Chapter 4

She draws her chair around the corner of your desk, is very important to her that you get a good view of r excellent legs, and she says "Mister Garnett...." Her red hair spreads around her head like a halo, and her voice is that of an angel. "I'm in terrible trouble, and you're the only person who can get me out of it." She allows two big tears to well up in those innocent green eyes. "You see, I know this man-Abie the Goat they call him-and right now he and some of his friends are in jail on a counterfeiting charge, and they're afraid the district attorney is going to throw the book at them. They told me to get the best criminal lawyer in town to get them off. Of course I came straight to you. "Of course," you echo softly.

"For an ordinary lawyer, it would be a real rough case. But for you, it'll be a breeze. I just know you can get them off without half trying."

She draws her skirt a bit higher and crosses her legs, showing a generous portion of white meat. The fan which you have set in action against the mid-afternoon heat ruffles the frills on her blouse, drawing your attention to them. She leans forward encouragingly, and her breasts strain maturely against the black gossamer fabric of her shirtwaist, so cool and soft against the crisp white tailored suit. You have to give her credit, she has a quick eye for the direction of your gaze, and she's anxious to be as obliging as she can. You look far into her blouse through the transparent material. The two melons on display are really ripe. These well-kept molls have what it takes and know how to dress it up.

Slowly, deliberately, you light a cigarette. You don't offer angel-face one. If she wants a cigarette, she can smoke her own. Garnett's Law: "Never do anything for anybody unless you're sure that the profit derived from your generosity will far exceed the expenditure."

You lean back in your chair and assume a business-like expression. "Of course," you say, "I'll have to speak to your pals before I can agree to defend them. Then, if I decide to take the case, I'll want a ten thousand dollar retainer plus two hundred a day and expenses for every day I spend in court. And, no matter what I decide to do, I'll want another hundred for today's conference and for my visit with your boyfriend."

The tears are back, for real this time. Her lower lip quivers and her voice trembles as she says: "He's not my boyfriend, and I haven't got that kind of dough. Not now. Once you get Abie off, I can pay you whatever you want. But now ... a hundred bills is all I've got in the world."

You study her face for a minute, watching the silence grating on her nerves. Then you says, "If he's not your boyfriend, just what is your relationship to Abie the Goat?"

"Relationship?" she echoes, like she's never heard the word before. "Why there is no relationship between me and Abie. He's just somebody I know, like an acquaintance. You don't think that I'd get involved with anybody like a counterfeiter, do you?'

What you are thinking about her right now would melt even this little ice cube's composure. But you're in a kindly mood, so you don't say anything; you just smile.

"Please, Mr. Garnett, you must believe me. My friends are all very high class types. I don't ordinarily have anything to do with people such as Abie the Goat. I certainly wouldn't have even spoken to him if I had known what kind of person he was. But I must get him off. I just must. It's a matter of life and death!" Her eyes widen as she realizes she's said too much.

You give her another minute of silence and then you ask, keeping your voice very low, "Whose life ... of death?"

"Mine." Her own voice is scarcely audible above the whirring of the fan. It's her turn at the silence bit. She waits for more than a minute before she says: "All right, I'll tell you the whole thing. You see, I met Abie through my room-mate. Of course, like I said before, I didn't know he was mixed up in the counterfeiting business, honest I didn't. Anyway, I went out with him a couple of times, just for drinks and laughs, that's all. This was about a month ago. The first time I saw him, I mean. Then, after the couple of times we went out together, he stopped calling. Well, I didn't think anything of it, except maybe he didn't think too much more of me than I did of him. He wasn't my type, you see."

Her glance makes it very clear that you are her type. How flattering.

"Anyway," she goes on, 'Td actually forgotten all about him until yesterday, when this man came to see me. A man Td never seen before. He said he was a friend of Abie the Goat's, and that Abie and some other guys were in jail on this counterfeiting rap."

By now her high-class pretensions have fallen by the wayside, and you notice with inner amusement how easily she has slipped into a vernacular she claims to know nothing about. She is saying: "He told me that Abie said to get him a lawyer, the best there is. If I didn't, the man said, I'd be killed. So you see, Mr. Garnett, my life is at stake. And you're the only person who can save it." She gazes at you appealingly, and the skirt slips a little higher. "I know what a mess I've gotten into. I shoud've been more careful about going out with a man I didn't know anything about. I've been a very foolish girl. You know, if my daddy were alive today, he'd probably spank me for my foolishness, big as I am."

"So you think you ought to be spanked?' You take a final drag from your cigarette and glance along the line from her knee to her hip, the full line of her nicely rounded thigh. Her skirt is drawn tight along the upper part of it; it looks as though a hand applied there would cause a fine, resounding smack.

"Don't you?' she asks you coyly. She watches you grinding out your cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray, and a little smile comes to her lips. That smile would play hell with a jury ... an all-male jury, of course.

"So you want me to be the big, understanding, gently reproving daddy, do you? You wouldn't by any chance be trying to arrange for my services on the promise of how warm that little fanny of yours can get, would you?"

You reach out suddenly and pinch her thigh. She doesn't move her leg, but she makes her eyes bigger. You can see her calculating whether to register coy surprise or lascivious promise. Her purse drops to the floor and she reaches to pick it up, stretching her leg out toward you. You feel the, silk clad muscles under your hand, and you run the hand under her skirt. "Come here and sit on my lap."

She's certainly prompt. Her buttocks spread comfortably on your thighs, and she puts one arm around your neck, pressing her breasts against your chest. Your hand fits around one of her buttocks and squeezes. She's pleasantly soft.

Next, you feel along her hip and down her thigh to the knee. You raise her skirt and look at the milky prettiness of her legs, the laciness of her high-cut panties and the swelling temptation which they mask. You open her blouse and remove one of her breasts from the brassiere. You fondle it for a moment, then tuck it back into its cradle.

"I'm going to spank you just the way your daddy would," you tell her. You remove her gently from your lap, and brush the papers from the desk into the top drawer. "Come on, lift your skirt"

You look at her standing there, placidly holding her skirt up, awaiting your pleasure. She isn't a bit frightened. When they put her together, they left out fright and put in a double portion of shrewd whorishness.

You make her turn around so that you can see your target. And quite a target it is. Just the way you like them. Two full, white globes. A beautifully matched set. This is going to be even more fun than you'd thought.

You lock the door. Then you flip on the intercom and tell Jackson that you don't want to be disturbed. You lean casually against the desk and watch her standing there, her skirt still up around her hips. You tell her to take her panties part-way down. You figure she'd take them off and hang them out the window if you asked her to. But there's no necessity for that. And you're a reasonable man.

She complies with your request, and you tell her to bend over the desk. She places her head on her purse and grasps the edges of the desk with her hands, so that her buttocks rise until they're well within your reach. You fondle them in turn, then slap them briskly with your whole palm. "Ooooooh!"

Not coyness, but shock. You didn't hurt her, but you did surprise the hell out of her. You point out to her the impracticality of yelling in an attorney's office, and right away she's apologetic. She promises to be quiet. She won't make the slightest sound, she says. She knows that she deserves a spanking, she says. You resume.

The lace panties flutter. Her heels fly up. She reacts very nicely to a spanking. You give it to her mildly, not really hurting her. But the slaps do sting a bit-you can tell from the bright red splotches that are appearing on her white, satiny skin.

You spank her for a long time because, you tell her, she has been a very bad girl this time. Fun for the feebleminded, you think. And then you notice that your penis is rapidly hardening. Funny that it should be sexually exciting to paddle a girl's bottom. But you like the idea of having a girl whom you've known less than twenty minutes so much under your power that you can slap her bare bottom.

She has stopped yelling, just as she said she would. But she sucks her breath in hard each time your hand makes contact with her flesh. She doesn't particularly care for spanking, but she's far too old a hand at high-class whoring to complain, especially since she's extremely anxious to please you.

You don't disappoint the lady. You unbutton your trousers and take out what's inside. The large, up-thrust instrument looks a little ridiculous against your well-creased trousers and fitted jacket.

She looks at it and at you. You tell her to lie down again. She does, and you come up behind her, slapping your rigid tool gently against her buttocks. She seems to like the feel of it, for she twists her head back and gives you a nice, lewd wink. What a sweet little tart she is.

You look at the delightful little cavern between her legs and insert a finger in it. She appears to like that, too., She wriggles and clutches the edges of the desk wildly. Well, this is a day of new experiences. You've heated up a pro.

You rub the tip of your organ between her buttocks, then slide it gently between her legs. Now she really wants it. She shoves her buttocks back toward you, reaching for it with gaping lips. You slide the tip of the organ between them and it disappears practically before you know what's happening. Well, what do you know? An educated vagina. Verily, there's nothing like professional work ... all too rare these days.

She lets out her breath in a lascivious gasp. Suddenly she giggles. "Daddy would never have done anything like this to me."

You're not so sure about that, but you don't see any reason to insult the memory of the dead, so you keep your lip buttoned and concentrate on what you're doing. You don't really have to concentrate, though; just relax and enjoy it. She's doing enough work for both of you. She's rotating those buttocks as though they were made of rubber, giving it to you wide open. She isn't holding back a thing. You're in her as far as anybody has ever been, and if you go much farther you'll probably come out her throat.

"If you want me to do anything else," she gasps, "just tell me, and I'll do it. Do you want to see me again tonight? Or any other time? You can have me like this, or give it to me any way you like."

She means it literally-Any way. Snap it up, chum, it's a bona fide offer. Spank her, make love to her, wipe your feet on her if you want to. Her life is on the line and she'll pay to the best of her ability in the only coin she's got. And the best of her ability is damn good.

You draw her buttocks against you, and you feel yourself going even farther inside her than you'd thought you could. You hold her hips with one hand and reach around with the other to tickle her. She's really giving you her all now. She rolls and groans. It might be an act, but if so, it's an excellent one. Rotate your weapon inside its lovely, warm, wet sheath, and watch the fan blow the hair across the back of her neck.

Suddenly everything gets hazy and dark. You stop noticing things. In ... in ... IN!! That did it! The warmth wells up inside you. This time you're going to explode for sure. Your fluid floods her ... it's all over.

You drop into a chair. Somehow you don't feel much like standing-or doing anything else, for that matter. She looks at you as though asking permission to let her skirt drop. You nod.

The telephone rings.

Perfect timing

You motion her to get on her knees and kiss your almost-limp organ. Then you pick up the receiver.

"This is Clara Reeves," a clear voice says.

You can see her in your mind's eye, and you amuse yourself imagining the expression on her face if she could see you now, with a petite redhead delicately washing your parts with her little pink tongue.

"I just got a call from a woman," the voice continues. "She says the ring belongs to a friend of hers. She wants me to meet her for tea at the Clive Hotel. I said I'd be there at four."

"Fine. A woman, eh? Well, try to make friends with her. And under no circumstances give her the ring until you've found out something about her-and her friend. Get her to tell you where she lives, then check it in a phone book."

The girl on the floor is running her tongue along your shaft, holding it like an asparagus stalk in her fingers and nibbling at the tip. She puts her mouth full on it and kisses it, smiling up at you. We aim to please, the smile says.

"Don't worry," the voice on the phone assures you. "I'm not simply going to hand the ring over. And I'll see you tonight to tell you what happens, if-if I come back alive."

You smile.

She says: "Will you come to the house again-tonight-about ten?"

The redhead is taking it in her mouth, pressing her rouged lips on the bare flesh. Her lipstick is marking your organ. That's fun.

She squeezes you between the legs and tickles you with one well-manicured finger. You slide forward in the seat and motion for her to pull your trousers down.

Now she runs her finger down the groove between your buttocks. You slide forward even more, letting her slip her forefinger into the hole. Wondering how much longer you'll be able to control your voice, you say into the phone: "Yes, I'll come up to the house. And don't worry. You'll come back alive. Just be careful."

She tells you she will be, and you tell her that you've got to run. She hangs up and you do-likewise.

The redhead is still kneeling at your feet, dragging her mouth up on your organ and pressing it down with an expert side-to-side movement of her head. You let your mind go, and your body becomes one mass of sensation.

She goes faster and faster, and your hips begin to jerk spasmodically. She squeezes and presses your buttocks, and her tongue flicks around the tip of your shaft in rapid circles. "GOD...."

You open your eyes. She is leisurely cleaning you off with her tongue.

You say: "You might as well get up now."

"You don't want to do anything more?"

"No. We've done everything we're going to do, toots. Now fix yourself up so you can make a handsome exit."

She stands and puts on her panties. She straightens out her skirt and adjusts the ruffles on her blouse. She takes a gold make-up kit and a mirror from her purse, and works small miracles with them. She pins back her hair into an identical facsimile of the coiffeur she had had when she came in. "I feel so much better about everything now," she says casually. "I feel just the way I used to when I'd been naughty and had something on my conscience for a long time, and then daddy gave me a good spanking and I felt all ... well, forgiven and everything." Just the right note. You have to give her credit.

"How soon do you expect to need another spanking?' you ask.

"As soon as you think I need one," she says.

"So it's a permanent arrangement? I just go on spoiling you and punishing you in whatever other ways I see fit for as long as I see fit. Is that it?"

"It can be that kind of an arrangement if that's what you want."

"No. I think you've been punished enough."

You see the surprise in her eyes. She hadn't thought it would be that easy. She's almost afraid to ask, but she knows she must: "And Abie the Goat? You'll see him? You'll take the case?'

"Don't worry your pretty red head about it. I'll take care of it."

She pecks you on the cheek and turns to go. "Haven't you forgotten something?' you ask. "What?'

"The hundred bucks I told you it would cost you for the conferences with you and Abie the Goat."

She blanches. She had thought she had you hooked. "But I told you, a hundred dollars is all the money I have. I can't just give you all of it."

"All right, make it fifty, then. After all, you have shown me how really sorry you are that you got involved in all this. But I want it now. Cash."

By this time she's recovered her poise. She doesn't bat an eyelash. Opening her purse, she takes out a roll of tens and counts off five of them. As she hands them to you, she even manages a smile. She's a realist, this girl. She knows that a fifty buck fee for a conference with the best criminal lawyer around is quite a bargain. As she starts to leave the office you goose her and she emits a coy, girlish giggle that any virgin would be proud to call her own.

"Goodbye ... daddy," she says and walks undulatingly out of your life.

You flip the intercom switch and tell Jackson you want to see him in your office. When he comes in you tell him to call the Tombs and get a line on a forgery pick-up. Alias Abie the Goat. "Then," you tell him, "call Judge Harwin's residence and get his son on the phone. Tell the kid I want him here nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I've got a case for him."

You're very pleased with yourself. In one fell swoop, you get a broad out of your hair and you repay the judge's favor. Very clever. You always like to throw the cases you won't touch to struggling young lawyers, especially ones like the judge's son, who don't need the money but can use the court experience. And young Harwin won't have to worry about damaging his rep when he loses the case, 'cause he hasn't been around long enough to build up a rep to lose.

All in all, a very satisfactory solution. You smile as you imagine the expression on the hooker's face when she looks for you in court and sees Harwin Jr. instead. Too bad. But it's her own fault. She's certainly been around long enough to know that you shouldn't play the game if you haven't got the chips. Abie the Goat! How could the great Garnett ever defend a goon with a moniker like Abie the Goat?