Chapter 3
The wife of the Wheeling County judge immediately regretted that she'd acted on instinct; that she'd screamed loud enough to attract the attention of the partying judges in the next room and cause them to rush drunkenly to her aid.
Audrey married Archer Smith-Turner when he was a struggling young lawyer who showed a marked talent at acting in the Little Theater Group, but not much ability in the courtroom. It was Audrey Smith-Turner who did the most toward furthering her husband's goals in life by shoring him up when he was down, seeing to it that he didn't turn to the bottle when he was depressed, and even helping him with difficult cases by using her shrewd mind to his advantage.
Until he became fascinated with pretty young Audrey, Archer had not really liked the idea of being an attorney. As a young man, his parents insisted that he become a doctor or a lawyer. His family before him had always been in a profession, they kept reminding him. And if young Archie thought he was going to be a ne'er-do-well, he certainly had better think again. They had a position to maintain in the community, and if he knew what was good for him he'd uphold that position.
Archie chose lawyering over doctoring as the lesser of two evils. He fainted at the sight of blood and tended toward hypochondria, a condition that would have kept him in a state of chronic illness if he'd gone into medicine. All he really wanted to do was screw all the pretty girls in town, drink all the booze available, and in his spare time, act in the Little Theater productions, preferably in Shakespearean roles. His parents approved of lovely Audrey, who came from a good family, but not a better family than their own. Her father was a veterinarian. Shortly after the marriage, Archer's mother had a talk with his bride.
"Archie is a good boy, but he hasn't as much backbone as he ought to have. But he's got a good mind, and all he really needs is the guidance of a good woman to get him where he ought to go in life." Then the older woman smiled and told her new daughter-in-law a closely-kept family secret. "Archie doesn't get his lackadaisical behavior from a stranger, Audrey. His father was totally without direction until I married him and took a hand in his career. And just look at him now! One of the most respected men in the community! Now, Audrey, you can do the same thing for Archie, too. And I'll tell you just exactly how to do what's best for him."
As the years passed, Archie became fairly famous for his astute courtroom procedure. His law office was always filled with people seeking his advice. Audrey decided, at about the time their children were in high school, that Archie would make a fine judge, so she took steps to make him one. He didn't protest much, and after a while he believed seeking the judgeship was his idea. He'd been a good husband, except for that one sticky affair he'd had with a fat girl named Betty Jean, who had come to him about a divorce. Audrey had been both appalled and heartsick. She made short shrift of the affair, and ever since then, Archie had been well-behaved.
During the mind-bending moment when Mrs. Smith-Turner walked into the hotel room she shared with her husband, and the few confusing seconds shortly after when she faced the dark-haired vixen, Archie's affair with fat Betty Jean came full-blown into Audrey's mind, which probably had something to do with her rush of first panic. But she was not a woman who usually acted on impulse, and she was capable of covering errors with the speed of lightning.
By the time the carousing judges from next door entered the room, Audrey had the situation in control. She'd thrown the bedspread over Archie's naked body and removed his billfold from the floor to the night table. Then she'd glanced quickly about the room to make sure no other evidence of Archie's imprudence was lying about.
Speaking rapidly, she explained that she'd come upon a young woman in the process of stealing her husband's money. "She had his watch in her hands when I walked in, but I managed to get it," she added triumphantly. Then, with a gentle and wifely smile, she added that Archie had no doubt had too much to drink. "Otherwise, he'd have locked the door while I went to see the Rockettes with Mildred Gibson."
"No," she answered when one of the men asked if anything was missing. "The little thief didn't get to steal anything. But I think we'd better call downstairs and make a complaint."
When the house detective came up to the room, Audrey described the alleged thief as a rather small girl, about her own size. "She had short, curly dark hair and was wearing a yellow dress. A mini-dress. And she looked very young, too, about fifteen."
Archie snored complacently through the session with the house detective. "The girl is probably blocks away from here by now," said Audrey. "But of course, that's New York for you."
The detective agreed that the girl, caught in the act, was probably long gone by then, but he said he'd double their security. "You people should make sure your doors are locked. The hotel can't be responsible for theft when you don't take precautions to prevent it."
The judges from next door, who had stayed in the room with Audrey were a little disgruntled, but since the thief hadn't really taken anything they decided to stay where they were for the balance of the convention, even though one of them kept saying they should all leave immediately.
When she had closed the door on all her loyal supporters, Audrey went over to the bed and yanked the spread away so she could inspect her husband's limp cock. She bent down and sniffed, but had to admit she smelled no revealing scent of pussy. Still, those white, flaky traces on his inner thighs were come, or she'd never seen come in her life. And the film of vaseline that still remained on his balls and penis was something else again. "Archie," she said softly.
"Set 'em up in the other alley," said Archie.
Mrs. Smith-Turner's rage turned icy. She'd gotten a whiff of his mouth, which smelled like perfume, as well as an elusive odor she connected with sex, although it wasn't unpleasant. The curly dark-blonde hair that clung to the side of his mouth was the real sizzler, though. She held the tell-tale pussy hair between her index finger and thumb for a moment while she steamed inwardly. Before she spoke again, she put it carefully into a hotel-stationery envelope and wrote the date on it, sealed it and dropped it into her purse. Divorce was probably not in her future, but it was always good to be prepared. Her purse snapped together in a business-like way when she closed it before she went back to stand over her husband. She was not going to let the sleeping judge lie. A glass of ice water in his face aroused him sufficiently.
"You had a woman in this room while Mildred Gibson and I went to see the Rockettes," said Audrey.
"Dear heart," said the judge. "How can you make such vile accusations? I am a sick man." He groaned to prove it and tried to roll over in the bed, kind of burrow into the sodden pillow where most of the ice water fell after it ran off his face.
"Don't you try weaseling out of this, Archie," said Audrey as she yanked him to a sitting position by the hair of his head. "And I'm not interested in flowery phrases, either. You had a whore in this room!"
"But I-"
"I saw her!"
"Most imprudent of me."
"Imprudent!" Audrey wasn't raising her voice. "How do you think I felt? If I hadn't acted quickly to save your reputation, you'd never stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting on the congressional ticket next year. You know very well that the party boss from back home is here at the convention. Oh, Archie, I could just cry!"
"Party boss, shit. Last I saw of him, he had a woman and they were heading for his room. You don't think they were going to play a hand of cards, do you? He can't say a thing about me."
"Listen, he can get out and screw around with New York whores if he wants to and get away with it, Archie. But you can't! Nobody gets elected to Congress from our state unless they have a spotless reputation! He sees to that. And you're a shoo-in! Oh! After all my hard work, Archie, how could you do this to me?"
"Darling girl, I was in a state of inebriation and I mistakenly thought she was you! I was in paradise because at last you were going to let me eat your darling pussy." Archie's truthful statement did not impress Audrey. His Honor spent an uncomfortable night under the tongue, and not in the context that he would have preferred.
The coffee shop on the ground floor of the hotel was doing a record-breaking business, considering the lateness of the hour. Waitresses were swift and efficient, but hard pressed to keep up with the demands of all those hungry judges who were stopping in for a bite to eat before they retired for the night, after being out on the town. Short-order cooks sweated and swore as they put together steak sandwiches, cheeseburgers, club sandwiches, heros, and countless platters of ham and eggs.
The single men in the coffee shop outnumbered the single women five to one.
A morose-looking judge from Iowa walked along the street with a new acquaintance, a fellow judge from Illinois. They'd been talking politics. The Illinois man was seriously trying to make his point. He was a conservative and he'd just found out that the Iowa magistrate was a liberal. "I had you figured for a man of vision and common sense," he said as they neared the coffee shop. "I tell you, we've got to get people back to work and off the welfare rolls. Look at what happened here in New York. Certainly management helped to bankrupt the city, but the leeches who won't work are far more responsible than mismanagement. We've got the same thing up in Cook County. I guess you know we're on shaky grounds there. And it's the same old thing, freeloaders. As poor as we are down in my part of the state, we have our share of welfare recipients, but it isn't nearly as bad as up north."
The tall slender man from Iowa smiled. The Illinois magistrate was encouraged to go on with his dissertation, because it was the first time he'd seen Kenneth Jones smile all night long. "What the nation has to do is to find some way to make these lazy people get off their asses and-"
"Judge," interrupted The Honorable Kenneth Jones from Iowa, "did you ever have a black woman?"
"No, I wouldn't touch one with a ten-foot pole. As I was saying-"
"I think that's the sweetest-looking pussy I've ever seen in my life." The man from Iowa watched with obvious appreciation as a lush black girl swung into the coffee shop. "Let's stop in for a littie something, judge. I'm starving."
"She's a New York hustler," said the Illinois man. "I can tell by looking."
"I'm still hungry."
"So am I, but you want to stay away from these prostitutes."
"We can still go in and get something to eat. I've never been able to drink much without eating afterwards. Wake up with a bad hangover."
"I never paid for sex in my life," answered the judge from Illinois. "There are plenty of women out on the prowl, eager to go to bed with a presentable man."
They found a seat at a table for two that was loaded down with dirty dishes. A busboy came and dumped them into a deep tray with a careless clatter of crockery and jangle of silverware. "Busy night," he said by way of apology when a stray cup grazed the Iowa judge's shoulder.
A saucy little red-haired girl came to take their order. They had to shout above the laughter and talk in the place as well as the constant noise of orders being called in and served. "You judges sure do eat a lot," the waitress screamed into Bradford Busby's ear. "I can tell you're at the convention on account of your name tag. From Illinois, huh?"
He nodded stiffly.
"That's a long way from here. I'd like to go there some day, though, just to see what it's like." Her eyes lingered on his face, which was handsome as any motion picture star's. She smiled invitingly. "Why don't you put me in your pocket and take me home with you, huh?"
Bradford Busby smiled back at her. The frost in his penetrating dark eyes melted visibly under the girl's obvious interest. She turned a pleasant but business-like smile on Judge Jones. He didn't notice because he was too busy looking at the delectable black girl, who had seated herself at the counter with a seductive display of legs. He ordered ham and eggs, because he hadn't wanted to take his eyes off the beautiful girl long enough to glance at the menu.
Busby leaned forward. "I bet I could take that little charmer of a waitress to bed if I wanted to."
Jones reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the black girl. "Why don't you?"
"Because I'm a married man, that's why." The answer was sharp.
"Even married men like to screw. You ever screw your wife?"
"That's a hell of a thing to say."
"Why?" Jones kept looking at the black girl, who was having coffee. She finally looked his way, and her smile was intriguing. She moved slightly on the stool and it was a highly sensuous movement. Jones left ,his booth and went over there, where he spoke softly, but directly into her ear. "Room 437."
"Sure, honey," answered the girl.
He gave her his key, knowing he could get a duplicate at the desk. Back at the booth, he gathered his features into a melancholy expression that was habitual with him. To Busby, he said, "You were wrong. She's waiting for her husband."
"Bullshit," answered Busby. "If she's waiting for her husband, he's probably a pimp. I'd hate to see you get mixed up with a New York hooker, Jones. I'm glad she turned you down."
"That's the breaks," said Jones.
"What I'm going to do is find out when that redheaded waitress gets off work," announced Busby. "Why don't you play up to that little blonde over there? The one serving the order of fried chicken to that couple. I bet she'd be tickled to screw a judge. And let me tell you, friend, you won't have to pay for it."
Busby arranged to have a drink with the red-haired waitress when she got off work, which she said would be within half an hour. She agreed to come to his room. He winked broadly at Jones, who waited until the girl he wanted left the coffee shop before he ambled toward the lobby entrance and said he'd left his key in his room.
She said her name was Georgia, and she was born and brought up in Manhattan. Jones found her more exciting than any woman he'd ever seen before. Her voice was vibrant, but at the same time gentle. She wore her hair in a mass of tiny braids that were intertwined, which showed off the beautiful shape of her head as well as her features to good advantage. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes enormous, and her mouth expressive as she composed herself across the room from him, obviously very much at ease. "Are you interested in something special, honey?"
"Everything special," answered Jones.
"I'm not cheap, but I'm worth the price."
He waved a hand in the air. "I'll pay it. Whatever it is." His eyes were on her mellow breasts. They stuck out like grapefruit, the nipples visible under the fabric of her dress. "You're not wearing a brassiere."
"Don't have to, sugar. Not yet."
"Stand up and take your dress off. I want to see your breasts naked."
"Sure, honey." She stood and pulled the dress over her head to reveal nothing but smooth brown skin underneath. Jones licked his lips before he moved in on her. He buried his sad face between her sumptuous breasts for a long moment before he left her long enough to remove his clothes.
Judge Jones adored all women. He loved his wife of thirty years beyond reason, idolized his mother, and adored his two daughters. He and his wife had a reasonably good sex life. She was attractive and looked much closer to forty than her fifty-five years. When Jones was home he found it difficult to indulge in his passionate desire to have sex a minimum of three times within a twenty-four-hour period. His wife was still exciting to him, but she wasn't capable of accepting his passionate nature. He often thought he was oversexed to a great degree, which caused him considerable concern and contributed to his habitual expression of melancholy. His wife had never called him a sex maniac, but about six months after they were married she began to show a marked weight loss and developed dark circles under her eyes. Since Jones was a considerate man, he realized he was too much for her, and hoped to get over his driving urge to screw so often. He never did, though, and since he was ambitious as well as well--liked and respected in the community, he seldom gave in to his wild nature when at home. Instead, he discreetly excused himself when he was in the company of others, when the need to relieve himself of a load came over him. He realized his friends, co-workers and acquaintances probably thought he had a problem with his bladder. But sometimes he just had to find a bathroom and masturbate. If he didn't, he was afraid he might rape somebody some day-like the minister's wife, or his secretary, or any woman he saw on the street who struck his fancy-and almost all of them did. Sometimes he even found himself involved in an erotic fantasy in which he made love to both his college student daughters, something that terrified him when it happened, but came back with alarming frequency, mostly at unsuitable moments. Like during a particularly uninteresting court case, for instance. He was nearing sixty, and often hoped he'd get to the age where he'd simmer down a little in the sex department, but no sign of a drop down to normal was apparent. He felt like an aging Portnoy, torn between the desire to behave and feel like the figure of importance and respect he represented in his community, and the raging needs of his ready cock.
Georgia represented a number of the things he had always wanted. As a child, Judge Jones grew up in the deep south, and his mother didn't consider it lady-like to nurse her own babies. As a result, His Honor dreamed nostalgically of big, generous brown breasts with hard nipples. He adored the sight of brown skin, delighted in the texture of it, which made him feel loved and secure in that love. His wife made him feel loved and secure too, but only when he was making love to her ... but that was the thing. The only time he felt happy and truly content was when he was either about to fuck, actually doing it, or found himself floating in that delirious state of just having done it.
His fingers parted her incredibly soft cunt lips and his middle one dipped into the slick juices. His cock responded by growing two full inches and throbbing with hot anticipation. "You're as sexy as you look, Georgia," he murmured.
"You turn me on, honey, and that's a fact."
He believed her. Her eyes were big, and almost tearful with desire. He'd been with a lot of women who pretended a passion they didn't feel, including his wife sometimes, when she wanted to please him but didn't really need it for herself. So he knew all about the difference between the way an excited pussy feels and one that just wants to be left in peace. Georgia's pulsated. Her inner channel sucked at his finger. He grazed her clit with his thumb and felt it flutter. Her nipples were dark red-brown and puckered enchantingly all around the tips that stuck out at least half an inch. Her body humped and her eyes rolled. "Fuck me," she breathed into his neck. "Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"
The Honorable Kenneth Jones mounted quickly. His hard cock sought out Georgia's pulsating little pussy, and he groaned with pleasure as he drove it in there all the way to his throbbing, roiling balls. When he said, "I love you, Georgia," he wasn't lying. At the moment, he loved her very much.
She charged him fifty dollars, but he gave her another fifty out of gratitude, so she said she'd come back in the morning. But then she stretched out to rest a bit before she had to leave, and decided to spend the night.
The red-haired waitress was named Cindy. She was twenty-one years old, an art major at Pratt and a full-time waitress. The following year she planned to go to Ireland to visit her mother's people, but she was having a hard time saving the necessary funds for the trip. All night long she'd watched the street hookers parade around and make marks. They often came into the coffee shop for a quick cup of coffee to make contact, too. She knew the regulars from those who came for the convention, and even though she'd never done it before, she'd made up her mind she was going to take advantage of the judges' convention to pick up a few dollars toward her trip.
Cindy was just a little more determined than she was afraid, but a lot of things scared her. Her boy friend wouldn't like it if he found out, for one thing. For another, she didn't feel very capable when it came to sex. It had never done much of anything for her, although she didn't find it unpleasant, not even with her boy friend. Of course, she'd never told him she preferred to get herself off, because she was in love with him a little. To tell him the truth would hurt his feelings, and even though she'd been an easy lay since she was fourteen, she wasn't all that attractive to men, and she wanted to keep him. But the most important thing that kept her from coming right out and telling one of those judges that she was available for a price was the manager.
He was a fat, silly-acting young man of around thirty who liked boys. Every day he warned all the waitresses that they'd be fired on the spot if he found out they dated any of the hotel guests. But when she saw him playing up to a wizened little old judge from some western state, Cindy decided to hell with the manager and his threats. She suspected that he was going to suck the old man's cock for him, or at least let the judge fuck him in the ass, so she figured she had the right to do her thing, too. Anyway, it was safe. She saw the manager mince toward the lobby entrance shortly after that dried-up looking old judge left the coffee shop. When she came on to the Illinois magistrate, she was still a little unsure of herself, but knew it was then or never. All she hoped was that she'd satisfy the stern-looking man, and that she wouldn't have any trouble getting the money.
He stiffed her on the tip, which made her have a few more doubts about him, but before he left she agreed all over again to come to his room. He told her to knock three times. She hoped he'd make up for the tip when he paid her for screwing him.
As soon as she was off work, Cindy ran up all seven flights of stairs, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. Uppermost on her mind was the fear of getting caught where she wasn't supposed to be. She couldn't afford to lose her job.
As soon as she was in Busby's room, Cindy felt even more unsure about the whole thing. He talked to her about what was wrong with the country. "I don't see why everyone can't see this moral decay within the confines of our United States and I hope you understand-in fact, I'm sure you aren't one of those young people who make up the masses of the great unemployed. That's the trouble in a nutshell. Today's young people don't want to work for a living, and I'm glad to see that you're willing to support yourself by doing honest labor. And going to school to make something of yourself. People have gotten away from the churches, and when that happens the backbone of a nation begins to deteriorate." While he lectured, he was taking his clothes off, which he did as he walked briskly around the room. When he was naked, he said, "Well, I think we'd better get to it, don't you?"
"But you said we'd have a drink." It struck her that he certainly was a strange kind of man, as well as a stingy one. The bottle was right there, and since he didn't know yet that he was going to pay for fucking her, she felt the least he ought to do was offer her the drink he'd promised.
"Oh, yes. Excuse me." He had a shot glass that held a double, but he was careful to pour a single for her. Exact as any housewife measuring out the ingredients for a cake, he didn't let the cheap brand of bourbon get any higher than the single-mark on the shot glass. And he didn't have anything to mix with it but water, either. Again, she remembered the tip he didn't leave.
"You're such a handsome man," she breathed after she downed the burning booze. It almost made her gag. It was true, though, that he was handsome. Yet there was something about his face that turned her off, and she wished she'd played up to the sad-looking judge who had sat with him in the booth. But then she remembered how the other man had been so taken with the beautiful black hooker, and realized she couldn't have made it with him anyway. Still ... she wished circumstances had been different. This very good-looking man with his slender body that appeared in excellent shape wasn't going to like it when she asked for money. She sensed that he expected a free ride, that he was against prostitution on the same grounds that he was against everything else that didn't fit in with his structured view of how things should be. His talk about religion and morality confused her. She wondered how he could accept his desire to fuck-how he equated it in his understanding of right or wrong. He was a married man, because he wore a wedding band.
"You're a nice looking girl," he answered the compliment she'd given him. "A little on the thin side, but I guess waitress work is hard. Of course you're lucky there. Insurance companies keep telling us that we're healthier and live longer if we keep thin. My wife is a little on the heavy side. She's a self-indulgent woman." His mouth, the way he drew it downward, showed how much he disapproved of anybody who was self-indulgent. "But I don't believe in divorce. The family must remain sacred to our nation if we're to survive. Besides, I couldn't possible afford a divorce, because of the income bracket I'm in. Being married saves money, at least. She'd ask for over half of all I've made if we divorced. Get on the bed."
She got on the bed and realized that fucking was just like everything else to Bradford Busby. A necessity and a physical release, but not something he particularly enjoyed. Of course he enjoyed it anyway, she suspected, but he'd never admit it to himself any more than he would admit that he really got off on a good meal. She'd watched the picky way he ate. As if he might be chewing up sawdust and swallowed it. But he ate every bite and licked his lips, too.
He'd left his socks on. She wondered why and thought maybe it had something to do with his moral principals ... maybe he figured if he didn't take all his clothes off when he was getting ready to screw a woman who wasn't his wife, then. he wasn't really naked.
He didn't kiss her, nor did he touch her breasts, hold her in his arms or do any of the usual things a man did when he was with a woman. "Turn over," he instructed.
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to fuck you in the ass, that's why."
"I'm not sure I'd like that."
"Of course you'll like it. All women secretly yearn to be ass-fucked."
"I have never even thought about it." She was terrified at the idea. He wasn't very big, but still she knew it would hurt.
"Well, I simply can't do it any other way. I'm a married man. How do you think my wife would feel if she ever found out that I was intimate with another woman in the same way I'm intimate with her? It's morally wrong. What you want is strictly reserved for husband and wife, girl. Anyway, I can't take any chances about getting you pregnant, and I'm a very potent man. Now turn over and get on your hands and knees. I'll show you how to do it so it won't hurt. All you have to do is listen to me and do what I say."
"If it hurts, I'll scream," she warned.
He laughed. It was a stingy kind of laugh, as if giving in to a real belly-buster would cost him something. I've got this good old KY jelly. Keep it with me whenever I take a trip and don't have my wife with me. Just stick your skinny little rear end up here and I'll put some of it on your ass."
She closed her eyes and felt the coolness of the stuff against her puckered anus. Then he put in a finger and she winced, but it didn't really hurt. After a second or two the jelly didn't feel cool any more. He told her he was putting some on his cock, too. "That way, you'll hardly notice when it goes in."
She noticed all right, but she didn't complain, because she was too busy following his instructions about relaxing and letting herself go. It didn't hurt as much as she had thought it would, though. In fact, it felt pretty good. About as good as fucking in the usual way, except it made her feel like her bowels were going to move.
He told her to start humping, so she humped. Within a quarter of a minute she felt his hot juices spurt into her and his weight fell down against her back. It was all over, and she was glad. During the time it was going on, she'd wanted to reach between her legs and stick a finger in her cunt, maybe massage her clit, but she wasn't sure he'd want her to, and she was a little shy about doing things to herself in front of anyone, anyway. She hoped someday she could get her boy friend to do it to her that way. If he did, she'd ask him to massage her clit and finger-fuck her in the cunt. Maybe she'd even come that way, she thought, as the judge's stringy cock oozed out of her.
He went into the bathroom and she heard him in there, clearing his throat and running water. Her asshole felt on fire now that it was over, and it hurt worse every time she took a step. The bottle was right there on the desk where he'd left it, so she tipped it up and took a healthy slug, hoping it would ease the pain. She felt humiliated and degraded, and the more she thought about the way he had treated her-not even kissing her once, not touching her anywhere-the madder she got. His pants were where he'd left them, across the back of a chair. She thought about reaching in and taking out his wallet; of taking everything he had. It'd serve him right. But before she could cover the distance between where she was and the chair with his pants on it, he came running in from the bathroom with water dripping from his cock, and grabbed his pants. He'd gone quite pale, and she realized he'd either picked up on what she was thinking, or just coincidentally remembered the vulnerability of his wallet.
She dressed, wondering how to approach the subject of money. He said nothing. She sat down and asked him for another drink. Grudgingly, he gave it to her. She stood up after she downed it and walked over to the door, wondering if she could muster the courage to tell him what she wanted and hating herself for even thinking she might not. But her throat felt like an orange was lodged in it. Her voice came out in a wickening, little-girlish croak. "I need fifty dollars."
"You're out of your mind," he snarled.
"Well, twenty-five, then."
"I thought you cared for me." He'd removed the snarl quickly and replaced it with a fabricated look of disappointment. "Downstairs in the coffee shop you acted like you liked me. Do I look like the kind of man who comes to the big city and looks around for a prostitute?"
"No, you look like the coldest son of a bitch who ever walked in clothes." The phony expression he'd put on his face designed to make her feel sorry for him was what did it. She didn't have that red hair and Irish ancestry on her mother's side for nothing. "And you don't only look like it, you are! Besides that, you're a rank-assed liar and the worst kind. You lie to yourself. You said your wife is a very self-indulgent woman. Well, buster, you're the most selfish, unthoughtful bastard I ever heard of! You used me! I never charged anybody anything for a fuck before, and when I came up here I wasn't even sure I'd charge you, because I doubted if I could get up the courage to come right out and ask you for money." All the time she was talking she was heading toward the pants he clutched in his arms as if they were wrapped around Fort Knox.
One of her feet came up and pushed him over backwards onto the bed. He flailed about and tried to kick her back, but she was a slashing, goring little mass of temper. She grabbed the wallet and shook the contents onto the bed. All he had was what appeared to be around two hundred dollars, most of it in twenties. She scooped it all up and ran like hell for the door, got out, scooted down the hall to the stairway, and pushed the door open.
Judge Busby caught up with her at the door. He was panting, but so was she. She looked at him out of wild green eyes and said, "I'm keeping this. And if you tell, I'll swear you raped me, that you fucked me in the ass, and if I have to, I'll go to a doctor and make him swear you tore it. Besides that, I'll write to your wife and all those people back home who think you're such hot shit just because you're a judge."
Very slowly, the Honorable Bradford Busby turned to go back to his room.