VOODOO MAN
“They call him Voodoo Man,” Rear Admiral Jenkins said to her, “And to be sure he is something of an enigma. They don’t know what to think of him. There are those whom he gives the creeps to. There are those who will trust him with their lives. The official version is that the man cannot be relied upon to carry out command decisions. He is an immensely good fighter and a great leader of men-in fact he is outstanding in that respect. But he has been rated as very poor in his appreciation of higher command issues.” “Is that why he is still a Lieutenant?” Commander Laura Denovo asked, thumbing through the file idly. She saw the Gulf War, Ethiopia, Afghanistan, Iraq. The guy had been around.
“Yes,” Jenkins said, “Passed over for higher command. Too valuable as a company commander, cannot be trusted with anything approaching a battalion.”
“Why ‘Voodoo Man’?”
“Born in New Orleans,”
“Yeah? Then why not Jazz Man?”
“He’s not musical.”
“What, a black guy who can’t hold a beat?” she joked. The Admiral glanced at the junior officer. Typical lawyer, cocksure as hell and flippant to boot. He had seen them all in his time as the Judge Advocate General of the Navy. They made him feel old and dyspeptic. This one was supposed to have talent. He could see that she might. She had picked up quickly enough on the Defendant’s sobriquet. Denovo let her unanswered question pass, and asked another instead, “What is he supposed to have done?”
“Blew an Iraqi insurgent’s head off.”
“Isn’t that what he was trained to do?”
“We try and stop them shooting unarmed men,” Jenkins told her reprovingly, “Bad case. Dozens of witnesses saw him do it. No sign of a gun anywhere near the deceased. Bad firefight. Jones had seen the guy take out three of his men. Sounds like the best defence is heat of the moment.”
“That won’t save him,” Denovo said, then as an afterthought added, “Sir. But if there was no gun near the victim, what did he take the three men out with?” Rear Admiral Jenkins stared at her in consternation, but Denovo seemed oblivious. “And,” she asked, “if there are dozens of men staring at Jones long enough to decide he did it deliberately and cold bloodedly, who was fighting the war?” Jenkins was lost for an answer to both those questions.
“It’s in the file,” he told her vaguely, but Denovo was already perusing it avidly.
“Any evidence of sociopathy?” she asked.
“You’ll have to get his medical records for that,” Jenkins told her.
“Why do you want me to take this case?” she asked suddenly, catching him unawares.
“Because no one else would,” he replied without thinking.
“What are they all scared of?”
“The Defendant.”
After that Denovo couldn’t wait to see the man. She strode to the brig rapidly, having put through the request and been fucked around for half an hour. Her eagerness had dimmed not in the least. This case had something going on out of sight and she revelled in the prospect of winkling it out. It was one of the reasons she had come to work with the Navy. And she liked the uniform, she admitted to herself, although she was disappointed that she could not wear the dress whites every day. The peanut butters had to do. Denovo didn’t mind too much.
She looked good in any damn’ thing. Even the drab blouse and skirt did something for her, and she could see it in the eyes of the ratings and officers who eyed her up as they saluted. She saluted back in the quaint custom of the services and lamented the lack of a boyfriend to appreciate the finer points of her uniform. She heard that some guys loved a gal in uniform, but had never come across one. Or anywhere near one, a sniggering corner of her mind added. She smiled to herself and gave herself a mental admonishment. Conduct unbecoming.
The shore patrol were singularly unimpressed by her blonde good looks, and her figure in the drab uniform, which it totally transformed, did nothing for them either. Well, their loss. She grinned at the guard who ushered her into the interview rooms and slammed the steel barred door behind her. She stepped down the bare-walled corridor, she undid another button on the blouse and loosened her hair, shaking it out to its short length.
It was severely cut but extremely attractive, making a shiny golden headpiece and frame for her deceptively fragile beauty. Denovo was as hard as nails. A defence lawyer had to be. But she saw a distinct advantage to appearing friendly and less formal with her client. It would help him unfold for her. Denovo was not above flashing a little cleavage and raising a bit of skirt to deal with her client.
Still, her first sight of her client unnerved her a little. Lieutenant Arthur Jones was an immense man, and all of it was muscle. She wondered how the hell someone that huge could avoid getting hit. He had never been wounded in all his career. That ruled out post traumatic stress disorder as a defence, though it might work if she could get some details of his combat experience out of him.
He had never been referred to a psychiatrist, but then the Marines were like that. Judging by the commendations he was all Marine. He stood up as she entered and he was wearing the Marines uniform, and looked resplendent in it.
Then she looked into his eyes and forgot all about what sort of Marine he was. They were hooded and stygian black, penetrating to her soul. She stood and stared at them until she became aware of his salute, then hastily returned it.
“Sit down, Lieutenant,” she told him, slightly more curtly than she intended. The most extraordinary eyes.
“Thank you ma’am” he said as he took his seat. Denovo shook herself down to attend to business but stole a covert glance at her client. His skin was shiny ebony all over, but he had the narrower nose line and finely drawn cheek and jaw line that denoted North African heritage. His skull was covered with the springy mat of coiled hair universal in African bloodlines. It was a big face, a curiously calm and serene face, and a very good looking face.
In fact, his manner was overall very sedate considering the trouble he was in. He could be-was-a very attractive man. And intriguing with it. Despite herself, Denovo allowed her professional detachment to loosen a little. Taking the chair opposite him, she leaned back at ease in it and made an obvious study of him, as a lawyer might be expected to. It usually yielded a reaction, but this guy just sat and looked back. Those fucking eyes... they were gorgeous in their way, all inscrutable and all-seeing and not necessarily unfriendly. She felt naked under their gaze and happy to be so.
Jesus, was that a sensitised nipple rubbing the fabric of her bra? She liked to wear naughty frilly things under her uniform, just to buck the system in her own mind, and her bra was little more than quarter cup. Which meant her nipple stroked the lace on the upper seam with each breath she took. She forced her mind back to the matter in hand and asked a question, though she had to lick suddenly dry lips and clear her throat to do it.
“Lieutenant, why do you think you haven’t gone further up the ranks?”
“No good for higher command, Ma’am,” he replied neutrally.
“Doesn’t it make you angry?”
“No. They are of course quite correct.”
“Why did you kill an unarmed Iraqi insurgent, Lieutenant?”
“He was going to kill me, ma’am.”
“What with?” Denovo belatedly noted that his eyes had never left her. There was not a suggestion of sexual interest in them, but Denovo was surprised that she was responding sexually. There was no doubt about it by this time. The nipple was definitely stiff and very sensitive, and she was feeling a liquefying sensation in her vitals that she recognised as a precursor to moist panties. What was the matter with her? She really had to get laid soon and to hell with the regulations. But this guy was HOT!
“His hands.”
“But you were fully armed. How the hell would he have got to you in time?”
“By playing dead.” Denovo pushed her hips forward in the seat and parted her knees a little to cool her suddenly burning crotch. Her skirt rode up over smooth creamy thighs but she didn’t care about that. She was lounging in her chair and her mind seemed to be struggling through molasses.
“There are dozens of statements saying you shot him when he was down and unarmed.”
“What were they all doing lookin’ at me?” he asked with the hint of a smile.
“You saying there’s a conspiracy?” she asked weakly. She was sweating and panting and her panties were not just moist, they were drenched. Her nipples felt like they were out on stalks and she had an indescribable urge to rip off Jones’ clothes and fuck his brains out there and then. It was incredibly risky but that was part of the excitement. He had stood up and was leaning down over her, asking solicitously, “You all right, ma’am?”
There was a huge bulge in his trousers, a mighty ridge running down his left thigh. She looked up at him through half-open yes, her face a slack mask of lust. She was not aware of it but her thighs were wide apart and her skirt was around her waist, revealing white thong panties that were entirely inadequate to cover her cunt. The scrap of cloth passing over labia was so wet it was transparent. Jones saw their plump contour plainly enough.
He reached down and drew a long index finger along the crack of her sex, and she groaned out loud. Her mouth was loose and her arms hung passively at her side. He hooked aside the string of cloth and arched a finger into her vagina. She cried out in pleasure and angled her hips up to open herself to him. He stroked the anterior wall of her tunnel and at the same time teased out the spiky threads of excitement in her seething mind to boost her experience.
She had an exceptional mind, wonderfully rich and complicated and delightfully full of knowledge and opinion. But what he wanted just that moment was the raw emotions. And he had just found them, pink and pulsing like her cunt. He caressed these with his mind probe and she writhed in sweaty pleasure, raising her knees in her ardour. She managed to raise a hand slowly and she pressed the ridge in his trousers weakly.
“Wanna suck my dick, honey?” he asked tenderly and swirled the assent in her mind as he did so. She nodded slowly. Despite the building want in her cunt she wanted to taste his black cock and have it fill her mouth. She hoped he was big there too. Her soporific eyes gained a little animation as he undid his trousers at the waistband. They dropped to the floor and his shorts went with them.
His enormous cock bounced in front of her face and she sighed in gratification. His finger was still up her snatch and his gentle probe still in her mind, and he urged her to his groin. She took hold of the root of his member and opened her pretty pink lips wide to take him in. He thrust down her throat and she gagged slightly, then drew him out a little and began a delicious curling lick along his shaft with her tongue. Oh, she was good, she’d done this before!
He held her bobbing head with one large meaty paw while the other produced sweeps of pleasure in her vagina. Inevitably the tides built up and accordingly she moaned and the pink pleasure in her mind positively glowed with delight. He could see what was coming and brought her along steadily, thumbing her clitoris gently and bumping her up another gear. She laved his giant rod and panted with rising ecstasy until with his thumb on her clitoris and his fingers in her vagina she was on the last leg of her plunge to oblivion.
“You want me to fuck you honey?” he asked softly in his New Orleans drawl.
“Yes!” She hissed the word sibilantly in the total quiet of the room. He withdrew both fingers and cock, and a mild panic lit her eyes for a moment, then she followed his indication towards the table, and obediently arose. All of a sudden she wanted to be fucked and fucked hard. She had never wanted that so much in her life as she did just then. She was willing to do anything for that.
Sliding down her soaking panties and kicking them off, she bent over the table. The cold metal on her breasts contrasted piquantly with the heat of her cunt. She angled her hips out to open her cunt to him, and was rewarded by receiving two fingers into the scalding tides of her vagina. She groaned deeply as he caressed the nether side of her clitoral shaft and her hips undulated in a simulation of the act. Jones was powerfully turned on himself, and brought his impressive weapon to bear on the target. She was open like a hothouse flower, her labia parted and her pink insides slick with her juices.
“Puhlease!” she said softly, the yearning thickening her voice. He did not want to detract from her enjoyment, and complied with her wish. He eased himself slowly into her.
Denovo moaned loudly as he pushed in. God he was big! He stretched her and filled her and gave her internal muscles wonderful purchase. She ravaged him with her inner strength making him grunt in surprised pleasure, but he drove in remorselessly until the big, flanged head of his cock had nudged her cervix. Then he began, a slow delicious rhythm with superb control, and Denovo was lost. This was all incredibly risky for both of them, but that seemed not to matter. In some beleaguered corner of her mind she marvelled that she could have been so irresponsible, but most of her did not care. She was being wonderfully fucked and that was all that mattered.
Jones played her mind like a Stradivarius. He found the waving tendrils of her pleasure and tickled them, caressed them and scratched them in a symphony designed to build to a crescendo. How much pleasure could her body take? Jones decided to find out, and built her up with each long stroke inside her. Denovo thrashed on the table, stuffing her knuckles into her mouth to mute her screams as he increased his pace and shafted in and out of her rapidly. His fingers were busy around her clitoris as he rammed into her cunt, and she was helpless in her headlong plunge to orgasm. She had never been fucked like this, not by someone so big and not by someone so masterful and certainly not by someone in such total control of her and himself as to deliver exactly what she wanted in the way she wanted it.
It was not just technique, though this man was a superb fuck; it was as if he was inside her head and knew exactly what would thrill her most. Here she was, her naked butt in the air and her tits squashed on cold metal. Shore patrol could come along any time, and she had her skirt around her waist with her pussy being bludgeoned by that gorgeous, enormous black cock. She could not conceive of a more humiliating position to be discovered in but she did not care. She wanted to come and her body was being overwhelmed by the roaring tsunamis of ecstasy that were crashing through her. Jones grasped the cheeks of her butt and spread them to reveal the reddened slickness of her cunt and his powerful ebony dick shafting and out of it. Her coral inner lips kissed it on the way in and reluctantly let him go as he pulled out with each furious thrust. It gleamed with her juices.
Her sensed her consciousness wavering and paused for a moment in his stimulation of her mind and his motion in her vagina. Panicked at the halt, she looked wild-eyed over her shoulder and asked thickly, “What? What?”
“Nothin’ honey,” he replied and rammed it in hard. She gasped and then, abruptly and quite unexpectedly for both of them, began coming. Jones stroked in her and played her mind as the orgasms came crashing through her and she only just managed to stifle a scream.
Flat out on the table, his balls slapping her ass, she tossed and writhed in the throes of the most incredible orgasm she had ever had. It was not just visceral or vaginal, but in deep. In her head and all through every fibre of her being. Even her mind was having an orgasm! Then, so focused was he on attending to her shattering orgasm that his own climax came upon him unnoticed, and he found himself fountaining out all over the place. He hadn’t had it in a long time and the stuff went everywhere, spilling out of her cunt and down her legs, splashing over her labia and the crack of her ass and the small of her back. When the flood ebbed he felt extremely drained. This mental business was exhausting.
She must have blacked out for few moments because she next found herself limp and panting across the cold metal table, arms and legs spread wide and come dribbling down her thigh. For some time she could not find the strength to move, then she felt she had to, and raised herself slowly up.
Her client was seated in his chair, fully dressed and watched her carefully. She began by feeling excruciatingly embarrassed, but this unaccountably receded as she levered herself off the table and realised how sticky she was all over her nether regions. He delved in his pockets and came up with a sizeable wad of tissue. She needed it all. “Thank you,” she murmured, as she smoothed down her skirt. Her panties were useless anyway and she stuffed them into her briefcase. He nodded and said in that softly spoken voice, “You’re welcome ma’am, and thank you.”
“No thank you!” she said as she sat down opposite him, “That was the best fuck of my life!” She shook her head in disbelief at that fact and that she had actually mentioned it to him. This was her client for chrissakes! And where was her vaunted professional reserve? She hadn’t shown much reserve dropping her panties and getting fucked by him when she was supposed to be saving him jail time. But that self-admonishment only lasted a few seconds and she grew calmer as she considered where to go from here.
“But we’d better get this interview out of the way. Do you agree?”
“Surely, ma’am,” he replied. He had that deferential look about him again, as if he was a slave and she the mistress of the house. She wondered how much of that unpleasant history played a part in their present relationship, then set aside that thought. She found all that sort of thing personally repugnant and unhelpful in her profession. She had always been adamant about seeing her clients as human beings. It got more out of the client for a start. So she smiled awkwardly and said, “Look, you’ve been inside me, for God’s sake, I think you can call me Laura.” She felt just a little insane for even having this conversation
“You’re a superior officer ma’am,” he pointed out. She waved it aside.
“Please. It’ll make it easier for me. Okay?”
“Sure, Laura.”
He saw the lopsided smile and the jerky movement of her eyes, and realised that the nonsensical situation she found herself in was taking its toll and making her a little crazy. He soothed her mind a little and lowered her awareness of the absurdity of the situation, then allowed her to reassert some professional discipline. She settled down and studied her file for a short while. Jones relaxed his control for the moment. She was a very clever girl and his best chance of optimising her mental function was to leave her to get on with it.
“You made a good point,” she told him after a short while, “I want to know how come there were so many witnesses to the detail of what you did to this guy. Who was doing the fighting while they were all standing and staring at you? And where did this guy’s gun go if he was this lethal sniper? How come it wasn’t anywhere near him? Is there any chance you and everyone else was mistaken about this guy, that he was not the sniper?” This last question was aimed at him directly, and Denovo watched him fully expecting an answer. He gave her one readily enough. “No way. He was where the shots were coming from and there was no one else there. And no one could have got out without our knowing it, because we were gunning for the bastard and would have blown away anyone trying to leave. He was the one all right.”
“So where was the rifle?”
“Good question. How come no one asked that at the time? We verified he was the only one-and he was-and then moved on. Didn’t ever look for the gun.”
“It didn’t occur to you that if he didn’t have a gun then he might not have been the sniper?”
“It would have if we had not been sure he was the only one in the place. But we did make sure, and so we did not bother with the weapon. There was a battle to fight. You have the leisure of focusing on this exclusively, ma’am, but we were in a firefight. I killed the guy, and we moved on.” He maintained his polite tone and slightly deferential manner but was quite plain in his speech and quite settled in what he saw, with good reasons for doing what he did. Wonderful. Exactly the type of client Denovo wanted in the situation she found herself. As for Jones, well, he could not really admit to Denovo that the reason he knew the Iraqi was a sniper was that he saw it writ large in the man’s mind. No one outside the Old Faith would understand that kind of preternatural knowledge. Certainly a jury would not. He needed Denovo to construct a defence for him that would save him the necessity of having to explain anything like that at all.
He had nothing else.
Abruptly Denovo rose to go, shutting up her file and leaning down to stow it in her briefcase. “That’s all I need from you, Lieutenant,” she said, “I have a great deal of other witness evidence to read, though. I’d better get on it.”
“How’s it looking, Ma’am?” Jones asked, though he could see it plainly in her mind. He had left it alone for the last few minutes because he wanted a correct reading of her thoughts on the matter. She grinned confidently.
“Guess they’ll have to pull something magical to get you in jail, Jones,” she said, “They got not much else. I don’t know why they’re going ahead.” Jones read exactly the same sentiments in her head, and nodded approval.
“Thank you ma’am,” he said quietly. She nodded as she stood up and said, “Thank you!” Then, realising what that could mean, she coloured a little. He made no sign of having noticed her heightened colour or understanding the reason for it. She scuttled out quickly and thereafter busied herself with preparing this case. She was confident but recognised that it took work to do the job. No acquittal just happened. She worked the evidence thoroughly, only pausing briefly to wonder why it meant so much to her to win this one. The thought occurred to her late that night that it might have something to do with the superb fuck she had had. God, the guy was good!
In his cells the object of her brief conjecture reviewed the situation, and marvelled that a brain so complex and beautifully efficient could be such easy meat for his feelers. Access had been the easiest he had ever attempted. It might have been that the tight discipline was in fact easier to infiltrate than the mild chaos that usually reigned in people’s heads. Sloppy thinking introduced a random element into mind feeling that made it that much more difficult. Jones had had a stroll at ease down the broad, straight, ordered boulevards of Denovo’s mind.
The sex had just been incidental, a measure of the power he could exert over her. Sure, she had been a good fuck as well, but that was beside the point. Having flexed his mental muscles he felt more confident about turning the jurors’ minds his way during the trial. They would be a much more difficult proposition because their minds would be much less ordered. But he was reasonably confident after his trial run with Denovo. His mind lingered fondly on the encounter. It had been an exceptional experience for him too. He considered that he had been too often with professional women, when he contemplated the untrammelled eagerness the lawyer had shown and the piquant technique she had displayed.
This was a girl who liked her sex and was good at it, for the love of the thing and not for the money that was in your pocket. Jones had not experienced that in a long time, not since he was a teenager back home in New Orleans.
The jury was empanelled relatively quickly. Denovo found it a little disconcerting taking her client’s very specific instructions on each juror, but he had made her promise that she would accept his assessment in each case without question. She broke her word only twice, when his acceptance of a juror with manifestly unfavourable attitude ran against her every instinct as a lawyer. He was adamant, though, and it made her wonder what he saw in them as people that she was missing. And then she had to use all her peremptories to discard prospective jurors whom she found perfectly plausible but whom he rejected out of hand for no discernable reason.
She had a chat with him about this as soon as she could, concerned to make sure he understood what his choices implied for him in terms of running the case. The broad grin of the prosecutor stayed with her in her mind. They were walking in the park near the courthouse to get him a little bit of air and sunshine after the cells he had been living in since being arrested. The day was warm with gentle sunshine and a balmy breeze. He had been released on bail following a contested hearing in which the judge had abruptly made up his mind and granted bail. The prosecutor had been shocked and Denovo herself surprised. Jones looked satisfied, as if what had happened had only been what he had expected. Another peculiarity Denovo filed away for investigation at a later date.
She explained all about attitudes in jurors and why it was important to have a panel that would give him all the breaks, and he listened in respectful silence. She finished with a question, “So, what made you accept those people you told me not to challenge, and why did you make me get rid of some very good prospects?”
“Nothin’ I can set against your experience and expertise, Laura,” he replied politely, still sporting that slightly deferential manner, though Denovo had come to regard that as a smokescreen. She liked his soft New Orleans burr and the mellifluous liquid tones of his voice. She also liked his immensity and gentleness, which made a winning combination. The memories of her sexual tryst with him still had the ability to scorch her mind and keep her awake and her fingers busy late into the night.
“Don’t bullshit me,” she told him seriously, “I really need to know what criteria you applied, so that I know how to deal with those jurors.”
“Ain’t no bullshit ma’am,” he promised her, “That really is the truth. It’s some warrior’s instinct that tells me they is friend or foe. Nothin’ I can set against your learnin’.”
“’Warrior’s instinct’? Now you really are bullshitting me!”
“No ma’am!” He used the honorific as a term of endearment in a rather quaint way, “Call it what you want, but you develop an... awareness of someone’s hostility towards you. Leastaways, you do if you have seen as much combat as I have.”
“Don’t pull that superior combat grunt shit with me,” she told him severely, then considered that he might just have a point, and added in gentler tones, “Still doesn’t help me deal with them.”
“You just keep on doing what you’re doing, and we’ll be fine.”
“As long as I know who’s running this defence,” she muttered with mock grumpiness.
They were rudely interrupted at this point by an angular youth in baggy jeans and a sleeveless singlet exposing thin tattooed arms. The tattoos consisted mainly of racist slogans and a large swastika, and a quaintly discordant heart design with a ribbon marked ‘Mom’ on one shoulder. He was ill kempt with dirty blond hair and an ugly snarl on his pasty face. “Hey nigger!” he spat, “Cain’t you keep your hands off white women? Keep to your own, boy!” He endowed the last derogatory term with particular emphasis and venom, and it was this as much as anything else tore Denovo’s response from her unthinking lips, “Oh, fuck off you dickhead!” she snapped at him, “I’m his lawyer!”
“Shut up, you nigger-lovin’ hoe!” the youth bellowed, aiming a rigid finger at her as if it were a gun. Denovo was taken aback by the personalised fury of his vituperation. Amazed at the complex of insecurities and despair mixed in with the monumental self-loathing in the young man’s attitude, she was robbed of speech. The youth also had the attention span of a gnat, and asked her in the next breath, “What’s he done? Murdered a white man and raped his wife?” Denovo took a moment to collect her thoughts, and in the pause Jones spoke. There was no gentleness in his voice.
“Yeah!” he growled, loading his voice with bloodthirsty salaciousness, “Yeah, you see, you’re right! I done the guy in good! And then I tore the clothes off his pretty white wife and I fucked her until she bled with my black cock! Man, she loved it and when I was done she begged for more. Said her lousy white husband couldn’t match up in a hundred years! That what you wanted to hear, boy?” The last syllable was ground out dripping with contempt for the young man’s deepest fears and insecurities. As always, Jones had found exactly the button to push. And he knew exactly how far to push it, too, for he added, “That what happened to your Daddy, boy? Mommy run off with a black man, did she? ‘Cause your old man was even worse in the sack than you were?”
That last was a nasty twist, and incited the youth to fury. He raised a fist and took a step nearer. Because she did not want Jones in any more trouble she warned off the youth, speaking softly, “Don’t be a moron. This guy’s a Marine and he can kill you by just looking at you.” The youth ignored her and turned hate-filled eyes on Jones. Then a disturbingly strange thing happened. The youth’s ire bean to melt away, giving ground to an uncertainty spreading over his angular features. The uncertainty rapidly gave way to fear and Denovo watched in mounting horror as the fear bloomed into stark, eye-rolling terror.
The youth screamed and covered his eyes but whatever he saw was in his head and there was no escape. People began to look as he screamed and screamed. Denovo glanced at Jones to see him hard-featured and with those eyes like flint fixed upon the youth. Shock burnished the horror in her mind, and then she was distracted by the smell of urine and faeces. She saw the youth had pissed and shit himself and had fallen to the ground moaning in terror.
“Jesus!” she cried, “I didn’t mean that literally!” Jones took her by the elbow and steered her away from the fallen youth. She had neither the strength nor indeed the inclination to resist his gentle but powerful urging, and it was only when they had turned a corner and were in a quiet glade that he slowed his pace. No hue and cry followed them.
“He’ll be okay,” Jones assured her, distracted for a moment. She took him by the sleeve of his uniform jacket.
“Hey big boy!” she said to him authoritatively, “Explanation! Deliver! Now! What did you do to him?” Jones looked down at her, saw the glint in her blue eyes and knew he had to do something to wriggle out of the situation he found himself in. After a moment to admonish himself for letting her see the operation of his skill, he grinned broadly at her. “Reckon we’re a good team!” he remarked lightly, reaching out for her mind at the same time. He found it teeming with suspicion and horror and tumultuous emotion, some of which would have disconcerted her had she been aware of it.
It included a frisson of sexual excitement at his words and their imagery. It was a cultural thing and Jones did not hold it against her. There were hang-ups in his culture as well, after all. No one should be held to account for the thoughts buried deep in their subconscious. It was far more important what good people did with those thoughts. And Laura was a good person. It was vital he get her back to some form of equilibrium, and he seized on the easiest way of doing that. Damn that stupid Nazi kid!
“What are you talking about?” Already under his soothing ministration she was a little calmer but he needed to establish a foundation in reality for what he would engender in her mind. “Guess what you said and what I did hit home to the kid.” Denovo considered this for a moment, then asked incredulously, “What, made him shit himself?” Jones massaged that incredulity tenderly, settling it down to mere scepticism. He shrugged and maintained his grin. “So we got lucky!”
“More than luck, finding exactly the right button like that!” Her mind threw up a keen appreciation of the sexual innuendo conveyed by his words to the youth, “How could you possibly know what had happened in that kid’s earlier life?”
“Know?” Jones echoed, “Why, I didn’t know. But it was a pretty easy guess given who he was and the nature of his prejudices. Like I said, we got lucky.” He caressed the sexual intrigue that had been excited in Denovo’s mind by his references to the youth’s putative parental history. Her response manifested in a sudden relaxing of tension and a warm grin. She reached up and tapped him on the nose.
“I’m not convinced, you smooth talking bastard, but I’ll let it go. Are we white folks that hung up on the power of black men? Is it not just a big cock thing? You know that when women say they want a big cock what they mean is the want more sex? Do you think that’s why some white women go for black men? Or is it really the quality that counts?” Jones saw he had overdone it a little but relied on the mundane means of language to set it right.
“What, do I look like a sociologist?” he parried with a laugh, then added more seriously, “You white folks are no more hung up than black folks, just about different things. And none of it belongs between people. It shouldn’t come between the way you and I relate to each other.”
“No, it shouldn’t,” Denovo said dreamily, and the tone in her voice alerted Jones. He tickled the coiling lust that had wriggled to the forefront of her mental complex. They were in a coolly shaded glade that was well away from other people. Behind a screen of bushes and trees there were sunlit dells and grassed slopes under the dappling canopy of the taller trees. Denovo took his hand and pulled him into the bushes. Stroking the lust in her mind, he watched her breath go short and her pace quicken.
When they were hidden from the path, he took the more concrete step of reaching under her skirt and fondling the taut working muscles of her ass. She grunted appreciation and then gasped and stopped as his hand dipped into the crevice between her buttocks. His fingertips brushed the hot moistness of her labia through her saturated panties. She fires up so quick! he thought appreciatively. She swung round and pushed him against a handy tree, and the next instant they were swapping tongues and tonsils and she was swarming up his north face. He took handfuls of her ass and lifted her, and her skirt rucked up around her waist as she spread her legs to straddle him. The heat of her crotch warmed his groin, and she felt his inevitable reaction immediately.
Reaching down with one hand, the other clamped around his massive neck, she undid his trousers with marvellous dexterity and moaned loudly as she grasped the shaft of his penis. It was hot and iron-hard, with good heft and substantial girth. She thumbed the flanged rim of his glans just to hear and feel him groan and shudder. In reply his fingers dug into the cleft of her cunt, making her squirm and shiver. She found his long index finger caressing the anterior wall of her vagina and the next instant he had found her G-spot. Oh, Jesus!
“Put it in!” she ground out, “Put it in! Fuck me!” Angling the weapon at the gaping maw of her sex, she lowered herself onto his pole as he hooked away her thong panties. She moaned in satisfaction as the whole length and splendid girth of him slid into her greased maw. His powerful arms assisted her in moving on him with a delicious rhythm. She closed her eyes, hung on to his neck and undulated her hips, throwing back her head and moaning savage pleasure. He drove her steadily towards orgasm, and she was not long. It came up on her suddenly, and her whole body tautened as the primeval spasm went through her. For all her learning, all her accomplished civilisation, she was an animal in those few golden moments as the stars exploded and she cried out a victorious snarl and the waves of ecstasy crashed through her.
When she calmed down, the tears in her eyes were a tender endearing touch, which melted Jones’ heart and made him glad he was the instrument of her pleasure. She clung to him for a few moments. Too weak to move much, then he felt her soft, warm lips on the side of his neck. “Thank you,” she murmured, “Once again, you came through.” Then she noticed that he was still hard in her, still stretching her vagina. “Let me say thank you properly,” she murmured fondly and slid down his torso to kneel in front of him. Her lips parted wide as they enclosed his glans, and she proceeded to give him wonderful and very experienced head. This was at no prompting by him and he recognised it as natural outpouring of her generous nature.
He leaned back against the tree and clasped the back of her head, his dark fingers entwined in her bright blonde hair. She worked thoroughly with her lips and tongue, inducing a variety of different and shudderingly marvellous sensations and propelling him along gently to his own climax. He was rather helped along by the sight of a lone woman as she rounded the corner and came upon the tableau. At first her eyes widened in shock, then her frank gaze met his and she smiled slowly. She licked her lips in an exaggerated show of relish and patted her crotch before moving on reluctantly. He felt profound stirrings at the look in her eye and the spring in her step.
Denovo remained utterly oblivious of all this, working enthusiastically and expertly on him as she tuned into his rhythms and felt his gathering rush. She managed it to perfection, and turned out to be a keen swallower, catching all his gushing outflow and licking him clean with every evidence of enjoyment. She was quite the girl, and miles better than any professional woman he had known. She grinned at him as he sagged against the bole of the tree. “There you go, ready for court again,” she said as if she had just straightened his tie. The intimacy was exciting, warming. Jones realised that in a life devoted to the principled and thoughtful application of extreme violence, he had taken all too little time to enjoy simple pleasure like these.
Back in the court, as the trial got underway, Jones adopted a grave serenity of appearance that baffled Denovo and the onlookers. He was on trial for his life, and yet seemed as calm as a Buddha sitting beside his energetic and combative counsel. He was busier than he looked and occupied beyond anyone’s imaginings. He worked the jury thoroughly, instilling in them scepticism about the prosecution evidence and a pre-disposition towards him. The amenability to suggestion was why he wanted some of these people on the panel, and he worked it to his best advantage. The cross-examination Denovo conducted was no mean help. She was intelligent in her use of questions and her choice of witnesses to pick on.
She let much of the technical evidence go unchallenged. Perhaps one or two questions to forensic experts to clarify matters. In truth, there was precious little such evidence. Most of the usual tests had been impossible to carry out. By the time authorities returned to the killing site the body had disappeared and there never was any gun found. The ballistic tests normally used to establish a link between gun and bullet were useless as the bullets were never recovered.
The sole technical evidence that might have been open to real dispute, and which a lesser defence attorney might have hotly contested was the medical evidence given by the platoon corpsman, who gave evidence that the insurgent was indeed dead and the cause had been a single gunshot wound to the head. Denovo knew that contesting this and making an issue out of whether death had occurred by reason of the gunshot wound or by subsequent unnameable events, was technically feasible but unlikely to succeed and would reduce the sympathy which the jury clearly had for her client.
Her strategy depended on admitting death and claiming self-defence. Much more open to question was the witness evidence of the soldiers in Jones’ command. By cross examining witness after witness, she made a subtle but important point-which she planned to drive home in her closing speech to the jury-that in view of a battle going on, there were a great many people watching Jones. She was also able to show that despite their evidence the witnesses saw very little of relevance. All they could properly testify to was the preceding events and the aftermath. She exposed this weakness ruthlessly in her questioning.
Her style of cross-examination prepared the jury for Jones’ own evidence. She attacked his company sergeant particularly, who reluctantly gave evidence in some detail as to the incident itself and therefore had the only relevant testimony.
“You followed Lieutenant Jones up the stairs to the second floor, you say?” she asked him as her first question.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied, relieved to be acting for his officer’s benefit at last.
“Why didn’t you send a man up there instead of allowing your commanding officer to do this dangerous work?” Denovo enquired.
“No choice, ma’am,” came the reply, “That’s Lieutenant Jones for you. Leads from the front. Won’t ask anyone to do something he can’t. Plus he was closest to the sniper, and no one moves faster than the Voodoo Man-sorry, Lieutenant Jones.”
“Did you have a bearing on the location of the sniper?”
“Knew exactly where he was, and was on my way there when Lieutenant Jones went past me. Saw the guy shoot, saw the muzzle flame, headed for the stairs, got there just after Lieutenant Jones.”
“And you say you saw Lieutenant Jones shoot the Iraqi in the head, yes?”
“Er... yes, ma’am.”
“Was that the first thing you saw as you came up the stairs?” The witness frowned perplexity. “Don’t understand the question, ma’am,” he confessed. Denovo showed no impatience, but explained neutrally what she was after.
“Your eye level must have been at the floor first, yes?”
“Sure.” There was a question in his voice.
“So you saw boots, feet, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Lieutenant’s were about three yards from the Iraqi’s.” He was clearly wondering what this was meant to show, but got his answer along with the rest of the Court when she said, “That’s quite far away. What were these feet doing? Standing still, or moving?”
“The Iraqi’s were moving. He was running towards the lieutenant.”
“Thank you Sergeant. Now, as you continued to run up the stairs, more of the scene became visible, did it not?”
“Yes ma’am.” The witness knew what was expected of him this time and was ready with his answers.
“And did what you saw confirm your first impression that the Iraqi was charging at Lieutenant Jones?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Waving a gun?” The question was casually thrown in. She knew what the witness was going to say, but wanted his reaction for the benefit of the jury.
“No ma’am,” the witness said, brow furrowed in perplexity. He had been quite clear in his direct evidence about this point.
“A knife?” Denovo tried. The witness shook his head.
“No ma’am,” he replied firmly.
“Nothing?” Denovo asked.
“Nothing, ma’am,” the witness confirmed reluctantly, thinking his officer had just been condemned by the incompetence of his own lawyer.
“What on earth did he think he was going to attack Lieutenant Jones with, then?”
“Don’t know, ma’am, and right then I didn’t care. I had to do something.”
“Why?”
“Because he was attacking the Lieutenant, Ma’am.”
“He was attacking the Lieutenant, you’re sure of this?”
“Absolutely, ma’am.” It was a relief for the witness to get that fact before the jury.
“What is your understanding of the rules of engagement in such situations, Sergeant?” Denovo enquired in honeyed tones.
“We are permitted to defend ourselves, ma’am,” the witness replied, “Should we come under attack.”
“Are you permitted to defend each other?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And what was your reaction when you saw the Iraqi attacking the Lieutenant, Sergeant?”
“I aimed to shoot, ma’am.”
“But you didn’t shoot?” Denovo asked, eyes narrowing.
“No, ma’am,” the witness replied, “Lieutenant Jones beat me to it. Blew the guy’s head off.”
“You think that killed the man?”
“I can’t see anyone surviving a bullet between the eyes, ma’am,” the sergeant said ironically.
“Find the gun at all, sergeant?” Denovo asked.
“Didn’t look for it, ma’am,” the witness said, “We got the shooter, and then we moved on. There was a battle being fought.”
“You didn’t think it was odd an unarmed man sought to attack a heavily armed Marine?”
“Not in Iraq, ma’am. They’ll get you any way they can, regardless of danger to them. Fanatics ma’am.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
The trial went on for four days, as the prosecution trundled out witness after witness as to Jones’ saturnine character and the fear surrounding him, trying to give the impression that he was a thoroughly bad hat whose motives could not be relied upon and who was therefore, by implication more likely to have committed this heinous act than not. To Denovo this was mere character assassination, but it forced her to research as much as she could about her client. He was a mystery wrapped in an enigma and she came up with nothing substantial. She could not find any relatives, and none of his comrades dared come forward. Still, she was able to make capital out of the witnesses the prosecution brought along, cross examining them into laughability and destroying their credibility completely.
But it was not enough and Denovo was frustrated at knowing nothing about her client that would stand up in court. His service record was exemplary but she would not adduce that for fear of it being reduced to the same level of irrelevance as the character witness evidence of the prosecution. As she delved into his character and spoke to comrades she built up a darkly magnificent picture of the man. She had a final conference with her client when the prosecution closed.
“Look,” she said, “So far we’ve done very little except put the witness evidence in some doubt. But I need to do more. I have to explain why there was no weapon found beside the man you killed. I have to explain how you know that the man was a threat. By what mechanism and measure did you assess the man as a threat? I need to show the members that you acted in accordance with the UCMJ and the Rules of Engagement. They haven’t proved that you did not but they have made a good fist of suggesting that you could not possibly have given the circumstances. As we stand if I do not adduce any evidence at all, then it could go either way. That is just not good enough for me. I will be failing in my duty to you and to JAG, and the Navy. But to go further I need your help. Do you understand?”
“I sure do, ma’am,” Jones replied calmly, “And I for one believe you have done a real good job so far.” He was in a very good position to judge this as he had invested no little effort in uncluttering her mind so that her thinking was clear and potent.
So they reviewed the evidence and Denovo ran through his testimony with him. She made it clear that it was a double-edged sword putting him on the stand, since it opened him to cross-examination. Jones was incredibly sanguine about this, and Laura took encouragement from this, although she could not quite understand it. He was unfeasibly optimistic about his prospects and the rigors of cross-examination. Her opponent was no mean lawyer and knew his strengths and would regard Jones’ availability for cross examination as a gift from the gods. Laura ensured Jones understood this. His calm assurance that he did was immutable in the face of her repeated testing. She began privately to wonder what he knew that no one else did, but set that aside in favor of more pressing matters, like prepping Jones for his time in the witness box.
In the event it was something of an anticlimax. There were no surprises in his testimony for anyone in the court, because he told it exactly the way the other witnesses had. Denovo took him carefully over the account of the incident, denying the prosecution as much scope on cross as she could, and preparing to raise objection after objection to enforce the limitations she had set. Necessary tactics since she had had to take the step of allowing her client in the witness box. Having taken him through his whole story and all the necessary clarification, she steeled herself for the storm of cross examination.
It was more of a wet weekend. The prosecutor asked one or two desultory questions and then ambled back to his table. Denovo frowned in perplexity at him. She knew him well and never doubted his will to make even an inevitable defeat anything except really hard work. And his defeat here was nowhere near inevitable. What had got into him? For a reason she did not then understand she glanced at her client for an answer. He still showed that serenity he had displayed all though the trial and even during his time in the witness box. His features were handsome in repose, and Denovo felt a delicious little twist of lust for him. Setting that aside, she marshaled her thoughts for her closing argument.
It did not come as any surprise to anyone, it seemed, that Jones was acquitted. Denovo successfully argued that even if there was no gun in the hands of the Iraqi insurgent, his intent had been plain, and it was clear that he had used a gun at some point. A succession of seasoned Marine combat personnel had said so and Denovo pointed out that no one could gainsay their estimation. Still, as she grinned at Jones and shook his hand, Denovo was not certain all that had been quite enough. She returned his salute, and watched him march away, then collared the prosecutor.
“Didn’t think you’d give up that easy, even if you were losing,” she told him forthrightly. He shrugged.
“Look, the evidence was against me,” he replied, “Even my own witnesses painted a picture that supported your client. The guy obviously was a sniper and he obviously was attacking your client. He was not helpless when he died, even if he was unarmed. I just didn’t think it was worth destroying a man’s life to make a point everyone concedes and which does not apply in this instance.”
“Very principled of you,” Denovo remarked, “And very unlike your usual style.”
“Yeah, I know,” the officer said, setting his cap on his head with exaggeratedly thoughtful mien, “I normally don’t let you off the hook that lightly.” He walked away deep in thought. Denovo took her own route back to the office. She wanted time to explore a possibility that was beginning to occur to her.
Jones was just finishing off the washing up after his dinner and was abut to pour a cup of coffee to enjoy in the sultry night on the back porch, when there was a knock on the front door. He detected a serene mind calmly awaiting him and looking forward to a pleasant evening with a mellow expectation. Intrigued, he stepped to the door and opened it to see Laura Denovo lounging against the jamb. She was wearing a print dress in light cotton and a grin. The dress was all cheery bright tiny yellow and blue flowers, the grin was a saucy, knowing curl of her shapely lips. If it had been in the eyes it would have been a wink. As far as he could see-which was some way courtesy of the manner in which her top two buttons were undone-she was wearing a bra under that dress but there seemed to be no trace of panties.
She lifted a bottle of excellent bourbon to his gaze, but even as he regarded it appreciatively, she slowly raised her knee. The folds of her dress fell away to reveal an enticing stretch of leg. He glanced down at that, then back to the bottle, and then back to her face. Her grin was a little wider and there was a certain light in her eyes.
“Hello Marine,” she greeted, and Jones found her voice both husky and mellow. This woman was exactly like the bourbon she waved at him; smooth, accomplished and tasty, mellow and yet potent. Oh, his memories stirred at the sight of her with her fresh face devoid of make-up and her unbound hair shining in the porch light. So did something else and he had no doubt she had noted it.
“Ma’am,” he returned with a nod. She had class enough not to go right to the point, which was obviously a righteous good fuck. Instead she waggled the bottle at him again. The rich amber liquid, heavy with flavor and promise, swirled slowly in the bottle. Deliberately. The same way she moved her knee out as her naked foot rested on her other knee. He eyed the gap in her dress yawning between her legs, beckoning his gaze up into the shadowed recesses beyond. He knew full well what was there, and she knew he knew; and that was part of the compelling charm of it. Still, she did not just shuck her dress off and leap on him. Oh, no, she was playing a game. “Wondered if you’d care for a drop of some good stuff to celebrate your freedom. You know I like a good bourbon as much as you.”
“Mighty generous of you, Laura,” he returned, “Whyn’t you come on in?”
“Thank you.” She moved past him and he caught a whiff of something potently erotic. Flowery and fresh, yet exotic and musky. How did they do that? Or was it her musk and not the perfume? He usually could tell but in this instance he was unsure. And he liked being unsure. He could quite easily find out by delving into her mind, but he wanted a mystery tour this evening. He wanted to discover slowly, deliciously. Take the bus instead of teleporting right there.
He watched her sashay through to the living room, the light silhouetting her figure and making her dress practically transparent. Her curves were sleek and fluid, and oh my, that ass! He watched it move as she stepped languidly to the center of the room. Sweet, sweet motion! She turned around to regard him with arched eyebrow, free hand on hip, the other holding the bottle by the neck between two fingers. As she might his cock. He became aware of a raging erection, first, and then very shortly after the lack of manners he was displaying. “Sorry!” he muttered, kicking the door shut, shuffling past her to the bar in one corner and whisking out two tumblers, “Have a seat, Laura, make yourself at home.”
She did, setting the bottle down on the coffee table and draping herself over the couch. Her breasts thrust up as she sat back, and her nipples showed plainly through the thin fabric. That bra was useless in terms of support, being outrageously small for her generous bust, but it was just what she wanted for this night’s work. It lifted her breasts and brought them together for a spectacular vision of cleavage. The creamy globes bulged out from the folds of her dress, the fabric straining to contain them. She crossed her legs, and the dress fell away to reveal a stretch of smooth, tanned thigh. She dangled a light slipper on the very tip of her big toe. When he looked at her face there was still that smile playing on her lips. She drew a small pink tongue over them as she looked right at him. Again that glow in her eyes.
This was the theme she was running, he suddenly realized: I know you want me. You know I want you. You know I know you know I want you. We have nothing to hide. So let’s enjoy what we know we have. And, oh! Can we enjoy that! It was a powerfully seductive theme. Jones was already rampant in his trousers, but he did not feel the need to hide that from her. Crossing to the couch he sat down beside her and set the two glasses before each of them. She made no move towards the bottle so he undid it and poured a shot in each glass. Everything seemed bright and clear to his heightened senses. He handed her a glass and picked up his own. The clink was sweet and silvery as he touched her glass and murmured, “Cheers.”
“To freedom,” she replied.
The aroma tickled his nostrils and the liquid burned a slow path down his throat and then expanded to fill his belly with a homely, mellow warmth. Ah, God, that was good liquor! Laura appeared to share his appreciation. He always had time for a woman who knew good bourbon. In fact, it was clear that this one knew a lot about a lot of good stuff. Jones found himself convinced he would do anything for her.
She leaned forward suddenly, and her face was right up in front of his. Her lips were slightly parted in that powerfully erotic way she had, and her eyes were half closed. “I’m not going to be too subtle,” she husked, “Life’s not long enough.”
“I hear ya,” he replied. He took her head gently in his hand and drew her to him. She came willingly enough-of course she did. It was part of her theme to leave aside false modesty. She was refreshingly direct without being obvious, and that was part of her allure. Their lips melded in a kiss like the bourbon; warm, sweet and slow, mellow and tender, their tongues first flicking at each other then engaging in a piquant wrestle in her throat. It went on for some time, and it was she who broke it off, panting slightly. It was not mere breathlessness, though, as he well knew and she did not wish to conceal.
A very quick glance down showed nipples out on stalks. He caressed one with a fingertip, lightly. She sighed softly, and her hands reached up to the base of his neck, drawing him down for another kiss. Again their mouths dissolved in a warm wet welter. He tucked his hand inside her dress and his fingertips skated over a swell of satiny flesh. He met a rigid little nubbin of nipple before he encountered lace, and curled his finger around the sweet little erection. She moaned softly into his mouth. He liked exciting this woman, liked exercising what he knew about her, and rediscovering the ways he could make her thrill.
One of her hands moved over his shoulder and upper arm, and he was glad he kept in condition. Her educated fingers told him of her appreciation and she moved her palm across the bulk of his biceps as if to savor the touch and feel of him. She liked the denseness of muscles and loved the satiny texture of his skin. She wanted to feel more, and tucked her hand under his tee shirt and slid her full palm over the valleys and hills of his chest. She tweaked a nipple. He hadn’t liked that much but she knew just when to do it.
In reply, he squeezed her breast, not hard for he never wanted to hurt her. It got her going a little; her breath was hot and short in his mouth. He circled her nipple, then palmed it as he grasped a further fistful of her breast. She moaned again, softly. She took him down with her to recline against the back of the couch and her hand ran slowly over the ridged plain of his stomach. Not an ounce of fat there; a tour in Iraq’s desert heat and careful eating with exercise had seen to that. She stopped short of his waistband, knowing what was there and communicating utter confidence that it would still be when she wanted it. That was potently aphrodisiac, too. His cock pounded in the confines of his trousers as if in a rage to escape, and the material seemed inadequate to hold it.
He deftly unpicked the next two buttons on her dress. The cloth fell away to completely reveal her breasts in their inadequate restraint. The red lace showed three-quarter crescents of areolae and those dusky pink nipples. He lightly pinched the other one and she gasped in delight. He went on the offensive, then, and placed a huge hand on her knee. She glanced at it, heavy and shiny black against the pale satin of her thigh. With deliberate slowness she uncrossed her legs and set her knees just a few inches apart. Nothing obvious, but a clear invitation to him. Her excitement was shortening her breath and her hand on his chest told him of her thrill. He accepted her invitation, advancing his hand under the hem of her skirt and up the naked, satiny firmness of her thigh.
He knew she worked out and his knowing hand told her of his appreciation. Her breath drew shorter as he entered upon her secret zones. She widened her legs a little more to allow him access and he delved in. She sighed and drew her legs wide apart, laying herself wide open. It pleased her that he advanced reverently, and that his first pass upon her mons veneris was in the way of adulation. She lid her hips forward and angled her torso up in further invitation and he dipped into the scalding well of her desire. He had felt the heat as he had caressed her pubis, and he sank his finger in to the knuckle to stir the slick heat of her insides. She groaned out loud.
She wanted him to kiss her, her hand pulling him down to her for a kiss that was this time searing in its intensity. It drove him wild and it was all he could do not to sweep aside her skirts and ram his cock right into her. She knew that, of course, and her fingers were active at his waistband as her tongue snaked in and ravaged the inside of his mouth. He strove to give fair game with his own tongue, even as she undid his trousers and her hand plunged in to seek him. It did not take much, and with a growl of satisfaction she levered out his enormous weapon, muttering as she stroked it appreciatively. She looked him in the eye and said softly, “That’s one heavy caliber weapon, Marine”
“Nothin’ you can’t handle ma’am,” he riposted.
“Oh, I can handle it all right,” she said dreamily, “But I have a use for another weapon you have.” She spread her legs languidly and pulled up the folds of her skirt. Her naked labia were parted slightly, as if in expectation. Did they actually tremble? He looked askance at her but she wordlessly pointed down to her snatch. Jones understood readily enough and slid to his knees between her legs. She looked lazy-lidded and slack-jawed down at him, waiting. Gentleman enough to be prompt, he leaned in and hooked his thumbs into her plump outer lips and drew them tenderly aside. The folds of her inner lips glistened, and at their apex her clitoris stood at attention. He ignored that for a moment, snaking his tongue in a circuit of the outer lips and then teasing apart the folds of her inner ones.
He moved around her cunt in sweeps and plunges, diving into the heat of her vagina once or twice to make her gasp, and gradually centered on her clitoris. Her breath grew short and she moaned louder and louder. She had taken hold of his head and her fingers clutched the wiry scrub on his skull. Her hips began moving and she sought to direct his efforts. Her resisted, if only to gently show her who was in charge just then. Eventually she gave in, mewling helplessly for him to touch her flaming, aching little bud. At last he did, with the merest flick of hi tongue. She convulsed, growling fierce pleasure and wanting more. He curled his thick, sinuous and very expert tongue around the shaft and she almost screamed delight. And after that he had her on the run; a headlong race to orgasm. Right at the end, on the very cusp of a monumental orgasm, she pushed him away. Her eyes were a little wild and blazed with pure animal lust.
“Not yet!” she gasped, “I ain’t finished with you yet!” Her New York accent was thicker in the throes of passion. Her hands beckoned him up to her and he stood. His trousers were around his ankles and he shrugged off his shirt. Her eyes devoured him, from mountainous torso through sleek narrow hips and legs like tree trunks to that splendid cock lancing out from his groin.
“Jesus, bring that here!” she croaked. He knelt on the couch to bring his cock right up against her face. She opened her mouth eagerly and gave him, again, one of the best blow jobs he had ever had. Enveloping his glans in her warm wet mouth, she contrived to inveigle her tongue into the little eye on its underside and pleasure him with it. Then deftly she circled the rim of his glans, making him shudder. He gasped as she did a good job of taking his whole length down her throat. Christ, she was good!
Cupping his balls, she laved the whole shaft of him up and down, sucking and licking, biting tenderly. He leaned back and found her cunt, stroking her clitoris as she fellated him expertly. It made her moan over his cock, and that made him shudder in pleasure. They rocked for a few moments like that, until he felt the surge of his climax beginning, and made as if to move away. He wasn’t going to waste this boner. However, she sensed it as soon as he did, releasing him and digging a nail into the nether base of his cock. His approaching climax died away.
“Now for the main course!” she said and as he backed away she rose to stand before him. As he kicked off his trousers and shorts she shrugged off her dress and with equal facility reached behind her and slipped off her bra. Gloriously nude, she sank back onto the couch and widened her legs lasciviously, hooking her finger to beckon him to her. As he approached her eyes centered on his cock, lighting up as they followed in towards her. He sank to his knees in front of her. She lifted her knees and drew them apart, opening her cunt up to him like a blooming flower. He swarmed over her torso and she and reached down between her wide-spread legs and grasped his turgid length. She savored the heft and girth of him and then angled him appropriately.
The blunt purple head of his cock nudged the cleft of her cunt. She could not resist drawing him along the length of her cleft and using his glans to diddle her clitoris a little. He grinned as she did that and she grinned back. “Okay, honey,” she said with quiet intensity, “Do it to me!” He slid himself in. She arched her back, angling her pelvis to give him access, and moaned loudly as he went in. He lodged within her, staying still for a few moments, so she could savor the mass of him along the full length of her vagina. She rippled appreciative internal muscles along his length. Then, with hands planted on his buttocks she signalled him into a rhythm.
He began a slow, long stroke within her, and she sighed happily, eyes closed and smiling to herself as she moved her hips around to take full advantage of his length inside her. He swiveled his own hips slightly as he stroked, bring fresh curls of smile to her lips. He leaned down and kissed her, feeling unaccountably close to her and tender for her, wanting to be nothing but pleasure for her, and feeling wonderful that he was succeeding. She drew her knees to his shoulders and took purchase by gripping his wrists, and so kept herself as open as possible to his piston shafting inside her. She moaned and gasped as he maintained his rhythm solidly with even strokes, until she took him by the nape of the neck and locked her heels at his shoulder blades, bringing her pelvis up to a short angle. “Harder!” she whispered sibilantly, “Harder!”
He moved up a gear, driving hard, and she took each stroke as if it were a draught of cold, crisp beer, deeply appreciative. He drove into her, sensing her orgasm coming slowly, building from deep, solid basements. They strained like this for quite some time, then Laura unlocked her ankles and released his neck. Knowing instinctively that she wanted to disengage, he pulled clear and she simply turned over, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch. He needed nothing else by way of indication. Dropping to his knees again he closed with her. She threw her head back and growled delight as he plowed into her. She had dipped her back and angled out her cunt and he slid smoothly into her greased tunnel.
The plump outer lips stretched over his girth, and kissed his mighty shaft as he plunged in, and her silken inner folds seemed to suck on him as he pulled out, as if reluctant to let him go. She cried out in pleasure as he drove into her, her mouth a rictus of delight “Ah, Jesus fill me up!” she cried, “Fuck me! Fuck me!” So he did “Hard!” she urged him, “Hard! I want it hard!” He grunted as he put more power into his strokes, his glans nudging her cervix most times as he plunged to the hilt in her. She took it well, moaning and muttering hugely, thrusting back at him. There was no sound other than her moans and the soft slap of his balls against her thighs and the taut leanness of his groin muscles whacking against the globes of her buttocks. Her hands clawed the couch cushions and the flesh rippled out over her ass and hips at each impact. He felt her orgasm rushing to completion, then suddenly she stopped and disengaged. Turning round, she took hold of his face in her hands and kissed him deeply, then dropped a hand to his cock.
“Don’t go soft on me, honey!” she pleaded, “Love me! Soft and slow!” He understood perfectly what she meant. She lay back and spread her legs, and gathered him to her. He went willingly, sinking his head into her shoulders and kissing the tender little place at her throat where she loved being kissed, and sinking into the embrace of her arms as she folded them about his neck, and sinking to the hilt into her cunt. They resumed in a warm mutual glow of happiness and affection, moving fluidly together, Laura moaning and sighing, Jones grunting his pleasure, her heels drumming his buttocks and his lips sucking the hollows of her shoulder.
Her orgasm built deeply, and not so slowly, a tidal wave that gathered far off shore and promised to sweep far inland. It gathered might and drew on all the fibers of her being, swelling to an immense crescendo. Its gathering power and incredible ecstasy drowned everything else out and she did not hear herself scream as she hit the crest of that wave. It bore her out of her mind and in amid the stars, filling her with ecstasy upon delight upon incredible pleasure until she felt she could not take it any more. She almost passed out.
When the galaxies stopped whirling and the wonderful, glorious delirium passed, she was left with only an incandescent glow of affection and intimacy with the huge black presence above her, still shafting inside her faithfully. She reached up to kiss him, but in mid-smooch his face contorted and he shuddered mountainously. A too-long pull back meant he came out of her just as his cock fountained. He pumped copious amounts of sticky semen all over her nether regions and thighs. “Ah, sorry!” he exclaimed.
“No, no!” she said softly, kissing him all over his face, “It’s fine! Give me all your juice!” And she reached down to milk him to the very last drop as he groaned and buried his face in her hair. She wrapped her arms around him and entwined her legs about his. She wanted to absorb him totally, so precious was he to her just then, and she stroked his skull and back tenderly, taking her pleasure of the great muscles of his shoulders.
They stayed like that for a while, then Jones lifted himself off her and lay back beside her, taking her hand and kissing it reverently. She smiled and stroked his cheek. “You give a girl one hell of a fuck, Marine,” she said softly, affectionately.
“Oh no!” he corrected her, “You know how to run a guy!” She propped herself on one elbow to look down at him and ask, “How do you mean?”
“Well, you came along and you knew exactly what you wanted and exactly how to make me give it to you. Couldn’t have done it better myself.” He paused mentally, aghast at the slip which could give his talent away. Then he saw the look on Laura’s face. She arched an ironic eyebrow down at him.
“Maybe you couldn’t,” she said gently, though, and patted him affectionately on the chest, “After all, there’s more than one way of controlling a mind, huh?” She smiled beatifically at the look of horror on his face.
Then he began laughing, and he laughed and laughed and laughed.