Everyone knows by now that Downing Street is my favorite writer. His way of telling how uptight women gradually are transformed into tarty sluts is without peer. But is it "conceivable" that he is telling the "full" story? The "expanded" consequences of these changes "bear" further examination.

***** I *****

"This is the best deal you have any reason to expect, Cromwell," the woman said coldly; "I suggest you take it."

Cromwell looked back at the slender blonde in the masculine black suit, barely noticing the sheaf of papers in her hand. He felt utterly defeated. Even his own lawyer thought he was scum. "Penelope, can't we fight this?"

If anything, the lawyer's voice became even colder. "First of all, my name is 'Ms. Parnell,' not 'Penelope.' Second, your former employee has a case against you on which the court will convict. Especially with one of the best legal firms in the city behind her. Take the plea bargain. And try to remember this the next time you feel like assaulting your secretary." She tossed the papers in front of him and sat down behind her polished desk.

Cromwell sat there, feeling numb. He stared past her for a moment, out the second-storey window. The trees lining the street were brilliant in the early autumn sunshine, indifferent to the morass his life had fallen into.

"Penelope," he tried again, "I mean Ms. Parnell. It, it wasn't like that. I didn't mean anything. Hell, I was drunk; it was a party; everybody was fooling around, having a good time. I just got a little carried away. She led me on."

"She has videotape," the blonde lawyer snapped back, "and multiple witnesses. Her case is airtight."

"But, but those witnesses are all her friends. Of course they'll corroborate her story; the judge will see that."

"The judge will also hear testimony from each witness that you made persistent and inappropriate advances to all of them too, won't he." Her blue eyes flashed.

Cromwell hung his head. How could this be happening? Two weeks ago he had gotten a little loose at a company party, nothing that hadn't happened a dozen times before. Now that little minx of a secretary, barely 20 years old, was dragging him through the mud and making his life hell. He shook his head. The damndest thing was that the girl had the most awesome legs. Irrelevant, but still true.

At last he said, "I need some time to think about this."

Ms. Parnell said, "Don't take too long about it. The trial gets underway day after tomorrow. The deal drops the criminal charges if you settle for the full amount in the civil suit. That option won't be available once the case is in session. I'd like to get this off my desk."

For a moment Cromwell rebelled. He was being shuffled aside like so much paperwork! "You're supposed to be MY lawyer!" he charged.

The blue-eyed blonde was unmoved. "Not my idea, Cromwell. I'm only on this case at all because Mr. Ferguson doesn't want to touch it. I can see why. I have other cases to deal with, real people with real problems; I haven't got time to waste on a middle-aged cad who treats his employees as playmates for his sexual gratification."

For a long moment they glared at each other. Her hair was tied up in a businesslike bun on the back of her head, hiding its true length. Her high cheeks, flushed with anger, were surprisingly pretty. She was young, not even a junior partner yet. She had been assigned to his case when Ferguson, his friend and confidant for years, had suddenly become "too busy" for him.

Cromwell rose and snatched the papers off her desk. "I'll look at these," he said, knowing he was conceding defeat.

Ms. Parnell did not get up. "Be in my office with the papers signed at 9:30 tomorrow. I need time to talk to the judge."

He let himself out.


Fifteen minutes later Cromwell was seated in his favorite chair at his regular club, nursing his wounds with a strong drink. It wasn't his fault, he told himself for the one thousandth time. It was all a set- up.

Things hadn't been going well at home. His wife was incredibly sexy, but had lost interest in sex; maybe she'd never really had any. He loved her, but, rebuffed each night and morning, he went to work each morning horny and frustrated, which combined with his driven personality to make him short-tempered and sullen. More and more he found himself noticing all the attractive young women in the office.

Then one day Tawny had waltzed into his office, pert, cheerful and gorgeous. She announced, as if she had just won a school prize, that Human Resources had made her his new secretary. Cromwell had been stung. She was perfect. She was beautiful. She came to work each morning in yet another foxy miniskirt, apparently unaware of Cromwell's weakness for legs on high heels, unlike his wife who WAS aware and refused to wear them. She seemed so innocent. . .

He sipped his Scotch, staring at the floor.

"Quite a jolly mess, isn't it?" said the man beside him.

Cromwell looked up. "Excuse me?"

The man put down the newspaper that had hidden him so effectively. He was thin and bespectacled. "This mire you've gotten yourself into, Mr. Cromwell. This awful legal proceeding."

"Excuse me," Cromwell said again, "Do I know you? I don't think I remember--"

The man interrupted him smoothly. "Just look at your situation. You're facing both a private suit and a criminal prosecution. Your adversary is a twenty-year- old secretary the judge will love. I understand you've drawn Judge Martha Harris; a competent jurist, but something of a crusader on harassment issues. The case against you is formidable, even though there is no convincing evidence of impropriety on your part, aside from inebriation. If you decide to fight it, the best you can hope for is a conditional discharge and a criminal record. Or you can accept the sleazy deal they're offering and pay a six-figure sum for having too much to drink at a party."

"What --," blustered Cromwell, "Who are you? How do you know all --"

"Have you considered the, ah, social implications of your predicament?" the man asked, ignoring Cromwell's questions. "How much respect will you retain at work once your whole staff sees you convicted as a lecher? What will be your chances at that vice-presidency you have worked toward for so long? You will probably have great difficulty even finding a new secretary. Not to mention the effect on business when word of this gets out to your customers. Most important of all: how long do you think you can hide this little adventure from your wife?"

"You leave my wife out of this!" Cromwell stormed, fighting to keep his voice down. Then, after a moment: "She will ... understand."

The thin man regarded Cromwell patiently through his dark-framed glasses. "Certainly she will ... understand. She will understand that you have handed her powerful new ammunition with which to belittle and intimidate you any time she wants something. She will understand how to exact a steep and continuing price for her forgiveness; she will understand how to use this incident to get her own way for years to come. Your chance of getting her to make any little Cromwells will be zero. She'll never have to fuck you again."

Cromwell felt his face flush with anger. He started to say something, but the other man raised a hand, cutting him off. "Please, Mr. Cromwell, be honest with yourself. Your wife is a self-centered, manipulative bitch. She married you for money and prestige. I suspect you were so bedazzled by her looks that you didn't see her true nature. I can't say I blame you: fabulous tits and fucked like a banshee before you married her, didn't she?" He spoke in the same tones a man might used while discussing England's chances in the World Cup.

Cromwell leaned toward him, his face a thundercloud. "Now look here, whoever you are, I --"

"Mr. Cromwell," the man interrupted, "when was the last time your wife allowed you to made love?"

Cromwell said nothing for a long moment. He looked away. Finally, in a low voice, he asked: "How do you know all this?"

"We do our homework," the man replied. "Thorough background research is the key to ensuring our clients are satisfied."

"What? Clients?"

The man reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a plain white business card. He handed it to Cromwell. "I represent a company that specializes in situations like yours," he explained. "I believe we can help you."

Cromwell said: "I already have a lawyer."

"Ah yes, MS Parnell," the man responded, buzzing the title ironically as if they were discussing golf. He folded his hands like a steeple. "Your lawyer is part of your problem. She is an ambitious, if sexy little sourpuss who only wants to put this whole matter behind her. You need a more permanent solution."

Cromwell studied the man sitting next to him. He was tall and proper. Dressed in a conservative grey suit and tasteful silk tie, he could have been an investment banker or a professor of economics. He spoke with a crisp, slightly British accent.

"Permanent solution? What are you talking about?" Cromwell asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

"I mean, quite simply, that we can make this whole ugly situation go away," the man said evenly. "Disappear. Vanish. Cease to be a vexation to your spirit."

"You can win my court case?"

"We can do better than that. We can have all the charges withdrawn, with an apology. We can make the parties involved regret that they ever displeased you and sincerely want to make you happy. We can do away with all these petty annoyances that are preventing you from enjoying life as it ought to be enjoyed. In short, Mr. Cromwell, we can FIX things."

"But, but -- I still don't understand. How do you propose to do this?"

The man flexed his fingers for a moment. "I'd rather not go into the methods themselves. In any case it's rather technical. When you have decided to go ahead, just call the number on that card. They will take care of fee transfers and scheduling. I urge you to call soon, today if possible. We don't have a great deal of lead time."

Cromwell was staring at him, nonplussed. Was he really having this conversation? "How-- how much?" he found himself saying. The man beside him named a figure that made Cromwell's eyes go round. "It's entirely reasonable," he explained, "when you consider what you receive in return. Besides, it's considerably less than you would pay in legal fees and penalties, assuming the suit against you is successful."

Cromwell stopped to consider. The man had a point; the court case was bound to cost him dearly. And if they could do what he said they could do....

His companion got to his feet, folding the newspaper neatly beneath his arm. "Do give us a call this afternoon if you can. You won't regret it. Good day, Mr. Cromwell." He walked away briskly.

Cromwell stayed behind. He looked at the business card in his hand. It was entirely blank but for a telephone number, printed exactly in the middle. Cromwell couldn't decide if that was the strangest thing, or whether it was the fact that the man beside him had been reading the Times of India.


Two hours later, Cromwell was sitting in his office, still staring at the business card. The chill in the office when he came in had been palpable. Friends and colleagues avoided him. People whispered behind his back. His outer office was empty. Tawny had been transferred, at her request. Human Resources had decided it would be best if Cromwell got by without a secretary, for the time being. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number.

"Hello! Thank you for calling," said a sexy female voice.

"Uh. Hello. Uh, yes. My name is Cromwell, I--"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Cromwell!" The voice sounded delighted. "Have you decided to go ahead with the procedure?"

"Well, I, I guess, I mean, I think -- Listen, I'd like to know a little more about it."

"Oh, don't worry about the details. Trust me, you'll love our work. Did our representative talk to you about the fee?"

"Yes. Yes, he did. Shouldn't I meet with your people to discuss my case?"

"No need for that. We have all the information we need in our files. We can begin as soon as the funds are transferred."

"But, but, I still don't understand --"

"Mr. Cromwell," the voice said pointedly, "we offer a full money-back guarantee. None of our clients has *ever* asked for a refund."

There was silence for a long moment. Eventually Cromwell said: "How do I pay the fee?"

"Make an electronic transfer to this account." She named an account number of a bank in the Cayman Islands. "You've made the right decision, Mr. Cromwell. We'll get right to work. Oh, one more thing. Did you write that account number down on a piece of paper?"


"When you're through, throw it away, won't you? Bye now."

Cromwell hung up the telephone. He turned to his computer and transferred a large sum of money to an offshore account. He took the sheet of paper with the bank and account number written on it and dropped it through the paper shredder. Then he went home.

Cromwell's wife was not home when he arrived. There was nothing unusual about that. Shana was usually out, ostensibly shopping, or running him down with one of her rich friends, or playing tennis, or participating in any of the innumerable events that constituted the social whirl in which she lived. In fact Cromwell suspected she was having her gears oiled regularly by some stud at her gym.

Cromwell didn't mind. He was grateful for the free time. He still hadn't told Shana about the court case. He was not looking forward to the fireworks.

Shana did not come home for dinner. When she hadn't returned by late evening, Cromwell began to worry. It wasn't like Shana to go so long without calling. He stayed up late, nursing a drink. When Shana still hadn't returned by midnight, he decided he might as well go to bed.

He was awakened in the night by the sound of movement. He turned on the bedside lamp. Shana was there, changing into her nightgown. She looked haggard.

"Shana!" Cromwell cried. "At last. Where have you been?"

His wife looked at him wanly. "Honey, I'm really tired." She clambered into bed beside him and closed her eyes. She actually seemed to snuggle close.

Cromwell stared at her incredulously. "Shana, it's --" he glanced at the bedside clock -- "it's 3 a.m.! Where have you been?"

"mm not sure," she mumbled, without opening her eyes. "Thin' I wzz 'ducted. These two men. . . put me 'n van."

"WHAT!" He sprang up in bed. "What? I mean, how? Who? Did they hurt you? Are you all right? Shana?"

His wife was breathing regularly, fast asleep.

After a moment Cromwell turned off the lamp. He stared into the darkness, perplexed. This had been one strange day. He lay down and his wife schoonched against him. He felt her tits on his chest for the first time in years.


Cromwell was having a dream. It was a pleasant, erotic dream. It had something to do with a beautiful secretary seducing him. His eyes fluttered open. Early morning sunlight poured through the bedroom windows. His bed covers had been pulled back. His wife was astride him, on her knees, slowly and lovingly lowering herself onto his cock.

"Wha?" said Cromwell.

Shana raised her glistening cunt lips from his member for just a moment. "Good morning honey," she cooed, looking at with enraptured devotion. "Did you sleep well?"

Evidently it was a rhetorical question, because she immediately lowered herself and her pussy drew him back in. Cromwell groaned. Through the intensely pleasurable sensations that Shana was producing, his mind registered astonishment. In the nearly seven years that they had been married, Shana had ridden him exactly twice, both times with ill grace and only when he had made it a condition for granting some especially extravagant indulgence. Now she was spontaneously giving him the best cowgirl fuck he'd ever experienced. Shana did something with her cunt muscles and Cromwell twitched.

There was something else odd too. As he watched his wife's pussy slide eagerly up and down his tool, Cromwell realized Shana was already wearing her make- up. Earrings too. The big gold ones he had bought her but she had never worn, flashed and flew about as she bounced. She was dressed in a red, strapless teddy, a Valentine's or Anniversary gift from years ago but which until now Shana had refused to put it on. "Whorish," she had judged. The cups thrust her half- covered chest up and out, highlighting her spectacular tits. Her legs were clad in shiny stockings with ribbons and bows on the garters. Her gaudiest high- heeled red pumps were on her feet.

How early had she gotten up to prepare for this? And whatever for? Cromwell tried to ask a question, but Shana bent down and put her tongue in his mouth. Nothing came out but a squeaky gasp. Then she began to fuck him hard, long hair flying on each downstroke. She brought Cromwell to the brink in moments. Groaning, he reached behind him with both hands and clasped the headboard. A moment later she had impaled herself on him hard. His back arched upward and he erupted like a geyser into her dripping cunt.

The relief was exquisite. Shana stayed with him, riding hungrily until at last he subsided into sighs and twitches. She licked him clean when she reluctantly let his softening shaft slip out of her pussy. "There," she said with satisfaction, "isn't that a nice way to start the day?"

Without giving her astonished husband a chance to answer, she slid gracefully to her feet. "Don't hurry about getting up, honey," she said. "I'll get your breakfast while you shower, 'K?" She slipped on a long, transparent robe, and without pausing to do it up, sauntered out of the room, unconcerned that a thick glob of semen was sliding down her leg.

Cromwell lay there for a long time, catching his breath. What on earth had gotten into Shana? She only LET him fuck her when she wanted something; she never took the initiative, never seemed to enjoy it, never NEEDED it. Sex was just her most effective means of manipulating him. He went to the bathroom for his shower. Shana had laid out clean towels.

When Cromwell walked into the kitchen a little while later, straightening his necktie, he received another shock. Food was sizzling on the stove, filling the room with delicious smells. Shana was sashaying about the kitchen, humming to herself. She seemed perfectly at home in her high heels.

Shana cooking? For a moment Cromwell didn't know what to think. If someone had asked him, what is the one thing your wife is less likely to do than wake you up with an early morning fuck, Cromwell would have answered: cook breakfast for him. "Uh, Shana?" he said uncertainly.

His wife turned to him, beaming. "Hi honey! Come and sit down, breakfast is almost ready." She gestured to the kitchen table, where an elaborate setting was waiting for him.

"But, but, wait a minute. Last night, you were out, late; you said you had been abducted."

She gave him an amused look. "Abducted? Don't be silly. Yesterday I went out shopping with Nichole, and then. . . . Well, I don't remember. Come on, sit. Don't let the toast get cold."

Cromwell sat. Breakfast was excellent. He sipped his coffee, watching his wife totter about the kitchen with a wary eye. The outfit she was wearing clearly reminded him of how she had gotten him to marry her in the first place. Below the rich cascades of cinnamon brown hair her figure was perfect: smooth, curved and sensuous, leading downward to the flawlessly tapering legs that seemed to go on forever. Despite what Shana had already done for him that morning, Cromwell felt his cock stir.

Eventually, however, he had to face reality. "Shana," he said, "come here and sit down for a moment. We have to talk."

"Of course, darling," Shana chirped. She approached the table, but instead of taking the seat next to his, she slid into his lap. "What would you like to talk about?" She slid both arms around his neck. This action brought Cromwell distractingly close to those mesmerizing mounds that the man in the club had so accurately described as "fabulous". He felt himself stiffening.

He drew a deep breath. "Shana, there's something I have to tell you. Tomorrow morning, I have to appear in court to answer charges."

She stroked his hair. "Oh, darling, that's awful. Do you want me to go with you?"

"Wh-what?" It wasn't the response he had been expecting.

"You know, to keep you company. I'd be glad to come along if you want."

"Uh, no, that won't be necessary." She hadn't even asked what the charges were.

She brightened. "In that case, do you mind if I do a little shopping?"

Cromwell was confused again. Since when did Shana feel she needed permission to spend his money? "Uh, no, I guess not," he answered cautiously. "What in particular did you have in mind?"

She leaned closer, presenting him with an even better view of her glorious globes. Her voice sank an octave. "Well, I know how fond you are of teddies and things. But this is the only one I have." She frowned prettily, as if puzzled by how this sad state of affairs could have arisen. "I'd like to get more pretty new things. You know, for just around the house, for you." Her fingers gently massaged the back of his neck.

"Oh, uh, I see. Well, yes then, please, go right ahead!" He looked at his watch. "Oops, honey, I have to get going. It's almost nine, and I have to meet my lawyer at 9:30. I'd better get to the office."

Shana planted little kisses on his cheek. "You could do that, I s'pose," she whispered, snuggling up close. "You could hurry off to the office, just for half an hour." She paused to kiss him very thoroughly. "Or," she husked, her lips close to his, "you could stay here to eat your very horny wife."

Was this Shana? She had never allowed his lips to approach her pussy. She kissed him yet again and slipped her hand down to his iron-hard prick to sway his decision. She succeeded.

It was well past 9:30 by the time Cromwell wrestled himself from between the arms and legs of his newly amorous wife. A long session between her thighs leading to several mouthfuls of Shana's cum naturally led to another fuck, this one from behind with Shana clawing the sheets and chewing the pillow as Cromwell pounded her. Daylight and doggie sex were two other firsts for Shana who heretofore had only permitted missionary with the lights out and never allowed herself to orgasm. Even after he had come into her overheated, spasming pussy, Shana begged him to leave it in her for a little while longer.

He called the law office from his cell phone on the way to apologize for being late. The receptionist told him that Ms. Parnell had been detained in an earlier meeting, and would not be available to meet with him until later. She would call when she was free. Cromwell turned around and headed for the office.

The law office had not called by noon, so Cromwell called them. The receptionist told him that Ms. Parnell was "out", but she promised to call back. Cromwell called again near the end of the day. The receptionist, now clearly covering for Parnell's absence, passed him on to another lawyer, equally junior.

"Ms. Parnell has been called away from the office for a day or so," the man lied, "so I'll take your case in her absence. I understand we have a plea bargain in place, so the court appearance is mostly a formality."

Cromwell hung up the telephone, frowning. Why didn't anybody know where Parnell had gone?

As he drove the few miles home from his office, Cromwell turned to wondering about Shana. Perhaps her behavior that morning had been a ploy, softening him up for a mega dose of bitchiness or some new bank-account shattering purchase. Shana put that idea to rest when she greeted him at the door in a black velvet bustier that thrust out the flawless half-moons of her chest without covering the nipples, matching black velvet panties, shimmering dark pantyhose and funky black ankle boots.

Cromwell had a bit of a weakness for heavy ankle boots, but he could remember the row it had caused when he shared that secret with his indignant wife. Right at that moment, as he watched Shana slink toward him with a look of almost predatory lust, Cromwell was surprised he could remember his middle name. She melted into his arms, kissing him as if he had just returned from six months in the jungle. "Come on in and have a drink, darling," she urged. "Dinner's almost ready."

Dinner was sumptuous and delicious. Shana did not change to eat. She sat across from him, her distended, red-topped nipples on full display, and gazed at her husband adoringly. Cromwell barely noticed the food.

After dinner Shana insisted that Cromwell relax with a second drink while she modeled all the pretty things she had bought that afternoon. She put soft music on the stereo and slowly changed out of one exotic outfit and into another in front of him, getting thoroughly worked up in the process. She was less than half way through the collection before she gave up. Cromwell was hard, anyway and they ended up back in bed again, or rather in an urgent rut on the living room rug, which was as far as Shana could go before getting Cromwell stuffed into her.

They made it into bed eventually. Cromwell hoped the neighbors hadn't heard Shana screaming out his name during her orgasms. The next morning, his wife once again roused him without an alarm clock, allowing him to eat her to multiple orgasms for the second time in their marriage before insisting on riding him to an orgasm that delayed his arising.




Cromwell did manage to make it to the law office on time the next morning, but it was a near thing. Shana had decided that there was no need to wear underwear beneath her black lace body stocking "just around the house", but nevertheless opted for the high-heeled, mirror-black pumps. She had a regular luncheon with some of the other rich wives in the neighborhood. When Cromwell mentioned it she waved a hand and told him she would rather stay home and clean house. She saw him off only after insisting he take her one last time bent over the counter in the kitchen, proving the wisdom of her decision to dispense with undergarments.

"Probably just as well you didn't take this to trial," Cromwell's new lawyer told him later as they waited in the courtroom. "I wouldn't relish tangling with that lot." He nodded toward the other bench. Cromwell's substitute lawyer was a young black man, thin and earnest.

Tawny was sitting on the other side of the courtroom, accompanied by two lawyers, both older and clearly experienced. She was dressed conservatively, in a very long grey skirt, worlds away from the cheerful little minis she used to wear to the office. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, giving her the look of an old fashioned school mistress, not the little vixen who had come onto him at the party, practically begging to be fucked. She didn't meet Cromwell's eyes.

A back door opened and the judge entered the room. Judge Harris was younger than Cromwell expected. She would have been pretty but for the air of harried impatience about her. Black robes swished as she marched to her seat behind the bench.

"Well, what have we got this morning," she said briskly, shuffling papers. "Sleikbody vs. Cromwell. I understand the parties have agreed to a resolution to this unfortunate business." She looked over at Cromwell's table as if examining some lower life form. "Excuse me Counselor, but I have a Ms. Parnell listed on this case."

Cromwell's lawyer got to his feet. "Uh, yes, that's correct Your Honor, but my colleague is, uh, indisposed at this moment and, uhm, hasn't been able to attend. However, no formal representation will be required, as we have negotiated an out-of-court settlement with the aggrieved party. My client is willing to --"

The door to the courtroom burst open. "Wait! No plea bargain!" cried a female voice. Heads turned toward the attractive blonde rushing into the room. "So sorry I'm late, Your Honor." She stumbled up to Cromwell's desk and flung her briefcase on the table. "Penelope Parnell, representing Mr. Cromwell." She rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Penelope! What the hell?" her associate whispered.

"Ms. Parnell, what is the meaning of this?" the judge demanded.

Cromwell was wondering that himself. Ms. Parnell looked different. She was wearing a fetching pink suit over a frilly white blouse. Cromwell couldn't remember seeing Parnell in anything except black pantsuit. The skirt on the suit was rather brief for a barrister to wear to court, especially with the pink high heels she had chosen to go with it. Still, as he admired Parnell's shapely legs Cromwell couldn't imagine anyone complaining. She had changed her hair too, letting the tight curls flow loosely down her back, with two locks trained to fall on each side of her face.

"I beg the court's pardon," Ms. Parnell said formally. "I was detained by... an urgent medical situation. However, I am prepared to go forward with this case as planned, so with my colleague's permission I will take over from here." She squeezed Cromwell's shoulder possessively.

Cromwell's other lawyer, clearly taken by surprise, started to protest. Parnell glared at him. "I *said*, I'll take over from here, John."

He wilted. "Uh, very well then," he muttered. He sat down.

Ms. Parnell turned to the judge, smiling.

Judge Harris did not smile back. "Well, if we have sorted out who is in charge, perhaps you would like to explain that dramatic outburst, Ms. Parnell?"

Parnell said: "Your Honor, I have come into ... new information pertaining to this case which may influence my client's decision regarding the proposed plea bargain. If I could be granted a brief continuance, perhaps until tomorrow, to discuss this with my client --"

"I'll give you an hour recess," the judge said sourly. "A continuance is hardly warranted just to decide a plea. Court will reconvene at 11." She scowled at Parnell. "Don't be late."

Ms. Parnell was in motion almost before the judge banged the gavel. "Come on," she said urgently, taking Cromwell's hand. "We have to hurry."

"But, but, wait --" Cromwell protested as the lithesome lawyer almost dragged him out of the courtroom. Heads turned to admire the miniskirted blonde as she hurried down the hallway, walking with surprising speed and agility in her precarious pink pumps.

She was still holding his hand as she made her way down the courthouse steps. "Hurry!" she said again, "we have less than an hour." She led him to a sporty red car parked haphazardly in front of the courthouse. "Come on, get in." Ms. Parnell grabbed a parking ticket off the windshield and tossed it away, then fairly threw herself behind the wheel.

The car was in motion before Cromwell had his door closed. The blonde lawyer drove with reckless speed through the morning traffic. She didn't paused to do up her seatbelt or pull down her skirt, which had ridden up fetchingly around her hips.

"That, that light was red, I think," Cromwell suggested, holding on. "Penelope, what in blazes is going on?"

"Wait till we get to my office," she told him tersely.

Ms. Parnell jerked to a stop in front of her office building with one wheel on the sidewalk. She grabbed a package out of the back seat and bolted up the steps. She was halfway through the front door before Cromwell caught up with her. "Penelope!" cried a surprised secretary, "Where have you been? I have messages--"

"Later," she growled, without slowing down.

At last they arrived at Parnell's small office. The lawyer dragged Cromwell inside and locked the door. She threw her package on the desk.

"Finally!" she said. "I couldn't get out of that courtroom fast enough." She slipped off her suit jacket and tossed it over a chair.

Cromwell was breathless. "Penel -- I mean, Ms. Parnell, what is this all about? Why don't you want me to accept the plea bargain? And where *were* you all day yesterday?"

She stood still for a moment. "Where? Well, I... in a hospital, I think." Her voice softened, as if she were trying to remember a dream. "Maybe. There were doctors . . . and nurses or something . . . and machines . . ." She brightened. "Well, whatever. Let's concentrate on the case."

"All right, but first you told me Tawny's case was airtight, and now you turn around and -- what are you DOING?" Ms. Parnell's blouse fluttered down on top of her jacket. Underneath she wore some kind of tight, pink bustier, the kind Cromwell liked.

"I'm getting undressed, so you can fuck me, of course," the shapely blonde answered eagerly. She was already working on the skirt. She stopped abruptly. "You will fuck me, won't you?" a note of concern in her voice.

Cromwell had no ready answer to that. "I-- I-- what? What are you--, I mean, Penelope, you can't m-mean -- holy Toledo!" The miniskirt fell to the floor around her feet. Underneath she wore an elaborate pink garter belt clipped to flesh-tone nylons that sleeked up her legs from the pink high heels. She wore no panties.

"You do find me attractive, don't you, honey?" Ms. Parnell asked, stepping over the skirt toward him. "I mean, you wouldn't *mind* fucking me, would you?" She reached up and unfastened the clip holding her hair back.

Cromwell was bug-eyed. Was this the ice queen that had called him a middle-aged cad and practically thrown him out of her office two days ago? She advanced toward him, her eyes misty with desire. Her lips were parted slightly. She wore bright pink lipstick that matched her underwear. Her lower lips were naturally pink.

"Come on, baby, we only have a few minutes. Please?" the blonde entreated, snuggling up close. "Barely time for a good quickie but I'll make sure you like it; I promise." She pressed her soft lips against his, slipping her tongue in his mouth while she began to work his belt buckle.

When she let him up for air half a minute later, Cromwell was gasping for breath. "Ms. Parnell, I--"

"Call me Penny," she husked, between kisses. "Look, I've got something to show you." Holding him by his tie, she led him to her desk. She swept one hand across it impatiently. Files and papers and the telephone crashed to the floor. She hopped up on top of the desk. Leaning back on her elbows, she carelessly kicked her pink high-heels across the room. Then she reached into the bag she had brought from the car and extracted a pair of black stretch boots.

Without taking her eyes off Cromwell, Penny swung around so one foot rested on the desk, displaying her well-curved leg in profile. While Cromwell watched, she slipped the tight boot on her foot and pulled it up. The boot was barely calf-high, with a three-inch- thick platform and big block heel. She swung the other way and squeezed on the other boot. Then she lay back again, legs spread wide, short boots dangling over the desk, her pussy open and inviting. "You like?" she asked softly.

Cromwell licked his lips. He felt his resistance melt like butter in the hot sun. The boots were glossy and sexy and didn't match anything else she was wearing. Somehow that only made them look hotter. How had Penny known about his fetish for funky boots? "But, but, what about the case?" Cromwell asked blankly, as his pants slid down his legs. He was as hard as a diving board.

Penny sat up and flung her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. "The whole thing is a set-up, it has to be," she said. "We are going to fight this trumped-up bullshit every step of the way and I am going to get you a full acquittal. There is no way some underage tramp with a vendetta is going to *touch* you as long as I'm around, and I don't care if she has the best fucking lawyers in the country." She spoke vehemently, but distractedly, her hands were still busy, pulling down his underwear and stroking his rigid member urgently.

It was more than Cromwell could stand. He surged forward, groaning, letting her guide him into her. Penny Parnell gasped in delight as his cock slid home. "Fuck me, honey," she cried, wrapping her long legs around him. "Fuck me with my boots on. I need you so bad!"

The sexy young lawyer was too hot to take it slow. The couple began to piston rapidly, Cromwell standing in front of the desk with his pants around his ankles, the blonde babe in bustier and boots lying on top of it. She slid back and forth on the polished desk as Cromwell thrust into her again and again, grunting with exertion and primal lust. She was tight, wet, wanting, and utterly divine. Cromwell held her by her knees, delighting in the feel of sleek nylons along her luscious legs above the heavy ankle boots.

"Hurry, sugar, hurry," Penny panted, urging him on. "I'm so close! You are so gooooood!" A light sheen of sweat glistened on her face. One pert breast popped out of her strapless top from the force of her oscillations across the desktop. The nipple pointed at the ceiling like a glazed raspberry.

Cromwell lifted both her legs to give himself a deeper thrust. He kissed the top of one boot. "Penny, Penny, we have to, (gasp) to go b-back into court in a minute. What are we (huff, huff) going to do?"

"Don't stop," Penny gasped, throwing back her long, loose blonde hair. "Don't ever stop. Almost there, almost there...aw shit, it's so good. Don't worry 'bout the huh! huh! case, sugar, I'll ask for... oh yes, ask for, for, forrrrrr a continuAAAANCE!" Her shout was so loud, as the orgasm overtook her, that the entire office undoubtedly became aware of her defense strategy. Cromwell felt her love tunnel spasm around his dick, and the sweet sensation drove him over the edge to his own release. With a series of deep grunts he came powerfully inside her.

There was little time for further discussion. By the time Cromwell and his sex-happy lawyer had cleaned up and gotten dressed again they were due back in court in a few minutes. Penny dashed across town with the same reckless speed as before. She abandoned the car in a stall reserved for judges.

Maybe it was the glow of sexual satisfaction that she radiated or the sexy new wiggle in her walk, but Penny turned even more heads as she clipped down the hallway to the courtroom. Cromwell found he had to look up at her. "Penny," he cried as they entered the court, "You forgot to take your boots off!"


Tawny and her lawyers had already returned. As before, Tawny refused to look up as Cromwell went by. The older lawyer looked at Penny though, in her mini-length suit and fancy platform boots, a little spunk trickling down her shapely leg. His face registered envy cloaked as disapproval. Penny stuck her tongue out at him.

The court appearance did not go very well. Penny entered a new plea of not guilty on Cromwell's behalf. She stood with her briefcase carefully positioned in front of her feet. Then she asked for a two-week continuance to prepare a proper defense.

Unfortunately, Tawny's lawyer objected. He told the judge how this matter was terribly painful for his client, how any delay constituted a continued affront to her rights to restitution, and how obvious delaying tactics on the part of the accused should not be indulged when they had turned down a very fair settlement at the last moment. He spoke eloquently, presenting clear and elegant arguments and citing cases without notes.

It was enough to persuade Judge Harris. "I'll give you one more day," she told Parnell flatly. "Then this trial begins without further delay." She banged down her gavel and stomped out of the room.

"What do we do now?" Cromwell asked, as the courtroom emptied around them.

Penny leaned close to him. "Well, since I'm already wearing my fuck-me boots ," she said reasonably, "I think you should take me back to my place, and drill me silly with that *gorgeous* big peter of yours." She sighed in anticipation.

"But the trial begins tomorrow! Shouldn't we be planning strategy?"

"Oh ... sure. We'll do that, too."


It was near dinnertime when Cromwell finally made his way home. Penny left him with a long, deep kiss at her door, promising to spend the evening preparing his case. She was still wearing her boots, but she had pretty much lost everything else.

Cromwell was nervous about the case. He hoped he could sleep that night. It helped that his wife met him at the door with a warm kiss and his favorite drink. If she smelled another woman on him or was distressed about his late arrival, she failed to mention it The house was spotless. Dinner was delicious. Afterward, Shana brought him another drink.

She was dressed like a high-school cheerleader. She wore knee socks, and there were little pom-poms on her gym shoes. He sipped his drink while she giggled giving him a long, satisfying backrub. Well, it began as a backrub. Cromwell hardly thought about the case at all that night.


"Penny, where is everybody?" whispered Cromwell, late the next morning. They were seated in the courtroom, waiting, along with Tawny's legal team and the rest of the court personnel, for the judge to arrive. Tawny wasn't there either. The junior lawyer on her side kept slipping out to make telephone calls. The older man looked irritated.

Penny said: "This is so unusual. Judge Harris runs a tight ship. She's never late." Penny had pinned her hair back in a long ponytail. Her gold silk blouse was as frilly as on the previous day. She was wearing a tight, wrap-around skirt of some stretchy material. The skirt ended well above the knee, but it was designed to flash a lot more leg every time she took a step. At least she had remembered to wear proper shoes today.

For someone who had stayed up most of the night working on his defense, Penny was in a remarkably good humor. She even offered Cromwell a little head, to calm him down before court. Cromwell declined politely. He didn't mention that he had already had two delightful bouts with his wife that morning. He had awakened to her invitation of a 69 and she had insisted on his banging her over a dining room chair "for luck" before she would let him out the door. Shana seemed to enjoy them as much as he did.

"I just want to get on with this," Cromwell grumbled.

"Oh, now you are nervous, aren't you sugar," Penny commiserated. "Here, let me help." She took his hand in hers and guided it to her lap. With her free hand she lifted the edge of her skirt a little and slid Cromwell's hand underneath.

"Penny, what are you --"

She smiled at him. "This way we can both relax. Here, up a little higher. Use your fingers. Oh, that's nice."

Cromwell looked around nervously. "Penny, we're in court for the lovagod, and you -- you're not wearing any --"

"They'd just get in your way," Penny whispered, guiding his hand.

Finally, Judge Harris walked into the courtroom. The judge was in much better spirits today. She didn't seem nearly as hurried. She strolled deliberately, almost lazily, to her place behind the bench, a peaceful smile playing on her features. She had changed her hairstyle. Her walk was different too. Cromwell only caught a glimpse as she walked by, but he could have sworn she was wearing spike heels.

"Good morning everybody," the judge said brightly. "Sorry I'm a bit tardy. Couldn't be helped. Are we ready to proceed?" Penny had released Cromwell's hand when she stood for the judge, but the moment she sat down she pulled it back again. Judge Harris waved a hand at Tawny's attorney. "Counselor, where is the plaintiff?"

"Your Honor, my client has not yet arrived in court, and as yet we have been unable to locate her. I suggest we recess until --"

"I suggest you find her," the judge cut him off. "Maybe she went home to mother." The few spectators tittered.

"Uh, no, apparently not, Your Honor, she isn't at home or at work or at the home of any known relatives. I think perhaps she just has a case of courtroom jitters."

"What does this mean?" Cromwell whispered to his lawyer.

"It means they're screwed," she answered, still guiding his fingers. "Oh, you're making me so wet." She squirmed in her chair.

Judge Harris said: "It is a principle of fundamental justice that the accused has a right to face his accuser. I am not prepared to proceed with this trial until Ms. Sleikbody is in the room." She tapped her fingernails on the bench top. They were painted bright red.

The lawyer began treading water. "Uh, in that case, Your Honor, I see no recourse but, uhm, to request a brief continuance, to give us time to, uh, locate my client."

The judge was not sympathetic. "Counselor," she said coolly, "yesterday it was you who would brook no delays in bringing this case to trial. It was you who argued so passionately that any delay was a denial of justice to your client. Well, that sword cuts both ways. If a delay is unacceptable to the complainant, it is equally unacceptable to the defendant. This poor man" -- she paused here to give Cromwell a protective smile -- "has been pestered enough by these unproved accusations. I will not tolerate any further harassment."

"But Your Honor, if we could just have --"

"Oh be quiet. The case is dismissed." She banged the gavel over the lawyer's shocked protests. She winked at Cromwell.

"Yes!" Penny enthused. "Oh yes, Yes, YES!" Her eyes were half closed. Cromwell wasn't sure if she was responding to the judge's decision or to the action of his fingers in her pussy. He felt it clinch before groaning and bathing his hand with girl juice.

"What does this mean?" Cromwell asked. "Am I clear?"

Penny didn't answer until her breathing was more normal. "Oh, they could, mmmmm, still pursue the, oohhhh my, criminal case, I suppose," Penny responded, thrusting her hips below the table, clearly going for round two, "but it has, has, oh yes right there, no hope of suc -succeeding after summmmmmary dismissal of the, oh, yes, oh, civillll suit. God, I think I'm about to commmme!" Without dislodging his questing fingers, she turned toward him, throwing one leg over his lap. She clenched her teeth and shuddered through a second orgasm right there in the courtroom.

"Oh, my word that turned out nicely," Penny sighed, when she could breath again. She licked Cromwell's ear. Then she buried his lips in a long, hot victory kiss. "Let's go some place and celebrate!"


Cromwell was in such a good mood the next morning that he was almost whistling. After an afternoon of mostly horizontal celebration with Penny, he had taken Shana out for dinner and dancing, something she hadn't been willing to do for years. His wife shared his excitement that the charges against him had been dropped, although she didn't seem very interested in what those charges had been. She was too busy trying to grope him on the dance floor, notwithstanding the stares that a woman in an extremely short skirt, skyscraper heels, an almost transparent blouse and no panties attracted. Where the Hell had she learned the lambada?


The chill in the office was replaced by warm acceptance. Everyone told him how relieved they were that his ordeal was over. Colleagues became friends again. One of them directed him toward the bulletin board, where he found a full-page retraction and abject apology from Tawny. She had posted the same message to everybody's e-mail, just to be sure.

Cromwell walked into his office. A scorchingly sexy young woman was lying on top of his desk, like a centrefold model posing for a photoshoot. "Ga!" said Cromwell.

It was Tawny.

"Good morning Mr. Cromwell," Tawny said in a little- girl voice. His former secretary was wearing a tight- fitting, leopard-pattern mini-dress so short it made her regular minis look prudish. The dress was low-cut across the bodice to reveal the top third her proud young breasts, so perfect and round they almost looked polished. Sleek, dark nylons graced her legs, capped off with tight, over-the-knee boots patterned in the same leopard-skin motif as the dress.

"Ga!" said Cromwell again. "I mean, T-Tawny. What are you doing here?"

Tawny was lying across the desk with her legs bent and her head elevated so her thick brown hair tumbled down. "I came back to apologize," she said contritely, "for everything. For everything I've done to you. I've been *sooo* bad. I guess I should be spanked." She swung her legs around and got to her feet gracefully, despite the challenging high heels on her animal-skin boots. "I'm sorry Mr. Cromwell, I really am. Please, can you ever forgive me?"

"Tawny, what are you talking about?" He struggled to avoid staring at her legs. He failed completely.

"It, it wasn't my idea, not at first," Tawny replied. "It was Klara." She referred to another office lovely, the one who had held the video camera. "S-she said that you were always, like looking at her, and flirting, and saying things, like you did with me, and, and if we made sure you had lots to drink at the party and kind of goaded you a bit, we could get it all on tape and, well, she said kind of get even and maybe get some money too." Tears threatened her mascara. "Oh, I don't know why I went along with it. I-I mean you've been so g-good to me, and, and you're such a wonderful man to work for, I was the luckiest girl in the world, and now I've gone and ruined it." She stood forlornly in the middle of his office, looking marvelous and miserable.

Cromwell said, "Tawny, it's over now. The case was dismissed." Her tight dress stopped a few inches past the curve of her bottom. Just looking at her legs was a sexual experience.

"Please, Mr. Cromwell, there's one more thing. I, I know I don't deserve it, and I won't complain if you say no, but, but, could I, maybe . . ." She hesitated, then blurted: "Could you give me my.. my old job back?" Her voice broke into sobbing.

This caught Cromwell by surprise. "You want to work as my secretary?"

She took a step toward him, hands clasped. "Oh yes, please, please, please. Let me be your secretary again, please Mr. Cromwell. I'll do a really super job, I promise. I'll take a big pay cut if you want. I'll make it up to you for what I've done. Just give me another chance, please?" She looked up at him tearfully. Cromwell felt his underwear stiffen.

"Well, I don't know, after all that..." Cromwell demurred.

"Please, Mr. Cromwell," Tawny gushed. "Let me be your secretary. I'll do anything if you'll let me work for you again." She stepped up close and slid her arms around his neck. She wore leopard- pattern gloves that came up past the elbow. "Please?"

Cromwell found himself speechless. Standing this close to her, with her dewy eyes gazing into his, he could smell a delicate perfume floating up from the deep shadows of her cleavage. He opened his mouth to say something. Tawny kissed him, suddenly, tenderly, as if taken by an impulse she couldn't resist.

"Please give me just one more chance," she whispered, her lips an inch from his. "I'll do lots more than just type." She kissed him again. "Look, let me show you how I'll take care of you." She was already sliding down, using his body for support as she sank gracefully to her boot-covered knees on the carpet. Cromwell just stared in amazement as his former secretary unzipped his pants, then reached in with a gloved hand to free his maleness. He was hard already.

"Mmmmm, yummy," Tawny whispered. She cupped him in one hand, lifting his rod like an offering toward her waiting mouth. She slid her crimson lips over him, somehow taking inch after inch of his cock into her mouth until her throat began to bulge. When had she learned how to do that?

Cromwell was beyond caring. He gasped in delight as her mouth and tongue worked magic. He glanced at the clock on his desk; it was not yet nine-thirty in the morning, yet Cromwell was receiving his second masterful blowjob of the day. As Tawny's head began to bob rhythmically up and down his shaft, he had already decided to take pity on the girl. In gratitude, she swallowed every drop.


"Of course I will. Thank you, R. J." Cromwell put down the telephone and announced: "It's official. From the first of next month I'm the newest vice-president."

From her place behind his chair, Tawny squealed with delight. "Oh, Crommie, that's wonderful!" She was dressed in one of her office outfits, a bright silver micro skirt coupled with a tight black sweater and tight black boots. She was standing behind Cromwell's high-backed chair, massaging his shoulders while he worked.

Cromwell put his feet up on the desk and contemplated how much life had improved in the last several months. His legal difficulties were almost forgotten. At home he had a loyal and insanely passionate wife so far removed from the cold demanding bitch she had been that they might have been two different species. After years of refusal even to discuss it, one night after some wine and an especially good fuck, *she* had brought up the question of children. Not IF, but how many she would like. Cromwell had talked her down to four, but suspected Shana was planning for several extra "accidents." After all, she had informed him the night she broached the subject, she was already pregnant with twins. A little embarrassed, she confessed to switching from birth control to fertility pills some months ago without telling him. "A sexy man like you *deserves* to have lots of children," she explained. His sexy wife's eagerness to make babies with him, and her newly kinky imagination both in bed and out, still amazed him. As Cromwell knowingly fucked his wife's pregnant pussy for the first time, she giggled that once her tummy began to swell with his baby, she'd REALLY be hot.

In the office he had a sex fantasy for a secretary and a sharp young lawyer who insisted on doing all his legal work pro bono. He grinned. Pro "boner" would be more accurate. It was the least she could do, she told him, for the man who had put that delightful little bulge in her tummy.

They had done it: that man in the club, the sweet voice on the telephone. He had no idea how they had done whatever they did, but the result was certainly satisfactory. More than satisfactory. Maybe he should let them know.

"Tawny, hand me the card file, will you." he said absently. Cromwell could have reached it himself, but Tawny's locomotion was always worth experiencing.

"Sure, Crommie" she replied. She wiggled around to retrieve the card file off the front of the desk. The little metallic skirt shimmered with the sway of her spreading hips. Cromwell admired the slender perfection of her legs, displayed so fetchingly by sheer nylons and stretch boots. The only condition Cromwell had imposed in return for her job was that Tawny dress to show off those marvelous legs. Her compliance, even now that she was expecting, exceeded Cromwell's expectations. Her milk-swollen tits jiggled delightfully as she handed him the card file.

Now, where was that card? As he flipped through the file Tawny sat on the desk and casually crossed her knees. The micro-miniskirt hiked up around her thighs. Cromwell was distracted. She had done the same thing yesterday, and ended up with her back on the desk and her high-heeled sandals pointing at the ceiling. He wondered how long into her pregnancy she could keep that up?

That sort of thing took Tawny's time away from her regular secretarial duties, but Cromwell wasn't concerned. Klara, Tawny's co-conspirator in the assault case, had happily volunteered to take over any extra work, in addition to her regular job. She was in the outer office at that moment, all business, catching up on correspondence. But Cromwell every time she could pry him away from Tawny long enough, Karla would give him a nice, "Can-you-forgive-me?" fuck. He had shown her there were no hard feeling with her own "All-is- forgiven" baby.

This change in attitude appeared just after Klara disappeared for two days without explanation. She worked diligently, only stopping every fifteen minutes or so to check her make-up. Ann, the third witness to Cromwell's indiscretion at the party had started wearing fishnet nylons to work. Since she began to show, she brought Cromwell fresh flowers and coffee every morning.

At last Cromwell found the card the man had given him. He flipped it over. The card was completely blank. If he looked very closely, Cromwell could make out the outline of one digit of the telephone number that hadn't yet faded away completely.

Cromwell chuckled. He tossed the card in the wastebasket. He looked at Tawny, preggy, leggy and luscious, posing like a pin-up girl on his desk. He cocked a finger at her. Smiling, she slipped off the desk and into his lap. "Let's celebrate, Mr. Vice- President," she cooed.


At that same moment, in another part of the city, a man about Cromwell's age was standing on a driving range. He had been there for some time. He was hitting golf balls everywhere, driving with far more energy than accuracy. His mind wasn't on his swing.

"Mr. Samson," said the man beside him suddenly, "suppose I were to tell you that divorce is not inevitable." He hit his ball cleanly and knocked it for a long drive. He watched it fall thoughtfully. "Suppose I were to tell you that not only would your wife forgive you for knocking up your mistress, she'd let you make her pregnant again, too?" He paused to tee up another ball. He was tall and wore glasses. "And that even your wife's sister could be persuaded to reverse the rather rude rebuff she gave you at last year's Christmas party. Wouldn't she look cute in maternity dresses?"

He leaned on his golf club and regarded the other man calmly. "Would that be worth something to you, Mr. Samson?"


"Judge Harris? Of course. Put her through, Karla," Cromwell replied trying to calm his breathing as Tawny's sat astride him, thrusting herself busily on his manhood. Her recent return from maternity leave found her as ardent as ever and, it appeared, she was eager to start on another. The timing wasn't bad as Klara would be delivering quite soon, Ann was nursing and Penny was about three months along with her second.


"Margaret! So good to hear from you. It's been a while."


"Huh? Again? So soon after the twins? Why that's wonderful news!"


"This one, too? Oh, Margaret, you devious girl. But you swore up and down you'd gone on the Pill this time! Tsk tsk!," Cromwell chuckled. "Next April, eh?"


"Well of course I think we should celebrate. I'll drop by the courthouse around four."


"Sorry, no sooner, baby. I'm, uh, deep into something right now." The spasms of Tawny's climaxing pussy had him on the brink of an inopportune orgasm. "I understand sweetheart. Hand in there, I'll come as soon as I can." (Tawny would see to that, he thought.) "You'll just have to make do with the vibrator until then."


"You have? Why, sure. I think Oliver would be a very appropriate name."

The End


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