Tuesday, December 29, 2009


This is the second part of my lingerie trilogy. A new setting, a new POV, but the same naughty motivation!


Rod cast his eye around at the rest of us. He really didn’t seem like foreman material.
“Anyone think she did it?” he asked.
A silent ripple passed through the room. I considered standing up and saying proudly “I do!” I was certain she was guilty. On the other hand, no man would want to lock a body like hers away in prison. Tie it up and spank it, hell yeah, but lock it away?
“Well?” Rod demanded in the whining voice I’d come to despise.
Vic studied his hands. “She couldn’t have. Remember? Three witnesses, who swore she was at her regular church choir practice, eight miles from where the guy was shot.”
Yeah, witnesses. I remembered them. Seven hundred pounds of beef, spread across three guys whose only musical talent was to make other guys sing falsetto.
“That’s right,” said Walter to the ceiling. “She’s never been seen in the company of the man she…the man who was shot.”
Eleven guys made gruff grunting noises which conveyed agreement in a conveniently non-committal way. I leaned back in studied silence.
Colin wiped at a stain on his tie. “I mean, you all saw her. Does she have the face of a killer?”
Attempted killer,” Rod corrected hurriedly.
“Thank you, Rod. Good point, well made.”
I closed my eyes and she lounged seductively across my memory. The face of a killer? No. She had the face of an angel, but there was no way to disguise her killer body. Rori Cardell was a knockout.
And that was a problem. Her whole defence had been based around how pure and ingenuous she was, but some things can’t be hidden. Oh, her attorney had done his best. He’d practically dressed her as a nun, in a sensible white blouse and ankle-length black skirt. She’d done her part, too, pinning her long, blonde hair down. All it did was give her the look of an avid dominatrix.
Our ears had voraciously swallowed the eloquent and imaginative story painted by her defence team, but our eyes cared for nothing but her rich, full form. She was like a custom-built lust engine, with her broad hips and bust to match. Every movement of her body was made with such wisdom and fluid grace that, simply through her presence, she seemed to make liars of her attorneys. As if she was daring us to convict her.
She’d sauntered to her seat with an overt sensuality, employing far too much hip rolling to be strictly legal. While the rest of the jury was distracted by the judge banging her gavel, I’d kept my eye on the radiant Miss Cardell as she sat down. As such, I was the only one who’d noticed when the split in her long skirt had revealed itself. I’d taken in a quick but memorable flash of her beautifully-filled fishnet pantihose, with their eye-catching black garters. Perhaps they were part of her choir uniform.
I was also the only man to catch the brief, nervous glance she’d fired at us when she’d pulled her skirt back over her strong, exquisite legs. Her eyes had locked onto mine and I’d held her gaze for a second, then smiled almost invisibly as I’d shaken my head. She’d licked her lips and then smiled nervously back at me, the only chink I’d detected in her armor.
Phil interrupted my recollection by standing and fiddling with the books in the shelf. “Look, there’s no way she coulda done it. I mean, she’d never’ve been able to run away. Not in those shoes.”
I spoke up for the first time. “Didn’t the cops say she was barefoot when they-”
“Not in those shoes.”
We’d all seen them. Black ankle strap pumps. Heels that high are hardly for court. They’re not even for courting. They’re shoes that simply say ‘catch me if you dare’.
Rod squeaked again in his nasal voice. “And what about the guy himself? I mean, if she’d shot him…”
Now that was a good point. If even the victim wouldn’t sell her out, how could we possibly convict? He’d sworn under oath that he’d found the Derringer in his desk drawer and shot himself while cleaning it.
“So we’re agreed? Who says not guilty?”
As if they were marionettes, every other man threw his hand into the air. Suddenly, all eyes were on me.
“Come on, Leo.”
I scratched my five day growth and tossed my hair out of my eyes as I pretended to think. Finally, making a show of reticence, I pushed my hand up.
Rod smiled widely. “All right! Great result, guys.”
Rori was about to be a free woman. An available woman.
We filed back into the court room, and Rod handed over our verdict. The judge read it with a frown and cast a weary, knowing glance in our direction. She shook her head tiredly as she handed the paper back.
Rod stood and read the verdict, pausing theatrically. The court held its collective breath. Rori, especially, held hers in a very attractive way. The instant the words ‘not guilty’ slipped from our foreman’s lips, the entire defence team let out a cheer of relief. All except the accused. She merely sat back down and calmly examined her nails, then glanced lazily across at us. At me.
There was the tiniest hint of a smile on her moist, full lips, then she nodded her thanks and blew me a small, but very graphic, kiss.
I smiled back. I like being owed favors. Especially by beautiful women.


Secretia said...

Your story has me smiling :)


Willsin Rowe said...

I see your smile and raise you a cheery wave. Thanks again, Secretia.