, but otherwise not moving. I approached her, enjoying
her smell, a subtle perfume with a hint of spice in it. I ran my
fingers down the side of her face, pushed her blonde hair out of the
way, exposing her neck.

"Nice," I said, and leaned over to kiss her there, hiding my face in
the warmth of her neck. Miss Russell moaned softly, but did not pull
away. I sucked on her neck, leaving a small red hickey. My mark, if
you will.

"You are a beautiful woman. Miss Russell. I think you know that. But
your attitude needs a little work, to be honest. Thankfully, I am here
to see that justice is done, for Nadine, and for all the others you
have trampled in your life."

I leaned over to whisper in her ear. "I will break you, Miss
Russell. Of course, I do have a little advantage here, but hey, as
someone told me recently, life isn't fair." I nibbled on her earlobe.

"Now, here's what I want you to do. You will be very nice to me
today. In fact, you will do everything in your power to seduce me. If
you think about it, you will find that I make you hot, I make you wet,
and getting me to come deep inside you is now a priority. Isn't that
right?"

She turned her head to look at me. Her smile had gotten wider, and her
eyes had an adoring and aroused look to them.

"Yes, I want to be nice to you. I will do anything you
want. Anything..."

She kissed me, hard, parting her lips and literally sucking me in,
kissing me as if her life rode on the outcome.

I left my hands trail down her body, down her back and onto her ass,
which she obligingly pushed out against my hand. It was rock hard, and
there was no play between her flesh and the material of her skirt. She
pressed her body against mine, leaning into the kiss.

"Very nice," I said, after having recovered. If this was a preview,
then I would definitely enjoy the main event.

"Let's play a game," I said, making my way back to the couch. "Suppose
you've invited me to your place, perhaps after picking me up in a bar,
and you wanted seduce me and sleep with me, how would you go about it,
dear?" I sat down, idly munching on some M&Ms.

Miss Russell smiled a rapacious smile. "Oh, that's easy. First, I'd
probably flash you some pink, like this." She unbuttoned her blouse,
revealing a pale pink bra that did very little to hide her breasts,
and then reached behind her to work the clasp and free two beautiful
delectable orbs of flesh, tipped with bright red nipples.

Miss Russell walked slowly towards me, a hand squeezing a breast,
rubbing it, fingers playing with a hard nipple, her other hand down
caressing her hip and her thigh.

"Men like my tits," she said, "and I'd show you how much I like
playing with them. And they're so sensitive, too." She moaned slightly
as if to punctuate her statement.

My cock was out by that point, and I started stroking it. I was hard,
overwhelmed by the power I had over this beautiful heartless woman.

Miss Russell's eyes zeroed in on my cock. She stopped right in front
of me, and without her eyes straying an inch, she dropped her hands to
her sides, pushing her chest out, her opened blouse hiding none of her
features.

"Then again," she said to my cock, "some men are less attracted by my
tits than by my legs or my ass. And from the way you were look at me
earlier, I would venture you are a leg man. Is that right? Do you like
my legs?"

She was raising her skirt as she was asking the question, and I basked
in the sight of her long legs slowly coming into view. With her skirt
bunched up around her waist, I could see she was wearing a pair of
thin g-string panties that matched the bra she had on earlier, not
exactly what I was expecting from a high-powered lawyer, but what did
I know, really?

"You have beautiful legs, Amanda. The kind that any man would love to
feel wrapped around him." I figured we could drop the
formalities. "And I bet that little pussy of yours is delectable too."

"No one's ever complained," she said with a smile. "But it's all wet
right now, and making a mess. Do you mind terribly if I take these
off?" she asked, snapping the elastic of her panties. I shook my
head. "Please, go ahead."

She turned around, and pulled her panties down her legs the hard way,
bending over at the waist and pushing her ass towards me. And what an
ass it was. Firm, and with an unblemished skin that looked like it was
made of satin. I reached with one hand and confirmed its
softness. Miss Russell, Amanda, moaned when she felt my fingers
rubbing her cheek, and hurriedly kicked her panties off, before
falling back onto my lap, where she started moving her body in
circles, rubbing my cock against her backside while leaning back
against me. I put my arms around her and grabbed her breasts and
squeezed, hard. Amanda yelped. "Mmm, yes, that's it, grab my
tits. Fuck, your cock feels so good against my ass."

I could not agree more. The feeling was incredible. But I wanted
something else.

"Enough of that," I said, "Let's see how arrogant you get with a thick
one up that pussy of yours."

"Mmm, yes, please, fuck me."

"Turn around and face me."

	She did, lifting herself up, half naked with her skirt bunched
	up over her ass, and then kneeled back on top of me, towards
	me, legs folded on either side of me, and she slowly lowered
	herself onto my cock, eyes closed.

"Mmm..." She was clearly enjoying herself. I liked to imagine her
screaming inside, powerless to stop her body from responding to my
attention, to keep herself from acting like fucking me was the
brightest spot in her dim life. The thought got me even harder, and I
reached over and unceremoniously pulled her onto my cock, ramming it
deep inside her in one stroke. Amanda's eyes popped open, and a cry
escaped her.

"That's it, my dear, that's it... Deep inside, where it belongs."

Amanda was having difficulty catching her breath. She was tight,
pleasantly so. Thank God she was wet, or she would have scraped the
skin off my cock.

"Now," I said, lifting her chin up so she could look at me, "fuck me".

And she did. She pushed herself off me and then dropped herself back
down, repeatedly, tirelessly, her breasts bouncing with every stroke,
her hair bobbing up and down. I was kissing her, biting her neck,
nibbling her nipples, caressing her sides and gripping her ass. She
was milking my cock with her pussy. It was fantastic. And this was
just the beginning.

"I like you like that, boning yourself on me with no shame. Not so
easy being all high and mighty with a thick one splitting you open, is
it?"

"Mmm..."

"So tell me, Amanda. Since we have a little lesson to teach today,
let's see what we have to work with. You know you are beautiful,
right? Men must hit on you all the time."

"Mmm... Yes, they do." Amanda kept on fucking me throughout our little
discussion, eyes half-closed, hips bucking back and forth.

"And how do you respond, usually? Come now, be honest."

"I will often play along if the man is good looking, but turn him down
eventually, like I do most suitors. I like how it makes me feel, to
know I'm untouchable and that a man must crawl to even come and talk
to me. Or a woman. Women flirt with me too. They are even more fun to
rebuff."

"So you are a tease, then? Why does that not surprise me?"

"Mmm... I tease them and I tease me. The buzz of sexual arousal gives
me an edge here, in court, everywhere. People feel it, and it
distracts them."

"Well, well, well. And what happens when the buzz gets too strong,
when you yourself are too horny to think?"

"Then I go out and find myself a little boy toy to spend time with,
someone that I can just grab, fuck, and toss away. They're so easy to
snatch too. Wear a short dress, flash a little leg, a little tit, and
they go all drooly mouth and vacant eyes. Studding, that's all they're
good for."

"I see. Perhaps I should start there, then. How about we make little
changes, Amanda? We can start slow, no point making people too
suspicious. How about once a week, when some man hits on you - the
more aggressive the better - you actually give in and do everything he
asks? I'm sure you're sophisticated enough to pick out the kinky ones,
aren't you? How do you feel about that, deep down inside?"

Amanda was rocking over on my cock even harder, as if her body at
least enjoyed the idea. "It sounds like I will be treated like a fuck
toy every week by men I despise."

"Yes, it does sound just like that, doesn't it? I wonder how long it
will take for your reputation as a lawyer to suffer." I paused,
savoring the feel of her pussy squeezing my cock on every down
thrust. My headache had returned, muted in the background. Affecting
her had taken a lot out of me. Still, work to do.

"About your job, perhaps we should do something about it. We can't
have you continue protecting rich scum any longer. That's just wrong,
frankly. Tell me, Amanda, have you ever slept with a judge to get a
decision your way?"

"No, and I would never do that. Judges are old leeches, and they would
enjoy it way too much, lording their power over me like that. Let them
watch and lust and jerk themselves off thinking of me." There was some
deep-seated anger there, and I wondered if some judge at some point
did not cause her some trouble.

"Yes, you would feel that way about the one person in the courtroom
with more power than you, at least nominally. Listen, Amanda, and
listen well. From now on, you will do your best, subtly or not, to get
favors from judges whenever you can using your body. You know how it
works, perhaps a blowjob to help a judgement go your way, or a feel of
these wonderful breasts of yours."

Amanda moaned on top of me, as I reached to grab a swinging breast. My
headache was getting worse. But now was not the time to stop.

"In fact, how about you simply offer yourself up to a judge, once in a
while? Perhaps when a particularly difficult case comes up. Tell me
Amanda, how would you go about it? What would you do?"

Amanda was well on her way to an orgasm, and her answer was broken up
by groans.

"Mmm, I suppose I could just ask the judge if I could see him at the
next recess to discuss a point of order -"

"Isn't that a bit irregular?"

"Yes, but I would give him my most innocent smile, with just a hint of
suggestion, and with the right judge and perhaps some cleavage, that
goes a long way."

"I expect that some of the judges in the courthouse must have their
eyes on you."

"Oh yes, Judge Jeffreys and Judge Williamson are two dirty old men
that are rumored to have bedded more than one young pretty
attorney. They certainly have tried to get their grubby paws on
me. They would have a very hard time resisting me at my
most... suggestive."

"I bet they would. Very well, then. Say Judge Williamson has invited
you to his chambers during recess to discuss some point of order. What
then?" I closed my eyes, my headache now a rhythmic pounding behind my
eyes, in time with Amanda's fucking. She did not seem to notice my
discomfort.

"I'd close the door behind me, circle around his desk, and lean
against it, showing a lot of leg because Judge Williamson loves
women's legs. I would then calmly suggest that if I could get a
favorable judgment on this case, we could come to an arrangement. He
would suspect a trick, so I would simply take his hand and run it over
my leg, up my thigh, under my skirt. I'd tell him I could go and visit
him tonight, after the hearing, and he could have me, the whole night,
however he wanted me. However I wanted? he would ask, his hand finding
the folds of my cunt, squishy with my juices. Yes, however you wanted,
I would say. Then I'd sink to my knees in front of him, extirpate his
now hard cock from his robes, and proceed to blow him my best, taking
him deep in my mouth, making him squirm and wish he was pounding deep
inside me, like you are doing now... oh... oh..."

She was starting to lose it, and so was I. My head was pounding with
every beat of my heart, as was my cock. My vision was swimming a
bit. God, she was good. Amanda was ready for her finale.

"I'd show up at his place later, and let Judge Williamson have his way
with me. I'd call him sir, he'd like that. He'd probably get me to do
all the work too, dance for him, debase myself in front of him. I
suppose he'd make me pay for all the teasing and all the times that he
had to endure my strutting around his courtroom. Oh, he'd have me with
my ass high in the air, on my hands and knees, and he'd pound into me,
and he'd take me and he'd make me scream and he'd want to come all
over me all over my face he'd want me to drown in it revel in it and
he'd want me to wallow in his... oh... oh... OH!"

And just like that she came, gripping me tight, biting my
shoulder. Her pussy was pulsating all around me, squeezing me so hard
that I could not resist and I pushed my cock up deep inside her,
wanting to sink totally into her, and I let myself go, and the
explosion went off in my head as well as in my balls, and stars
sparkled in front of my eyes. I was spent, and so was Amanda, and she
collapsed against me, limp.

An eternity later, she laughed softly. And whispered in my ear. I had
a hard time understanding her, the blood was bustling in my head, and
it was getting difficult to concentrate. I did not want to open my
eyes.

"Of course," she was saying, "later that night, the police would show
up, and poor Judge Williamson would be arrested on blackmailing
charges, attempting to rape a poor female attorney too scared to
defend herself. There would be incriminating evidence, of course, a
lot of it, showing that I was not the first he so treated. Poor Judge
Williamson. His kind does not fare well in prison. But a fitting end,
don't you think Mister Terrence, or should I call you Mister Steele?"

What? How did she know my name? I couldn't think, the rush of blood in
my head was like a torrent at spring thaw.

"I took the liberty of informing myself about you, Mister Steele,
after I saw you following me in the courthouse the other day. You have
been very good at keeping out of sight for a long time, but not quite
good enough. Your life makes for a very interesting read, I must
say. I was half-expecting your visit, to be honest, so I prepared
myself. No, please, don't try to get up. With the amount of drug in
those candies you ingested, you're liable to crash into the glass
table and kill yourself. And we don't want that, Mister Steele."

She was pulling herself off of my lap, and I was powerless to stop
her. My arms had stopped responding, light flares were going off in
front of my eyes, my head was a giant bruise. Miss Russell adjusted
her skirt, buttoned up her blouse.

"Turns out my firm sometimes represents a private research center that
is deeply interesting in... people like you, Mister
Steele. Thankfully, they have discovered ways to neutralize your kind
of ability." She pulled out a cellphone from somewhere, dialed a
number, then leaned over, facing me, triumphant smile on her face. "I
guess I wanted to have some fun with you before taking you off the
streets, you piece of scum. Thanks for the cock, jerk. And remember
this when they fry your little dick brain. No one messes with Amanda
Russell. Got that? No one."

Then the world faded to black and the pain stopped.

				* * *

Smith, or Steele, sat silent and motionless in his wooden chair,
staring at the floor in front of him.

Everyone in the room stood equally silent and motionless, staring at
him. James was the first to break the spell.

"Fuck, man, then what happened?"

Steele did not reply immediately. When he did, he kept his eyes on the
floor.

"Then I woke up strapped in a bed in a cell deep in this building,
waiting to have doctors mess with my head, trying to figure out what
made me tick. Cause that's the question, isn't it, Doctor MacKenzie?"

He looked up at her, and Dr. MacKenzie felt a stab of fear. She
regained control almost immediately, but she could tell that Steele
knew exactly what had just happened. She cleared her throat.

"Yes, well, thank you, Mister... Steele. That was a very illuminating
experience you have just shared with us. I trust we will eventually
get you out to apologize to Miss Russell for trying to affect her life
the way you did."

Steele smiled for the first time, and it was not a pleasant
smile. "Apologize? When I get out of here, and believe you me, I will
get out, I will find dear Miss Russell, and fuck her over. Fuck her
over good. She will be turning two dollar tricks at truck stops all
the way down to Mexico, begging to be roughed up and abused like the
bitch she is. I will make her crave it."

Steele's smile was gone. He was staring straight at Dr. MacKenzie. "No
one bests me, do you hear me, doctor? No one bests me. Especially not
that arrogant bitch. Pride will be her downfall. Believe you me."
