Slapstick for the Prosecution by Reynolds
Debra Pellegrini was the prototype Yuppie *********. She was stylishly dressed in a pin-striped power suit with a skirt short enough to show off a model's legs and with a double-breasted blazer that only served to accentuate her own twin hooters. She hid her sultry, smoldering dark eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that she probably didn't need, and she hid her heart behind a bottom-line business approach that made her the best assistant D.A. in the city. She was certainly the best prosecutor I'd ever come across, though I'd managed to hold my own most of the times we'd tangled. In fact, I'd won direct or won on appeal every case we'd competed on so far. Usually, I knew what she was up to, but this case had me stumped.
We met for lunch at the hot dog stand off the Plaza. Debra looked gorgeous as always. Her black hair was done in that teased, carefully disheveled look that's in a**** professional women but, to me, always looks like they just got out of bed. It was hot enough that she was breaking a sweat from the walk from City Hall, and I could see little beads of moisture traveling down her neck and under her starched white collar. I had fun guessing where they'd end up. I had even more fun watching her daintily insert the dog I'd bought her into her mouth, stretch her lips around it, and take a nibble. She caught me staring at her and laughed self-consciously, almost spilling a dollop of mustard onto her suit. She caught it nicely with her fingers and then licked it off with a few flicks of her quick pink tongue. She saw me looking still and laughed throatily, hardly self-conscious. I'd always suspected that she had as dirty a mind as I did.
"So why are we here, Tucker?" she asked.
"The Shipton case," I replied. "What the hell are you doing? Why go for jail time? We plead guilty, we'llpay damages."
Debra shook her head. "Not on an assault case, Tucker."
"What assault? He hit her in the face with a ******* pie, for Chrissake!"
"That's not all he did."
"Okay, so there were a few pies -- "
"-- and custard."
"And custard. But nobody got hurt. Hell, her office buddies hired him to do it. Prosecute them, why don't you?"
Debra polished off the dog and shook her head. "Nope. We're shutting him down for good this time. Jail time, full damages, and a promise to the court -- which means contempt charges if he reneges -- that he'll never do anything like this again."
"It's his business, Deb! If he makes that promise he'll have to find a new line of work!"
She smiled coldly. "After he gets out of jail you mean."
I couldn't figure out what was going on here, why she wanted to take this guy all the way, but it was time to screw my ideas about the law and start bargaining. "Okay, he's willing to pay the damages, and I think I can convince him to make the promise to the judge. How about we drop the time?"
Debra shook her pretty head. "No way, Tuck. This time you lose all the way around. You can't get your client off and you can't negotiate the sentence down. This time I win and you're just fucked." She smiled a falsely sweet smile and tossed what was left of the dog into the trash can. "Thanks for lunch."
By the time we went to court, I understood a little more. Part of this was personal -- Debra Pellegrini was sick of losing to me and seeing my clients walk, and she was going to make me take this case right up the ass. Part of this was loonier -- the D.A. was about to announce a campaign for mayor, and the feeling was that Shipton was an easy ****** assault case to add to the D.A.'s "pro-woman" statistics going into the election. You know, the "95% conviction rating on all crimes against women" stuff that politicians love to use. Whatever the prosecutor's motivation, this was going to be a short case unless I could pull a rabbit out of my hat. There were only two witnesses in the case, Shipton and the woman he'd played the joke on, a cute bank teller named Paula Corn, and the judge was a woman, too, a hard-ass named Randolph who was pals with the D.A. and up for re-election herself this year. I shook my head and tried to concentrate on Debra's questions to Paula Corn.
Concentration was tough. They both looked really hot, and it was much easier to think about their bodies than their words. Paula Corn was a curvy round-faced blonde with big blue eyes and a generous chest that wasn't very well hidden beneath a thin blue dress. Whatever bra she had on must have been really flimsy because her **** bounced noticeably as she walked to the witness stand. Her straw-colored hair was brushed straight back and regularly fell into her face; she'd raise her hand to push it back and her chest would swell out and jiggle as she did so. It was a very distracting sight.
Debra Pellegrini was even more distracting. She wore an expensive suede jacket over a prim white blouse, a string tie fastened with an eye-catching silver and turquoise clasp, and a skirt short enough that I could -- almost -- catch a glimpse of thigh between where he skirts ended and the stockings began. I'd seen her in court before and she never dressed this way, only for me. As if me thinking about her legs was somehow going to distract me from the case. Maybe it was a good strategy.
Debra approached the witness box. "Please tell the court in your own words," she said, "what happened on the afternoon of May 2."
"It was my birthday," Paula Queen began nervously. There was a **** touch of magnolia in her voice, like a Miss America candidate, and I could see several of the guys on the jury begin to melt. "It was almost to closing and we were beginning to set up a party in the staff lounge for me when one of the girls came to tell me that there was a loan applicant to see me. I went out and that man was at my desk."
"Let the record show that Miss Corn has identified the defendant," Debra said. "Was he carrying anything, Miss Corn?"
"He had a large box with him, but I didn't think anything of it. We often get businessmen who stop by with all their tools. So anyway, I walked over to him and he introduced himself as Mr. Shipton and said that my friends had suggested he see me. And then -- " Paula Corn started to sniffle as if she were reliving some incredibly painful experience. She'd been well-coached. "And then he opened a box he was carrying and took out this big white pie and pushed it into my face!"
I looked at the jury to see if they were buying this. My case was built around this being a harmless prank, but Paula Corn was telling the story as if she'd been shot in the face instead of pied. The twelve were a tough read, but some of them were frowning. "I couldn't see," she continued. "The filling got in my eyes and I thought I went blind, and it was very heavy."
"Was it a pie like this one?" Debra Pellegrini held up a large white-topped pie which she'd taken from behind the prosecutor's table. At some point during Paula Corn's testimony, someone had wheeled in a whole tray full of pastries and sweets. Paula Corn looked at the pie like she was looking at a murder weapon. "I enter this as state's exhibit A, your honor. Let the record show that this lemon meringue pie weighs exactly twelve ounces and is in a metal dish."
Paula Corn continued. "I didn't know what to do, I guess I just stood there, and then I felt this thick cool sticky stuff being poured over me. Over my hair, over my shoulders. I saw on the video afterward that it was custard, and it made me all yellow and it was really cold."
"And then what did Mr. Shipton do?"
"I couldn't see, but I felt fingers on my blouse, pulling out my collar. At first, all I thought he was doing was looking at my -- I mean, looking down my top -- but then I felt more custard pour into my -- well, between my breasts. There was a lot of it, and it pretty quickly overflowed and started running down my front."
"I managed to clear my eyes so I could see again, and I backed away from him and sat down in my chair, but I sat in something. I didn't know what it was, I just felt it go smoosh and felt something thick and sticky on my -- on my heinie. I saw on the videotape that he'd put another pie on my chair. I guess I screamed."
"Did you fear for your safety?"
"Yes, I had no idea what this pervert was up to. I stood up and slapped him, but, well, I was wearing a wraparound skirt that day and I guess it got caught in the sticky pie because it stayed down."
"Could Mr. Shipton have undone it?"
Debra looked snidely at me and said "Withdrawn" even before the judge could rule. "Then what happened?"
"He put his fingers in my *******."
You could hear a pin drop in the courtroom after that line. "Go on," Debra said. "He put his fingers in the elastic of my ******* and pulled it out," Paula Corn said, "and then he --" again, that beautifully trained sniffle " -- he poured custard down my pants! And then he turned me around and hit me in the as-- on the heinie with another pie and then turned me again and hit me in the face again. And then he ran out of the bank, leaving me just all gooey and sticky and naked!."
Debra Pellegrini looked at me triumphantly and said "Your witness." I still wasn't sure what she was up to, so I used the standard tricks. "Miss Corn, what did your co-workers do after this happened?"
"They stood around me and sang 'happy birthday.'"
"In fact, they had paid Mr. Shipton to do this to you as a birthday joke, hadn't they?"
"They hadn't paid him to molest me."
Yes, very well-coached. I tried to recover quickly. "Do you still work at the bank, Miss Corn"
"No, I was too humiliated. I had to quit."
Little alarm bells went off in my head. "You mean you chose to quit?"
"No, I just couldn't face these people, not after what they'd done to me -- "
"Then why haven't you brought charges against your co-workers, Miss Corn? This was their idea."
Before I could finish the second sentence Debra Pellegrini had shouted objection. The judge sustained it. I asked Paula Corn if she was contemplating a civil suit against Shipton or her co-workers for the distress her creaming had caused, but Debra objected again, citing relevance. It actually was very relevant, because Paula Corn stood to collect big bucks from a lawsuit and a criminal conviction against Shipton would really help a civil suit against the people who hire him, but the judge granted the objection. I gave up.
The rest of Debra Pellegrini's case was ludicrous but beautifully calculated. She established that the pie had weighed enough to be considered a dangerous blunt object under state law. She established through precedents that the introduction of foreign objects into or onto a victim's genitalia constituted ****** assault. and that the custard Shipton had poured down Paula Corn's pants legally qualified as a foreign object. It was all pretty stupid, and I might be able to convince the jury that this was a silly application of the law, but Debra had set it up so that the judge would have to tell the jury that they must follow the absolute letter of the law.
Then Debra played the video for the jury. Shipton himself had had the video made so that Paula's co-workers could give it to her as a gag gift, but I couldn't tell whether that point made any difference to the jury. We all watched the thing, and just like every other time I found myself trying to deal with a massive hard-on. it was a damned **** tape, and I really couldn't figure out why. I mean, there was no ***. The closest you got was Paula Corn's gorgeous legs and round little ass sticking out of her *******. But from the moment her face got engulfed in the white meringue and sticky golden filling from Shipton's pie, my **** sprang to attention and would not let me be. By the time we got to the custard-pouring, and the thick yellow liquid was oozing down Paula's legs like some kind of second skin, I could feel my face flush and heard my own breathing. It was really warm in the courtroom.
I looked away from the video and found Debra Pellegrini. She, too, looked a little warm. Her cheeks were red and she was perspiring almost as much as she had been at lunch that day in the plaza. She was gnawing intently on her lower lip and keeping her eyes glued to the screen, not even bothering to see how the jury was taking this.
The jury. That was a good idea. Feeling really stupid I turned to see how they were reacting. Without exception, all of them were leaning forward, watching the video intently. I could hear a few of the men breathing heavily, and I saw a few squirms in a fashion I well understood. I looked back at the video. Shipton was aiming his last pie. It went smack into Paula's already creamed face and just sort of clung there, little bits of crust and cream dropping away and then the tin sliding off, sliding down over her ****, clinging by its sticky filling to the round curve of her breasts.
I glanced at the jury again. There was a lot of squirming, and several of the women were wetting their lips with their tongues in a most interesting way. When the lights came on everyone seemed to exhale at once. My hard-on just wouldn't quit. I wanted to stand up and move around but it would look bad for the defense attorney to be walking around with an eight-inch pole making a tent of his pants. Some members of the jury were still squirming as Debra, her voice unusually husky, rested her case.
My defense was pretty basic. I put Shipton on the stand, I asked him about his company, Birthday Surprise. I established that he was a decent businessman who paid his taxes. He was graying, slightly overweight, an amiable guy, the kind of guy who'd make a great next-door neighbor. I tried to get the jury to see that. I established that he'd played his birthday surprises before and that his victims had laughed about it, and if they'd been upset he'd always paid to clean their suits or whatever. I had him tell the court that he'd offered to pay cleaning bills for Paula Corn, too. Then I turned him over to Debra.
"Before you created Birthday Surprise, Mr. Shipton, what did you do?" Shipton said he was an auto mechanic. "Did you make money at it?" Shipton said a bit. Like me, he had no idea where she was going. "As much as you do with Birthday Surprise?" Shipton shook his head. "They why do this?"
"Money isn't everything, Miss Pellegrini. Birthday Surprise is my company. I make all the decisions, all the rules. And besides, it's more fun. And it makes people happy."
"Does it make you happy, Mr. Shipton?"
"Yeah, sure. It's fun."
Debra went over to the tray full of pies and sweets by her table and picked up a pie. She hefted it dramatically, looking pointedly at me for a moment and I thought she was going to hurl the thing in my direction. Instead, she asked, "Do you know what slapstick is, Mr. Shipton?"
"Yeah, it's like the Three Stooges. Or Laurel and Hardy."
"Can it have a ****** meaning, too, Mr. Shipton?"
Yeah, I thought. What?
Debra continued. "Isn't it also a word used to describe a fetish for seeing women in funny, messy, or humiliating situations?" Shipton looked confused, which made two of us. Debra put the pie down and picked up a magazine that had been on the table. It was one of the better, hotter men's magazines on the market. "Do you recognize this magazine, Mr. Shipton? Let me read you a brief part from its letters page. It's about fetishes. It's right after a letter about sadomasochism."
She began reading, slowly and precisely. "'For some unknown reason, I get very turned on when I see a woman get hit in the face with a pie. Are there any other people who are turned on by this? I'd love to hear about your experiences. I know that a pie in the face has always had the connotation of degrading the person getting hit, but I just get uncontrollably turned on when I see a pretty girl with pie on her face.'" She stopped and let the words sink in. "Did you write this, Mr. Shipton?"
He seemed flustered. "No, I don't think so."
"Objection!" I called, but far too late. "Does the prosecution have any evidence that Mr. Shipton wrote this?" The judge and I both looked at Debra. She smiled a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth smile and said "It's not the prosecution's intent to prove that Mr. Shipton wrote this letter, your honor. I only wish to show that pornographers consider covering women with food as much as ****** fetish as whips, chains, and leather." She smiled again, this time straight at me. The judge overruled the objection.
Debra Pellegrini then proceeded to take nice, amiable Mr. Shipton apart, and I was powerless to stop her. I objected until I was hoarse, but the judge let everything pass. She got to ask if Shipton ever got an erection while he was pulling one of his birthday surprises. She got to ask him how often. She got to ask if he ever jacked off after a job. She got to ask if he kept copies of the videotapes he made for his clients. the answers to all these questions weren't as damning as the questions themselves. By the time Debra was through with him it was really clear that he got pretty aroused by the sight of a woman covered in custard. And then came the devious conclusion. "I envy you, Mr. Shipton," Debra said. "It's not everyone who gets paid to carry out his own private kink in public. I guess we should all be glad that you aren't into whips and chains. Or little boys."
I objected like mad, and the judge told the jury to ignore that last comment, but I could tell that it sunk in. Debra had managed to make the whole thing dirty and perverted, and that coupled with all the letter-of-the-law ******** she'd done earlier would probably get her, her conviction. She walked past back to her desk. "Got you this time, cowboy," she whispered.
Fuck me. Shipton was the only witness I'd scheduled. I'd figured the general silliness of the whole thing, plus his being such a harmless guy, would be enough. My mind raced for something to do. I stared over at Debra, sitting smugly with a triumphant smile on her face. I glanced around behind her at the cart of pies and custard she'd brought in as a prop. A really nasty, fun, filthy idea entered my head.
"Your honor," I asked, "will you give the defense the same leeway you've given the prosecution?" Phrased that way, the judge had no choice but to agree. "Then I call Debra Pellegrini to the stand."
There were the usual objections, lots of outraged shouts, a few gasps, and the judge warned me that my leash was real short, but ultimately Debra did sit her pretty ass in the witness box. She glared daggers at me, but she was there. This was going to be fun, even if it didn't work.
"Do you consider Paula Corn to be a ******** normal woman, Miss Pellegrini?"
She couldn't decline to answer -- she'd brought the damn topic up. "Yes," she hissed. "Are you?" I asked. "I like to think so," she replied.
"So we can assume that what turns you and Miss Corn on is normal. Not like the deviant fetishes of filthy Mr. Shipton here." She didn't answer. "Ever been hit with a pie, Miss Pellegrini?"
She glared at me. "No."
"Do you think you'd be ******** aroused if you were?"
"What relevance does this have?"
"Hey, you've set this up as some great ****** perversion, not me."
"I only established that pornographic magazines classify it with other fetishes"
"Fine. But I want to find out what normal people think about it, not pornographers. And you've just testified that you're normal." Debra looked at the judge, who just shrugged. "But if you've never taken a pie in the face how do you know it doesn't turn you on?"
I picked up the lemon meringue pie and walked slowly toward her. Now I'd gotten the room so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I saw a few of the jurors lean forward in anticipation of what had to happen next. Debra looked flustered for the first time. She objected. "You gave me some leeway, your honor," I said quickly, "and the prosecution introduced all this fetish stuff."
The judge shrugged again and withheld a ruling. Debra sighed heavily and turned back towards me. I stopped in front of the witness box and tried hard not to grin. My hard-on was back, and my heart was beating incredibly fast. "You'll want to take your glasses off," I said quietly. Some weird ****** electricity had zapped me, stronger than almost anything I'd ever felt.
Debra reached up and pulled off her wire rims. She looked straight at me, dark eyes blazing, but her lips were slightly parted and I noticed that she, too, was breathing heavily. I slapped the pie into her face and it exploded like a little meringue bomb. Thick globs of cream flew everywhere, and the pie tin clung momentarily to Deb's face like some kind of mask. She pried it away with her fingers, leaving crumbling crust and thick syrupy filling to slide heavily down her cheeks. Chunks of crust and meringue clung to her hair. She wiped the pie out of her face with her hands. "How's that feel?" I whispered. "And you are under oath."
Debra wiped more filling from her face. She licked a little meringue off her fingers. "It tastes good," she said, bringing a laugh from the courtroom, "but it doesn't make me want to jump into bed with you."
I reached forward and wiped a little dab of cream from her forehead before it could drop into her eye. The cream was cool, but her skin was warm to my touch. She started when she felt my finger, and our eyes met. Her lips parted and she laughed that same low throaty laugh that she'd used on the Plaza. She was lying.
"Paula Corn didn't take just one pie," I said, fighting to get the words out.
Debra looked straight into my eyes and replied quietly but evenly: "No, she got really creamed."
We stared at each other for what seemed like a long time. It was as if there was no one else in the room as if this wasn't about a trial anymore. As if this was all just some private fantasy. Maybe it was. "Do you remember what she got next?"
Debra nodded slowly. "Shipton poured the custard over her head."
I had to walk back to the cart for the pitcher of custard, and I damn near ran there. When I returned, Debra had removed her suede jacket and was sitting there -- expectantly, I thought -- in that prim white blouse. I stared hard into her eyes again, looking for any sign, any indication that I shouldn't do this. I didn't see any, so I put the pitcher over her head and poured. The thick yellow liquid cascaded over her head like a waterfall, engulfing her face, plastering onto her hair like a skullcap. Then the cascade eased to a trickle, and her face came back into view. Her hair, yellow and stringy and sticky now, fell over her eyes. Little rivers of custard flowed slowly over her once-white blouse, tracing the heavy curve of her breasts, flowing into the swelling sticky pool on her lap. She gasped loudly and flung her hair out of her eyes, splattering me and the judge with little yellow droplets.
"How's that?" I asked.
"*Cold*," she said, "really really cold. And a lot heavier than I'd figured." Her chest was heaving, though, and there was anything but cold in her eyes.
"Will you undo your collar, Miss Pellegrini?" I asked before I knew what I was saying. Nobody else could see the sly grin on her lips as she reached to under her string tie. "I believe we should finish this, don't you?"
"Absolutely!" she said too quickly, her hands fumbling with her blouse buttons. "If this is what it takes to prove you're wrong." She undid four buttons, and the weight of her collar pulled her blouse open into a wide V. I had a clear view of her deep cleavage and the lacy, nearly transparent underwire bra that held her heavy **** in place. I couldn't resist. On the pretext of preparing her blouse for the deluge to come, I brushed two fingers against her breast. Her ****** poked through the thin bra like a small nail. I tweaked it gently as I tipped a second pitcher of custard into the deep valley between her breasts.
She giggled and squirmed when the thick liquid touched her bare skin, and it quickly overflowed from her cleavage and oozed over her breasts and down her stomach, both inside and outside her blouse. During one of her spasms, she brushed her hand briefly against the crotch of my trousers, tweaking my rock-hard ****. I nearly came on the spot and stepped away quickly. "Still having normal reactions, Miss Pellegrini?"
We were both breathing hard. Debra struggled to speak. "Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. You just haven't proven your case yet."
I turned away from this incredibly ****, incredibly messy woman so that I could concentrate. "Will the court reporter please read back from Miss Corn's testimony?" I asked. "What happened next?"
The reporter searched quickly, then read in a nasal voice. "'I managed to clear my eyes so that I could see again, and I backed away from him and sat down on my chair, but I sat in something. I didn't know what it was, I just felt it go smoosh and felt something thick and sticky on my -- '"
I held up my hand for her to stop and picked up another cream pie from the cart. When I turned around Debra was buttoning her custard-heavy blouse. Our eyes met again. One objection and she could call this off. She grinned and stood up so that I could have access to the chair she was sitting on. Her short skirt had ridden up slightly but she didn't adjust it. I placed the pie on the chair and stepped aside. She sat down on it heavily, almost jumped on it, and white icing flew everywhere. Debra didn't just sit on it, though, she *squirmed* on it, grinding her ass into the tin and damn near ruining her skirt. When I stepped toward the witness box I could see the sticky cream clinging to the insides of her thighs.
This time I didn't ask Debra. I went straight to the court reporter. "What happened next?" Though I knew full well.
The nasal voice read again. "I was wearing a wraparound skirt that day and I guess it got caught in the sticky pie because it stayed down.'"
I looked at Debra. She looked at me with practically carnivorous eyes. "I don't have on a wraparound skirt," she said in a mock innocent voice.
She stood up in the box, her skirt pulling away from the chair with difficulty. Looking at no one in the room but me, she hooked her fingers onto the hem of her mini and hiked it up to her waist. She stood there in front of me, long legs, black stockings, garters, and a tiny pair of black ******* all revealed. Bits of cream and crust clung to her thighs and stockings. Not breaking eye contact with me, she hooked one of her thumbs into the elastic of her ******* and pulled it out.
I did not need a second hint. I took another pitcher of custard and emptied it down her pants. The little triangle of fabric that was the crotch of her ******* didn't come close to holding it all and the thick yellow goo overflowed quickly, spilling over her hands and running down her legs. She squealed at the intimate contact, gyrating her hips like a belly dancer as her skin tried to get away from the cool. I patted her custard-filled crotch.
"What happened next?" she called to the reporter.
"'And then he turned me around and hit me on the -- '"
Debra turned quickly, hiking her skirt up further. I was stunned. Her ******* were more like a thong, and I was suddenly confronted with the quivering round cheeks of a luscious, nearly bare ass. I hesitated, my mind telling me to plunge my tongue between her buttocks rather than mess them up. "Do it!" she hissed, and I picked up a gooey cream pie and slapped it against her hard cheeks, almost pushing her over.
When I pulled the tin away bits of crust slipped over the curve of her ass and onto her legs. I wiped a lot of the filling off her ****, smearing my fingers in it and feeling her warm skin underneath.
I heard a loud pounding in my head and then realized that it was the judge pounding on her gavel. "That's enough!" she shouted. "This is a mistrial! Bailiff, clear the courtroom!" Debra and I froze, she on her knees, her nearly bare ass jutting toward me, her face covered with custard and cream. Me with my gooey hand massaging her ****.
"You two," Judge Randolph yelled at us, "clean up, and then I'll see you in my chambers!"
Debra and I walked quickly to the attorneys' lounge. The looks she got were amazing, her face a mass of goo, her clothes ruined, but she walked almost regally through the hall and didn't seem to notice. I followed her, pushing the cart of pastries. When I got into the lounge, Debra had dropped her skirt and was just shedding her blouse. she turned to me and grinned the horniest grin I've ever seen on a woman. She unsnapped her gooey bra and let her heavy, hard-nippled breasts hand free. "We're going to be disbarred."
I locked the door. "Probably."
She walked toward me, **** bouncing. "You didn't even get to finish your case." I looked at her questioningly.
"There was one more pie, remember?" I frowned again. She stopped so that her ******* just grazed my shirt.
"In the face," she said. "Shipton hit her one more time in the face." She picked up a thick, oozing chocolate cream pie. "How are you going to tell if I'm turned on or not until you finish the experiment?"
She grinned and crammed the pie into her own face, obliterating her features in cream and crust and thick brown chocolate filling. Then, when she'd pulled the heavy tin away, she smeared her face against mine until I was as sticky and gooey as she was.
Her tongue found my mouth, then my ear. "You win," she whispered. "I'm turned on."
And she slid down my body, leaving chocolate and custard stains on my clothes until she was kneeling at my feet. Her hands fumbled with my belt and I tried to help, but I almost lost my balance. I reached back and felt my hand squelch into one of the pies on the cart. Debra got my pants down and at last, my rampaging **** was out of its constraints. She took it in her mouth instantly, took it all, and then pulled back, gasping for air. "Magnificent!"
A guy likes a good review. I took a handful of pie filling and smeared it onto myself. Debra laughed that throaty laugh of hers and began sucking it off. Soon she was taking my **** deep into her throat, and ********* my balls and my ******* until I knew I couldn't hold back. I collapsed, spent and shrunken, beside her.
She elbowed me hard in the ribs. "Hey, you're not done yet!" she said, taking a handful of gooey cream from her face and smearing it along the insides of her thighs. She took the last, half-full pitcher of custard and poured it over her curved belly, letting it flow down between her legs and over the dark triangle that guarded her *****. "Because I expect to be squeaky clean when I leave here -- " she guided my head down between her legs "-- and I'm not taking a shower."