Daddy’s Solicitor

The text comes through Tuesday afternoon between meetings. Just an address. "Friday night. Eight pm. Wear the stockings. The seamed ones. Stay silent. And you don't come until I say. No matter what."

She reads it whilst the senior partner drones on about billable hours. Has to press her thighs together. Already thinking about Friday.

At six she texts Richard. "Partnership meeting running late. Don't wait up. Love you x"

She puts on the stockings. The seamed ones. Checks the backs of her legs in the mirror. The lines running straight up. Forty-three years old. Barrister. Wife, pulling on stockings because he told her to.

The flat's a ten minute drive away in the rough area of town. Second floor. The kind of building where nobody asks questions.

He opens the door before she knocks. Tracksuit. Cigarette. That look that means he's pleased with himself.

"Strip. Everything except the stockings."

She does. Dress, bra, knickers falling at her feet.

"Stand still."

He walks a slow circle around her. Inspecting. His hand trailing down her spine. Over her arse. Between her legs. Finding her already wet.

"Look at you. Already soaking and we haven't even started." He brings his fingers to her mouth. "Taste yourself."

She opens. Sucks his fingers clean.

He grabs her hair. Pulls her head back. Spits in her mouth. "Swallow."

She does.

He reaches for something on the table. Nipple clamps. Metal. Connected by a thin chain.

"Hold still."

Attaches the first one. The bite of it sharp. She gasps. Then the second. The weight of the chain hanging between them.

"Perfect." He tugs the chain gently. The pull makes her whimper. "What did you tell your husband?"

"Partnership meeting."

"And he believed you?"

"Yes."

He tugs the chain harder. "Course he did. Proper wife, aren't you? Now remember the rules. Not a sound. And you don't come. I don't care how close you get, you hold it. Understand?"

Nods.

He picks up the lace hood. Black. Delicate. Pulls it over her head. It clings to her face, sheer enough to breathe through but thick enough to obscure her features completely.

"There. Now even if they look, they won't know who you are." He releases her. Points to the bedroom. "They're waiting."

She walks through.

Two of them on the bed. Both naked, blindfolded, ankles tied to the bedframe with electrical cord. One's black, lean, track marks visible on his arms. The other's white, shaved head, prison tattoos across his chest.

Young. Both of them young.

Daddy comes close behind her, his mouth at her ear through the lace. "You're going to be a good girl for me. Aren't you?"

She nods.

"You're going to kiss her first," Daddy says. "Both of you. Then we'll see."

He points to skinhead first.

She leans forward and presses her mouth to his through the lace. His lips open, confused for a second by the fabric, then his tongue pushes through it. She kisses back, the lace between their mouths strange. Skinhead groans.

When she pulls back he's grinning. "Fuck. What's she wearing?"

"Don't worry about it," Daddy says. Points to the black boy.

This kiss is gentler through the lace. His tongue more careful, exploring the texture.

"How old is she?"

Daddy laughs. "Old enough to know better."

"Get on him." Points at skinhead.

She straddles skinhead and sinks down onto his cock. Someone else's. That's what this is. Not Richard's. Someone she'll never see again, never know his name, and he's inside her. The wrongness of it gets her close already. Stranger. Unknown. Wrong. That's the point.

"Fuck, you're big for a skinny lad," she whispers through the lace.

Skinhead grins. "Yeah?"

Daddy's hand finds the chain. Tugs it hard. "What did I say about staying silent?"

She bites her lip.

"Don't stop moving," he orders.

She rides him whilst he plays with the chain. Right on that edge already. Has to think about sentencing guidelines, about the Henderson judgment, anything to drag herself back.

"What's she wearing?" Skinhead asks, his hands finding her hips, feeling the lace hood.

"Something to keep her safe."

Skinhead's hands move to her tits, find the clamps, the chain. "Fuck, what's this?"

He tugs the chain and she has to bite down through the lace.

She keeps moving. Richard thinks I'm in a partnership meeting. Richard made me tea before I left. Richard kissed me goodbye whilst I was wearing these stockings for this. The guilt should stop this. Makes me wetter instead.

"Is she tight?" the black boy asks.

"Why don't you tell him?" Daddy says to skinhead.

"Yeah. Fuck. So tight."

"That's because her husband's useless. Isn't he?" Tugs the chain. "That's why she comes to me. Why she lets me share her."

"Stop. Get off him."

Skinhead's cock slips out.

"Kiss him."

She leans down and skinhead's tongue pushes through the lace whilst his hand tugs the chain hard.

"Fuck, I want her mouth," skinhead says.

"After. Get on the other one."

She straddles the black boy. Takes him in and the clamps swing with each movement.

"Don't," Daddy warns.

The black boy's hands find the chain. "What is this?"

"Pull it," Daddy says. "Hard as you like. She can take it."

He does and she has to bite down through the lace whilst he tugs the chain in rhythm with his thrusts.

"How's she feel?"

"Fucking amazing."

"Lean forward."

Daddy pushes her hips so skinhead's face is right there whilst the black boy fucks her and pulls the chain.

"Open your mouth," Daddy tells skinhead.

Skinhead's tongue finds her. Licking. Sucking. His mouth on her whilst the black boy pounds.

Two at once. Is there a word for what this makes me? Slut sounds too simple. Shared sounds too gentle. Used - that's it. Being used. Daddy watching me get used by strangers who'll never know my name.

"Hold it. You fucking hold it."

She's crying now, tears soaking the lace.

"Stop."

She pulls away.

"Can I get her mouth?" The black boy.

"Can you what?"

"Please can I fuck her mouth?"

"That's better. After she kisses you."

She kisses him through the lace and he tastes skinhead on her through the fabric.

Then his cock in her mouth. The lace getting wetter. She works him with her tongue. His cock hitting the back of her throat. She's gagging but she doesn't stop.

The black boy finishes. Down her throat. She swallows.

They switch. Skinhead's cock in her mouth. The black boy's hands find the chain, tugging whilst she works.

Skinhead groans. Finishes. She swallows. Kisses him after, his tongue rough through the wet fabric.

"Wait."

Daddy makes her kneel between them. Watching whilst they recover. He tugs the chain. Her nipples on fire. She's shaking. Desperate.

"Right. One more round. On your feet."

He unties their ankles. Positions the black boy on his back. She straddles him, takes him in. Then Daddy guides skinhead behind her, his cock pushing into her arse.

Both of them inside her. My tits are - what's the word - swaying? Hanging. Just hanging there whilst they work on me from both ends. Skinhead finds the chain and pulls whilst he fucks her arse. The black boy grabbing her hips, pounding up into her.

"Hold it. You hold it or you get nothing after."

She bites down through the lace so hard she tastes blood whilst they both fuck her. Both use her. Both finish inside her. So much. Flooding her. Running down her thighs. Soaking into the seams of her stockings.

She's wrecked when they pull out. Still denied.

"Kiss them goodbye."

She does. Both of them. Their tongues pushing through the wet lace.

Daddy ties their ankles again, puts their blindfolds back on. "Stay put. I'll be back in five."

Leads her to the bathroom. Removes the hood. Peels it off slowly. Her face flushed, wet, wrecked. Mascara everywhere. Then the clamps. One at a time. She gasps.

He strips. Pushes into her. Through all their cum. The mess of them.

"You did so well. Took them both. Let them use you. And you held it. Such a good girl."

He fucks her slowly at first.

"Not yet."

She whimpers.

He speeds up. Rougher now. His hands digging into her arms. Hard enough to leave marks.

"You'll go home to Richard and he'll never know. Will he?"

She's sobbing. "Please, Daddy. Please."

"Now. Come now."

She does. Screaming. Too hard. Can't stop. Can't breathe. Everything.

He finishes right after. Buried deep. His mixing with theirs but his is different. His matters.

She's still shaking when it's over.

He lies next to her. Strokes her hair. Rubs her sore nipples gently. Wipes the mascara from her cheeks.

"Good girl. My perfect girl."

They go back to the bedroom. Daddy unties the boys, removes their blindfolds. They blink, look around.

"Fuck, where'd she go?" Skinhead asks.

"Gone. Get dressed. Get out."

They leave.

---

Saturday morning. The shower. Hot water stinging the bruises on her hips. The marks on her wrists. The tenderness between her legs. Real. All of it real.

---

Monday. Crown Court. Room 4.

She woke at five. Couldn't sleep. Got dressed in stages. The seamed stockings first. Checking the lines were straight. The silk knickers. The tailored trousers. The crisp white shirt buttoned to her throat. The court robes. Heavy. Stiff. Authoritative.

Richard kissed her goodbye. "Good luck with the case."

"Thank you."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

She drives to court. Parks. Walks through security. Collects her brief for the morning. R v Thompson and Okafor. Drug supply. Joint enterprise. She's prosecuting.

Opens the file in the robing room. Flicks through. Custody photos paper-clipped inside.

Her hand freezes.

The black one. Thompson. Lean. Track marks on his arms.

The white one. Okafor. Shaved head. Prison tattoos.

Friday night. The lace hood. The blindfolds. Their cocks. Their hands on the chain.

She closes the file. Opens it again. Studies their faces. Thompson's custody photo. That's the mouth that licked her. Okafor. That's the cock she said was big for a skinny lad.

She's prosecuting them.

Daddy knew.

Course he fucking knew.

Her knickers getting wet. Right here in the robing room. Just from looking at their photos.

She touches the bruise on her arm through her sleeve.

Someone knocks. "Ms Taylor? They're ready for you in Court 4."

"Thank you. One moment."

The courtroom. She stands at the advocate's lectern. Wig straight. Gown heavy. Authority itself.

Across the room in the glass-walled dock sit the two of them.

Smaller here. Cheap suits. Boys playing at being men.

But she knows what they look like naked. Knows what their cocks taste like. Knows the sounds they make when they finish.

Opens the prosecution's opening statement. Her voice clear. Precise. Absolutely controlled.

"Members of the jury. This is a case of greed, of exploitation, and of the systematic poisoning of our community."

She walks them through the evidence. The surveillance. The joint enterprise. The kilograms of Class A.

Okafor's staring at her. Frowning. Trying to place something. The rhythm of her voice maybe.

She shifts her weight. Her thighs chafe against the silk of her knickers. She can feel the seams of her stockings. The same stockings they grabbed.

She looks at Thompson. He's looking at his hands. Slumped. Seventy-two hours ago his cock was in her throat.

"The Crown will prove that these defendants acted with total disregard for the law."

She makes eye contact with Okafor. Holds it a beat too long.

His brow furrows. Trying to place her.

But he can't.

Not the woman who whispered fuck you're big for a skinny lad whilst riding his cock.

She grips the lectern. Presses her thighs together. The silk soaked now.

The morning passes. Witnesses. Evidence. Professional. Competent. Thorough.

At the break she locks herself in the barristers' toilets. Lifts her robe. Her trousers. The wet patch visible through her silk knickers.

Touches herself through the silk. Quick. Desperate. Thinking about Friday. About Daddy watching the whole thing knowing she'd be here Monday sending them down.

Finishes in ninety seconds. Biting her fist to stay quiet.

The afternoon. More evidence. She presents the custody photos to the jury. Thompson and Okafor staring out from the glossy prints.

She remembers Okafor's tongue through the lace. Thompson's cock hitting the back of her throat.

Has to press her thighs together.

The closing statement. Her voice ringing through the courtroom.

"These young men showed no regard for the devastation their actions would cause. They treated human misery as a business opportunity. The Crown asks that you find them guilty on all counts."

The judge thanks her. Compliments her thoroughness.

The jury files out to deliberate.

---

Wednesday. The verdict.

The courtroom's packed. Press in the gallery. Families. The usual circus for a big case.

She sits at the prosecution bench. Notebook open. Pen ready. Professional.

Thompson and Okafor are brought up from the cells. The same cheap suits. Thompson looks like he hasn't slept. Okafor's trying to look hard but his hands are shaking.

The jury files in. Twelve faces. Giving nothing away.

The clerk stands. "Will the foreman please stand."

A woman in her fifties. Sensible cardigan. Teacher maybe.

"Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?"

"We have."

"On Count One, supply of Class A drugs with intent, how do you find the defendant Okafor?"

"Guilty."

Okafor's head drops. His solicitor touches his arm.

"On Count Two, joint enterprise, how do you find the defendant Thompson?"

"Guilty."

Thompson's mother starts crying in the gallery. Loud sobs. Someone takes her out.

The judge thanks the jury. Dismisses them. Turns to the defendants.

"You will remain in custody pending sentencing. I will hear mitigation at ten am Friday."

The guards move forward. Okafor looks up at the gallery. Then at her. That same frown. Still trying to place her.

She meets his eyes. Holds his gaze whilst the guard cuffs him.

Friday night he had his cock in her arse. His hands on the chain. He made her cry into the lace hood.

Now she's destroyed him. No smile. Doesn't need to. Just watches whilst they take him down.

Thompson goes quietly. Head down. Defeated.

The courtroom empties. Press rushing out to file. Families leaving in tears.

She packs her papers. Slow. Methodical. Her knickers soaked through. The seams of her stockings pressing into the backs of her legs. Tomorrow is Thursday. Then Friday. Eight pm. She wonders what he has waiting for her this time.