Taste of the Forbidden II
Word Count: 10,064
Summary: The Honorable Edward Cullen has a dark secret, a hidden desire that could cost him his career. When Mistress Swan—desperate to persuade the judge—makes a forbidden ex parte visit to his private chambers, can the judge "keep it in his robe"?
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Stephenie Meyer, but I'm pretty sure she never gave Bella a crop. Please do not attempt these acts in a real court of law.
GUILTY AS SIN
THE HONORABLE EDWARD CULLEN STRAIGHTENS HIS DARK BLUE TIE IN THE MIRROR, plucks his long black robe from its hook, punches first his right hand and then his left through the sleeve openings, and begins the long arduous task of buttoning. He knows the job would go easier if he weren't so damn agitated, if his fingers weren't shaking, but he's deeply disturbed by the docket on his desk and even angrier that he's now thinking in alliterations. In his ten years on the bench, he can remember few cases where he was as blissfully unconflicted as when he ruled on the Black vs. Black custody case last year. The father was a worthless blight on humanity, and the mother was...well, she was someone who haunted the judge's dreams ever since, most of them ending in a guilty, shuddering release and the rest simply leaving him wanting.
Wanting. That's what he's been...for longer than he cares to admit. Who knows? Maybe he forced Victoria to back him into that corner, deliver the final ultimatum. Things weren't bad at first—he seemed to be able to please her with his carnal interests and reliable paycheck, and when Victoria was happy, Edward was happy—but it's hard for him to imagine any woman wanting the hen-pecked version of himself he'd become. Not that there was a shred of pleasure in her berating, he observes wryly, putting together the pieces now that he's had a few weeks to reflect. He can't quite reconcile why Victoria's domineering bitchiness didn't excite him like the videos he can't seem to stop watching. She certainly had the body for it, and Lord knows she had the ruthlessness, but there was just something that never clicked for him. Her meanness was nonproductive; it just made him feel bad about himself. So no, he didn't regret not agreeing to marry her; he only wished he'd figured out sooner she wasn't the way to scratch his unfortunate itch.
Christ, the itch. The more he tried to repress it, the more furiously it invaded his psyche, resulting in endless sessions in front of his computer watching triple-X videos, teasing and denying himself as long as he could hold out, then jerking off furiously when he could stand it no longer. Despite the mounting guilt and overwhelming shame, he fantasized continually about leaving the bench and its moral fishbowl, taking a job where he'd at least have some shred of surviving what he'd now accepted as the inevitable: succumbing to this fetish that wouldn't leave him alone.
He'd hoped for a while after first meeting Bella Black that perhaps she'd cured him. Her strength was evident but subdued; her girl-next-door innocence seemed to churn his fantasy mill in a different direction for a while, and he was much relieved. But soon, the two collided in his mind, and it was Bella's face he superimposed when he closed his eyes, Bella who uttered harsh words, Bella who made him do unspeakable acts. Bella who had become his most forbidden desire.
"Bella Black... on the other side of that door," he mutters like a madman. "Awesome."
What the hell is Jacob Black up to now,the Judge wonders, with his petition to declare the mother an endangerment to her two children, citing "lewd and lascivious behavior"? He seals off the final button just below his groin, ignoring the tightening feeling already gathering in his balls at the prospect of seeing her again in person. Oh, the pomp and circumstance of our self-importance. Dragging all five fingertips through his unmanageable sandy brown hair, he decides he's grateful, at least, that the powers that be have long since done away with powdered wigs.
"At least I've been spared the long curls trailing off my head and the god-awful itching," he huffs to his reflection.
With one last deep breath and an inspirational glance at the portrait of the Justices of the Supreme Court, the Judge steps out of his chamber and into the waiting courtroom.
"ALL RISE," EMMETT BOOMS, then, "The Family Court of blah blah blah... The Honorable blah blah blah ...matter of blah blah blah..."
Isabella Marie Black.
Sensible black pumps and respectable nude stockings disappearing under a modest grey skirt cinched tight around her rib cage. Conservative, white, button-down blouse tucked in behind a wide, soft, black leather belt and surrounded by an unbuttoned baby-blue cardigan.
Deep breath, Judge.
Luxurious brown hair twisted into a soft arrangement at the back of her head, leaving bare her long, sensual neck. Erotic as hell, but in no way indecent.
Minimal make-up, if any. Hard to tell if those delicate lips are enhanced by gloss or if they're plump and pink because she's pinched them between her teeth so many times.
Miles from lewd and lascivious.
Fine, he cautions himself, anyone with half a brain and a few bucks knows how to dress for a court appearance, especially when the very topic to be discussed is her promiscuity. Still, there's something pure and true about this woman that speaks to his gut—or more accurately, a few inches below his gut. Grateful for the cover of his bench, the Judge reaches down to rearrange his growing problem.
The bailiff holds the Bible and raises one hand in demonstration. The Blacks each raise a right hand as the oath is stated. "Do you swear or affirm that the testimony you are about to give is the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
"I do," they say in unison, and the Judge wonders if they're recalling their wedding day. The thought of this woman tying herself to such a man makes him shiver, though their union was effectively dissolved long before they set foot in his courtroom last April.
He liked it better when a witness used to have to place his hand directly on top of the Good Book. Even if a person isn't a believer in general, there's something undeniably powerful about touching the word of God before you open your mouth. At least, he'd like to believe that.
"You may be seated."
Bella—er, Ms. Black smoothes the back of her skirt with both palms as she situates herself behind the defendant's table. From his vantage point, the Judge can make out her demurely crossed ankles, the long rise of her lean calves, and the shadow that begins just below her joined knees. He tears his eyes from below and gives her a slight nod. It wouldn't be proper procedure to address her yet—and if there's one thing this judge is, by golly, it's proper—besides; he wishes he had something better to call her than by the scoundrel's last name.
His eyes drift unwillingly to the plaintiff, causing not only the raw scallops he ate for lunch to churn unpleasantly in Edward's belly, but also the recollections of the loser's misdeeds: pissing away half his paycheck on booze and porn, "forgetting" to mail their mortgage payments, reporting to work late and drunk, failing to pick up children from school at appointed times...all in all, a real charmer.
"Mr. Black, you're here today to file a petition before the court?"
"Yes, Your Honor. My wife—" Bella sucks in a loud hiss, and Jacob rolls his eyes dramatically. "Excuse me, my EX-wife was granted full custody in the divorce proceedings—"
"So I recall," the judge interjects impatiently, his venom for the slimy scoundrel returning in full force so powerfully he can almost taste it in the back of his mouth.
"Yes, well, it has come to my attention that she is carrying on illicit activities in the domicile, therefore traumatizing the children and creating an unsavory environment."
You should fire your speech writer, Edward bites back, holding his temper at bay...for now.
"What kind of illicit activities?" The judge impassively fixes his knowing, inquisitive eyes on the beady pair across from him, sparing the woman any emotional response, much to the chagrin of Mr. Black.
"Seck-shu-al," the creep enunciates, smirking as he plays his trump card.
"Mr. Black, I'm going to need you to be very specific. These charges you're filing are serious, and the consequences to Ms. Black and the children hang in the balance, so please present your evidence."
The plaintiff smirks again and presses a few keys on his laptop. Suddenly, a series of low-resolution images flash on the screen at the front of the room. An unknown man approaches the front door of the house; Bella answers—blurry breasts spill over a dark corset. The man slips inside; Bella closes the door behind him. The next shot is the door opening again, a flash of bare thigh can be seen on the woman, and the man leaves.
"Mr. Black, that is hardly persuasive evidence of lewd behavior." The judge's eyes flash to the defendant. Her arms are folded on the table, but her head is held high.
"I have affidavits, Your Honor."
Normally, Edward would call the plaintiff to the bench, but he refuses to invite the snake that close. Instead, he holds out his hand and shouts, "Bailiff." Emmett snaps across the room to pass the papers to the judge.
Edward expertly scans the documents for pertinent information. Halfway down the first page, his eyes catch on the damning evidence.
I found Mistress Swan on Craig's List under DOMINATRIX- MALE SUBMISSIVES WANTED. I contacted her using the mailbox she'd set up. We agreed to meet at her home at 11 a.m. on Thursday, January 10th. When I arrived, she was dressed in a tight red corset, tall boots, and fishnet stockings...
Edward clears his throat and reaches for the glass of water on his side table. His eyes flash to the defendant, and he can't help but picture her in the costume described. She sits patiently, waiting for him to read further or question her.
She asked me if I was dressed as we'd discussed. I said yes. She opened the door and immediately had me take off my coat and empty my pockets. I joked that it felt like airport security, and she told me harshly to be quiet. She turned me toward the wall, ordered me to 'spread 'em,' and patted me down—none too gently, not that I minded. Anyway, that's when she brought me down to her dungeon.
This time, when Edward looks up from the papers, he's picturing himself as the man forced against the wall, arms and legs spread, Mistress's hands skimming the length of his arms, patting down his sides, running up the insides of his thighs, reaching through and roughly...
Through a fog of lust induced by the months of fantasies he's already had over this woman and compounded by the extremely vivid and extremely kinky reality of her lifestyle, the judge manages to notice that the defendant is smiling at him. For the first time—ever—in his courtroom, he feels intimidated...and he doesn't like it.
He turns back to the plaintiff. "Mr. Black, is there any additional evidence you have to present at this time?"
"No, Your Honor. Oh! The prosecution rests."
Emmett guffaws, and Edward attempts to scold him with his eyes but barely escapes his own outburst at the idiot's misguided attempts at jurisprudence. It's the defendant's chance for rebuttal, but Edward knows once he looks, he'll see nothing but corsets and fishnets—and he cannot afford a slip.
He focuses his entire being on pouring himself a glass of water and drinking it down while the courtroom pulsates with silence. Finally, he shifts his eyes to the defendant. "Ms. Black—"
"Excuse me, your Honor," she interrupts. "I apologize, but could you please address me by my maiden name? I go by Bella Swan now."
"Of course." Happy not to associate the fucker's name with her, he proceeds. "Ms. Swan, I know you have read the affidavits provided by your ex-husband. Would you like to be heard on the matter?"
"Yes, your Honor." She stands suddenly, causing the chair legs to screech against the wood floor. "Sorry," she says demurely, her neatly-manicured fingertips balancing on the tabletop. "First of all, I am a single woman—"
The asshole scoffs, but Edward ignores him, and Bella plows on.
"A single woman who is having mature, adult relations with other consenting, mature adults. Furthermore, there is nothing illegal about our activities, nor is there anything offensive about our behaviors."
"Pssssh!" Jacob huffs.
"I'm warning you, Mr. Black. Your outbursts will not be tolerated," the judge informs him.
"Thank you, Judge. I'm not ashamed of my lifestyle, even though I've taken my share of ridicule, as you can see. The men who submitted those affidavits were not genuine in their desires; they were imposters planted by my ex in order to discredit me. Most of my partners visit me more than once, and that should tell you something about my integrity as a domme. The majority of men who come to me can't ask for what they need anywhere else, and I get my needs met by providing for them. I'm very, very good at what I do."
She pauses to let her words penetrate him as if they are the only two in the room. Again, he feels the uncomfortable stirrings of a man who is entirely too close to something he desperately wants but knows he can't have.
"The safety and care of my children are always my utmost priority. I have affidavits from several of my partners indicating that our meetings take place during the hours Benjamin and Angela are in school and that they've never seen nor met my kids. All of my bondage equipment and costumes are securely locked out of sight and completely inaccessible, as evidenced by Exhibits A through G. My home is a safe and wholesome environment for the kids, and I beseech you..." Edward's heart lurches at her sudden plea, "not to separate them from their mother."
Her voice drops off on the last word and she slumps back into her chair.
"Thank you, Ms. Swan. If that is all, I'll review these documents in chambers and deliver my ruling in the morning. This court is adjourned until 8:30 a.m. Bailiff!"
Edward takes a hurried swipe across his crotch before standing up, and for once, he's thankful for the dark robe. He hastily gathers the papers and marches swiftly through his private entrance, pulling the door closed behind him.
CLUTCHING THE PAPERS LIKE A BOY BREAKING INTO HIS FATHER'S PORN STASH, Edward falls onto his couch and stretches himself out across the cushions. His hand rubs absently over his erection while he continues to read page after page of detailed pornographic acts starring his secret fantasy girl in his secret fantasy role.
"…slid a cock ring down my shaft and teased me until I got hard, PAINFULLY HARD..."
"…made me get her off using just my toes..."
"I was made to take off all my clothes while she sat fully dressed in the middle of the room. She ordered me to jerk off for her."
Edward's attention slips from the page as he pictures the defendant, dressed in today's courtroom outfit, sitting in a high-backed chair, watching...demanding.
"…gagged and led around the room by my dick..."
"She tied me to the St. Andrew 's cross in her dungeon, whipped me with a crop..."
The throbbing is now excruciating, and Edward has no choice but to give in, tossing aside the stack of papers and closing his eyes. He shimmies the robe up above his hips and opens his pants.
"Jesus, I cannot believe I'm doing this in my chambers like some horny teenager who can't control himself,"Edward berates himself, but it doesn't stop him from plunging his hand down his tight black briefs and grasping his swollen cock.
"Ahhh, fuck!" he curses. Images of Mistress Swan dance in his mind...corsets, crops, cock rings...and the mental video locks onto the scene where she sits fully dressed, ordering the naked guy to jerk off.
"Is that all you got?" she teases the judge.
His hand moves faster, harsher...
"You like it rough, do you? Good to know."
...he yanks his shirt, tie and robe up high on his chest, out of the way...
"Such a good boy!"
Suddenly, he's back in the courtroom with Bella Swan and her all-knowing smirk. "No!" He violently shoves the image away and travels back to her dungeon.
Standing in the middle of the room, naked, tugging on himself inelegantly, all for her pleasure...
"Here comes the judge!" Her eyes gleam wickedly as he nears the point of no return.
"Shit!" he roars in frustration, jerking his hand out of his pants, away from his powerful erection, and crunches his hands into tight fists. "I'm the judge!" he groans, slamming his fists into the cushions, "the goddamn judge!"
He swallows a groan of protest as his balls retaliate, the wave of pain momentarily clouding his vision. When he can function again, he stuffs himself back inside his briefs, tucks in his shirt, and zips up his pants. There's a soft knock at the door.
Edward swings his legs to the floor and pulls his fingers through his hair. "Come."
"Everything okay, Judge?" his trusty bailiff asks. "I thought I heard a struggle."
"Yeah, Em. I'm fine. Just a...cough, cough...lousy cough."
"You've got the Hunters in five minutes."
"Okay, go on out. I'll be right there."
He slips into his private bathroom and splashes handfuls of cold water on his face until some of the heat subsides. He catches himself in the mirror before he flicks the light switch. He's seen that bright flush and those wild, desperate eyes before—he's become the men in the videos.
EDWARD WALKS STRAIGHT TO HIS WET BAR, plunks several ice cubes into a highball glass, and drowns them in Dewar's. He can't remember a single detail of the pretrial motions he just sat through for Hunter vs. Hunter; he'll have to resort to reading the transcript.
Later. Much later. Right now, he has to train his mind on the Blacks and deliver this damn ruling.
He only briefly considers taking off his robe before deciding the trappings of his station may work to his advantage, perhaps keep the fantasies at bay long enough for him to do his job, to keep his thoughts from drifting to images of kneeling at her feet.
He settles for loosening the top button of the robe before returning to his desk and sliding into his chair. Despite his best efforts, his dick is hard again before he can remove his fountain pen from its well. He suppresses his physical need—once again—and scratches the necessary words along the parchment.
In the matter of Black v. Swan...
The pen slides from his fingers. He feels the eyes of the Supreme Court Justices bearing down on him. He knows what he has to do, just as surely as he knows the consequences.
The father is still an ass of epic proportions; that much hasn't changed. This evidence against the mother is disturbing, and Edward really does not like the way she looked at him in court—like she knew that he was chafing in his briefs—but there was no proof that she has been anything but a good mother to her children.
The judge will award in her favor, of course, and the ass will immediately appeal. It won't matter that he'll have no basis to challenge the decision; the appellate court and the press will have a field day with it. The Honorable Edward Cullen will become "the dominatrix defender," and it will only be a matter of time before they connect the dots. The late-night log-ins—though home-based—are still traceable, he's wise enough to know. And such will be my legacy, he muses dryly. The fact that he never indulged in anything physical won't even matter once the scandal breaks; it will just make him all the more pathetic.
"Jesus H. Christ," he says, scrubbing his face with the heels of his hands.
His one-man pity party is interrupted by a skirmish outside his door. Edward can make out the court officer's voice as he argues with someone—a woman. There's shuffling, muffled knocking, the door bursts open, and Ms. Swan spills into his chambers.
Edward jumps to his feet, taking in his flustered bailiff and the very determined woman who's just barreled into his private chambers. It occurs to him to be grateful he wasn't interrupted in a compromising position. "What's going on here?" he demands.
"I need to see you." The judge recognizes an intensity in her tone—she won't take no for an answer.
"Sorry, your Honor," his bailiff grumbles. "I explained to Ms. Swan that ex partecommunications are strictly forbidden."
"Thank you, Emmett. That will be all."
"Judge?" Edward looks into the pleading eyes of a man watching his friend's career sliding down the crapper. He's not about to risk taking Emmett down with him.
"Look at the time, bailiff. It's 5:01. You're not here."
Emmett fixes the judge with a heated glare, but sensing his friend's determination to journey down this dark path, the bailiff slaps his open hand against the door frame, bites his lower lip, then turns and leaves.
"Ms. Swan, as my bailiff so helpfully explained, it's forbidden for you and me to have any type of communication outside of the courtroom proceedings."
"There's something I need to discuss with you... alone."
He makes one last feeble attempt to persuade her to go. "You'll need to file a written motion with the clerk—"
"There's no time," she says, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"Ms. Swan, I caution you again, this is most improper, and if anyone were to find out—"
"I can keep a secret if you can, Judge." She makes a point of twisting the lock. The click resounds deep in Edward's belly; a switch has been flicked, and there's no turning back.
Resigned, he drops back into his chair and allows himself to take in the woman's appearance: spike-heeled black latex, thigh-high boots disappearing into a beige trench coat hitting just above her knee and a large tote bag with god-knows-what-all slung over her shoulder.
"This is very dangerous," the judge says, already tasting the hypocrisy on his lips. He knows he can't ask her to leave, and she knows he knows it.
She drops the bag into a chair and unties her trench coat. As she recklessly peels open one button after the next, he gets his first flash of black latex corset. Mother of God, he wishes he'd taken care of the insistent hard-on when he'd had the chance. What a woman like this could do to him—tease him, keep him hard and aching—he had only fantasized. Repeatedly.
He sucks down the remainder of his Scotch while she approaches his desk. She brazenly spins his chair, bends forward, and sticks her tits right in his face.
"I keep loads of people's secrets—doctors, accountants, lawyers...judges."
He forces his eyes up from her cleavage, and she winks at him. Busted, in the truest sense of the word.
"Tell me, Judge, did those affidavits make your Honor's penis good and hard?"
The walls seem to close in on him. He loosens his tie, tries to muster some saliva to wet his arid lips.
"Yes," he croaks out.
A knowing smirk flashes briefly across her face. She leans in even closer, making a mockery of his personal space. "Did you touch yourself?"
He's sweating from every pore, his robe trapping in the moisture like plastic wrap around a rib-eye steak. Somehow, lying is not an option. "Yes," he forces out. A violent wave of heat rolls up his neck, coloring his cheeks and the points of his ears and disappearing under the damp hair stuck to his forehead.
Her knee glides onto his chair, forcing its way between his thighs. "Did you... ejaculate?" He watches, totally fascinated with the way her mouth chews on the word.
Finally, he can give a truthful answer that doesn't make him feel the full force of his shame. "No!"
She smiles at his response, understanding more than he wished to give away. She recedes, and he's both enormously relieved and decidedly disappointed.
"You're a good man."
Confused by the sudden shift, he clears his throat. "Am I?"
"Yes." Her judgment is swift and indisputable. Something about her authority makes him believe her, though he is not feeling much like a good man right now—or a good judge, for that matter. "Your moral compass points you in the right direction."
My moral compass is bursting out of my briefs. He's afraid to speak, and luckily she continues.
"You're smart and fair, and I admired you from my first minutes in your courtroom."
He stares blankly at the scantily-clad domme who not five seconds earlier was demanding to know whether he masturbated to accounts of her sexual activity, and he's not quite sure how to respond to the normal conversation she seems to think they're having. "Thank you?"
"No, thank you,for not being a male chauvinist rat bastard."
A choked laugh escapes him. "I try."
"And you find success, as my son's teacher would say." Her eyes soften for a moment, despite her tough exterior and the trappings of the dominatrix.
There's another seismic shift, and she's the defendant again, pleading her case. "Look, your Honor, I'm not here to blackmail or embarrass you. I know what you need, and I want to provide it for you. In return, I just ask one thing from you, and by my way of thinking, it's something that's already owed to me. When I leave here tonight, I want you to be guided by what's right. We both know my husband is a worthless douchebag and granting him custody would be tantamount to child abuse. I'm a great mother, Ben and Angie need me, and I deserve full custody. That said, shall I stay?"
YES, THE JUDGE REASONS, WE HAVE ALREADY VENTURED into forbidden territory. Yes, the husband could have the ruling overturned if he were to learn about our ex parte communication. And yes, she could fuck me over in the public eye and ruin me, based solely on the little that has already happened here in this chamber.
Yet, they still hadn't crossed that invisible line of moral turpitude. Edward takes a deep breath and gives the only answer he can. "Yes," he responds, experiencing a potent tightening in his groin.
Immediately, everything changes. The woman in front of him nods once, lifts her chin, rolls back her shoulders, and slips easily back into her role as dominant.
"Here's what's going to happen," she says. "As long as you obey me, I will stay. You can opt out at any point, but if you do, I take my toys and go home. Understand?"
He nods and licks his lips.
"You will refer to me as 'Mistress,' and you will speak only when spoken to. Let's practice. Are you ready?"
His tongue weighs twenty pounds, but he manages to mold the words. "Yes, Mistress."
"That's a good start, pet." At the first use of the submissive label, Edward experiences a rush of humiliation accompanied by a hot spike of arousal.
Bella lifts her leg and sets her boot indelicately on his thigh, dangerously close to his burning need.
They both watch with great fascination as his cock swells and strains against all those tight layers of confinement, and she nudges his shaft experimentally with her toe.
"Oh, Christ," he whimpers, mortified at his response and desperate for her to touch him again.
"Does my boot excite you, pet?" She leans forward, grasping the upholstered arm of his chair for balance as she twists and slides the shiny boot along his robe.
Heaven help him, it does. So much.
"Well then..." She starts to pull her leg back, and he flails for the boot and catches the sharp heel in his fingertips.
She grabs a handful of hair and yanks his head up. "Tut-tut. I would've thought a well-educated boy like you would have much better manners than that."
He clears his throat. "Please..." he starts, struggles with himself one last time before giving in. His voice is little more than a broken whisper. "Please, Mistress, may I lick your boot?"
"Better." She loosens her grip on his hair. "You may."
Gingerly, he takes her offering in both hands and lifts it slightly while lowering his face. The smell of vinyl makes him dizzy even before the taste is on his tongue. He laps at the toe, trying his best not to take the liberty of enjoying the view of her long, lean thigh or the shadowy juncture above.
As he earnestly works his way up her boot one painstaking lick at a time, he can't help but breathe in the tang of her nearby sex and his own arousal mixing so pungently in the air between them. As his tongue crests the top, she praises him and sets her foot down on the floor.
"Do you want the other one, pet?"
"Yes, please, Mistress."
"Come and get it then."
His dick swells intolerably as she steps back and he understands what is required. Edward falls to his knees in supplication and places his lips on the toe of the opposite boot.
He's aware of a sinking sensation, that of a diver descending to the next depth. I am worshipping her feet, he understands, not because he has a particular taste for it—and frankly, not even because she has a particular desire for him to do it for any other reason than exerting control—but simply because he craves her approval. He's already less tentative than the first time, kissing, licking, lapping with enthusiasm and devotion until he feels her hands at his scalp.
"Good boy. You can stand."
Easier said than done, it turns out, with a long robe tangling around his feet and a steel rod between his legs. He manages to push to his feet, and though he doesn't dare adjust himself, he does get caught glancing at her cleavage.
She quirks an eyebrow. "Breast man?"
"Yes, Mistress," he admits easily.
"If you're a good boy, you might just earn yourself a reward." Having no idea whatsoever what that entails, Edward immediately decides he will be a very, very good boy.
"Kick off your shoes," she demands. "Now your socks. Drop your pants." He startles and looks up. "Don't worry," she responds, "you can leave your dress on."
The comment would normally make him indignant, but right now, all he feels is the hot sting of humiliation—which is, he well knows, precisely her goal.
"Boxers or briefs? Extra style points if you're going commando."
"Figures. Get it? Legal...briefs?" Her hand shoots out, and he scurries out of his briefs and hands them to her. She tosses them aside and sets her eyes on the tent of black polyester protruding from his waist.
"You like wearing dresses?"
The robe is scratchy and hot, and he feels uncomfortably exposed. He also doesn't like the way she keeps calling it a dress. "No, Mistress."
"Are you sure about that?" she challenges, folding her arms over her chest. "Because you look pretty excited to me."
"That's not for my robe...that's for..."
She taps her toe impatiently. "Finish your sentence."
"For you, Mistress."
"For me? That's so sweet. You already had a flagpole here in your chambers earlier and now this...I'm flattered."
"There was another one, too...before." Jesus, what's with the confessional?
"Wow! You must be setting some kind of record today. Wait. Are you saying the judge got a boner in the courtroom? Tsk, tsk. There really oughtta be a law against that, don't you think?"
Her taunting draws him further in. "Yes, Mistress."
"And the punishment should fit the crime, don't you think?"
Punishment. The word has always been pregnant with meaning for him as an officer of the court, but now, a shiver runs through him at the implications, and he hesitates briefly before answering her."Yes, Mistress."
"Well..." she walks over to the chair where she tossed down her tote, "since it was these panties you wanted to get inside earlier, you can put them on now."
She tosses him a bright red lace thong and his face flushes furiously when he catches it.
"Oh, dear. Have I made an incorrect assumption, pet? Because if it was the slimeball you were daydreaming about, feel free to put your briefs back on."
Cross-dressing. The word rankles and knocks around in Edward's gut, deep down where the ugly things live—fears and prejudices and taboo fetishes not to be examined. He has not looked for this, does not want to be titillated by it, and most certainly does not want to think about the implications. He does, however, want to follow this through with Mistress Swan, and he's not going to let a little thong stand in his way.
"Absolutely not, Mistress," he says, stepping carefully into the leg holes—desperate not to let his robe fly open. It's immediately evident Bella's about half his girth, and the tight elastic bites into his thighs and hips as he struggles to drag the tiny thing up his body. He actually worries for a terrifying few seconds that he might rip it to shreds, which he knows would be a highly unfortunate outcome—and not just for the thong. He finally manages to settle the string uncomfortably about halfway up his ass crack, but that's as far as it goes. His balls crowd into the thin strip of lace, and his erection pushes well over the top. How the hell do women wear these fucking things? he wonders, jostling himself to try to get some relief, which is nowhere to be found.
"I bet you look real pretty in that, don't you?"
He feels idiotic and he cannot pretend otherwise. He answers honestly, "No, Mistress."
"Oh come now, pet. I think red is your color. Doesn't the lace feel nice against your cock?" The word reverberates off her tongue as she looks down to see the effect she's having on him.
"Not really, Mistress. It's a little scratchy to be honest."
"Aw, poor baby." Suddenly, she steps in close to Edward and covers his dick with her palm. Scrubbing furiously up and down over the robe, she sets him on fire. Pain and pleasure swirl together, the agonizing abrasion and the blissful pressure after the long day of unrelenting arousal. His eyes droop shut and she chastises him instantly, her mouth just inches from his.
"Show me some respect, pet. Open your eyes and look at me while I tease you! You like that, don't you? Like wearing my panties, huh? Like it a little rough?"
"Yes, Mist-ress," he pushes out, his choppy breath causing his words to sound brittle.
"I bet you'd like to come in my lacy thong, wouldn't you, dirty boy? Spray cum all over that dress of yours?"
Her hand slides suddenly to his balls, and she squeezes harshly. "NNNNGH!" he cries out. The pain is intense, but the brutal frustrating reality of her denial is even worse.
"Not yet, pet. I haven't had my fun."
He groans when she releases his sac, and she smirks. "Turn around and put your hands up against the wall."
Edward's insides curdle as he forces his hands and feet into the classic "frisk pose." Bella seems to be remarkably adept at seizing upon his vulnerabilities, or perhaps he's vulnerable to everything right now. His heart pounds as he hears her rummaging in her bag; moments later, she grabs his right hand and twists it harshly behind his back. There's a cold metallic click as the handcuffs close around his wrist. She follows swiftly with the second hand and before he even realizes what's happening, his hands are cuffed behind him. Edward's mind races through the account he read earlier of the handcuffed man, and his poor, abused semi-hard dick roars all the way back.
She leads him gruffly by the elbow like some common criminal and releases him into the center of the room. "Down on your knees."
He tries not to think about how ridiculous he must look—barefoot, handcuffed, his dress shirt and tie tucked away inside his robe—and under it all, his cock throbbing and bursting out of her delicate thong.
"I hope you're good at pearl diving, because you're not getting off unless I do."
She steps up close and spreads her legs wide on either side of his head. Her hand comes down and grasps a handful of hair, guiding Edward forward into the shadow between her open legs. He's completely enveloped by the smell of her sex—raw, needy, ripe—and he pulls a deep whiff into his nose as it hits the dark tangle of hair dripping with her juices.
When did she take off her latex G-string? he wonders.
Steering him with a tight grip, she tips his head back and steps over his mouth. Operating on pure instinct, he opens his mouth and takes his first taste of her pussy. Musk and latex and sweet, slippery arousal coat his tongue, and he reaches hungrily for more. He's yanked away sharply, and he blinks up at her to see where he's gone wrong.
"Slow down, pet."
"Sorry, Mistress." She pulls his face in once again, and this time he laps at her lightly, teasing the smooth skin between her folds. She rides his face, taking exactly what she wants and needs. He's no more than a tool for her enjoyment, and the idea of it thrills him. He can hardly breathe; her juices and sharp aroma build and swirl around him until finally—miraculously—she mashes his face against her pussy and hits her peak. Her legs shake violently, and her clit quivers and spasms in his mouth.
She pulls off him immediately, and he continues to lap gently at her with his tongue, careful to avoid anywhere she might be sensitive. When she's ready, she runs her fingers through his hair and speaks tenderly to him.
"That was nice, pet. I'm very pleased with you."
He can't describe or even understand the wave of pride that washes over him in that moment. So great is the sensation, he completely forgets what he's been promised in return.
"Stand up," she commands, helping him with her hand at his elbow. Once he's on his feet, her eyes rake down his body, stopping on the horizontal protrusion.
"Oh dear," she teases, "I'm afraid we're not the same size. That thong must be awfully tight on you."
"Yes, Mistress." Incredibly so.
"Let's check it out, shall we?"
Panic strikes. It's one thing for them both to know what he's wearing beneath his robes; it's an entirely different thing for her to examine him. Her fingers meet the second button of his robe, and he doesn't dare look away from her eyes. His heart is pounding and his dick is pulsating, and it's all he can do to hold his balance.
Unbearable need wars with humiliation, and he finds himself more turned on than he can ever remember. You are one sick fuck, Edward Cullen.
One button at a time, she opens his cloak, peeling away his covering, revealing his basest needs. She stops unbuttoning when she reaches his waist, concealing the source of his disgrace and prolonging his agony. He's holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable, when she slides her hands up the outside of his shirt and straightens his tie.
"Much better," she chuckles.
She trails her palm down his shirt again, slowly, torturously, teasing closer and closer to his aching cock. His breathing is erratic; his whole body wound like a steel spring. Grasping the critical button of the robe, she steps closer, close enough to casually brush her thigh against his erection, close enough that he feels her breath on his chin. "Tell me to stop and I will. I will uncuff you right now and walk out that door, and I won't see your cock trapped in my pretty panties. You be the judge."
She chuckles derisively at her own little joke, and she waits.
He opens his mouth to give the sane answer—Go; leave me alone to pick up what's left of my pride and try to move on—but the words won't come. He needs her to see him, God help him; he's praying she'll touch him. Only one thing does he know for sure—if he tells her to leave now, he'll never forgive himself.
"Please, Mistress," he whispers, "don't stop."
"Ahh," she smiles brightly, "you have made a very wise decision—one of many tonight, I hope." He can't process her allusion to the case in his current state. He's not even sure he could sign his own name right now.
With a subtle twist of her hand, the critical button is opened, her knuckles knocking carelessly against his hard-on. His eyes follow hers downward and there it is—his shamefully rigid cock straining against the girly lace, begging for attention, a large drop of creamy fluid weeping off the tip. She swipes her tongue across her lower lip. "Mmm, that looks good enough to eat...if one happens to like that sort of thing."
His poor rod sways toward the sound of her voice like a poppy bending longingly toward the sun.
"Let's get a better look at it, shall we?" She releases the final button and pushes the robe over his shoulders. It slides along his arms and comes to rest on top of the cuffs. The rush of cool air feels like a soft caress and he whimpers pitifully.
"Impressive," she says, folding her arms across her chest and fixing her hot gaze on him. "Turn. Slowly."
His robe swishes along the carpeted chamber as he spins in a slow three-sixty for her, his cock bobbing heavily with every step.
"Stop!" she orders, placing one hand on his upper arm and the other on his cuffed hands. Lifting his shirt tails and the clump of heavy material out of the way, she threads one finger under the floss crossing his lower back and wedges it deeper into his ass crack. "Ouch," she says unsympathetically when he hisses.
Her hand pulls back suddenly and open palms his ass with more force than he's expecting. The surprise jolts him forward, and she has to catch him. "Jumpy little guy, aren't ya?"
She cups his ass and pinches—hard. "Mmmm, not bad."
He resists the urge to twist away from the rough treatment. "Thank you, Mistress."
"Kinda makes me want to see what you're hiding behind that tie. Turn back."
He does as she says, and her fingers start working his shirt buttons—quickly this time. In just a few short seconds, his shirt joins his robe in the heap resting heavily on the handcuffs, and his tie hangs loosely down his chest. "That is one impressive chest, pet. Not bad for a guy with a desk job."
Though this has easily been the most humiliating experience of his life, Edward feels his chest puff up with an unlikely burst of pride when he answers. "Thank you, Mistress."
She drags her fingernails up his chest, leaving thin red lines in their wake. His nipples plump into tight points, and she twists them suddenly between her thumb and forefinger.
"Ahnnnn!" he calls out, gritting his teeth.
"Shh, pet, let me take care of that for you." She closes her mouth first over one nipple, then the other, soothing him with her tongue. His mind spins with the conflicting signals. Rough, sweet; harsh, gentle.
Her fingernails lightly tickle down his sides until he's shivering and covered in goose flesh. She trails the teasing touches down his abdomen, closer...closer...closer. His dick stretches obscenely from its trap, desperately seeking contact. He's worried now that he might come without permission; he knows enough from his internet forays to understand that would be a tragic error. He tries to distract himself by reciting law statutes from his first year at Harvard. Her voice demands his attention, foiling his plans.
"It's exciting for you to feel vulnerable, isn't it?" she asks, circling her hands around his aching cock but not touching him there.
"You crave that feeling that I hold all the power over you? That I might walk out of here right now and leave the door wide open for a colleague to find you—handcuffed and exposed—everything you've worked for your whole life in shambles because of your sexual needs? That's all part of the thrill for you, isn't it, pet?"
Her hands and her words swirl together in a dark cloud of lust and need. His cock twitches unambiguously at the suggestion of being discovered in this mortifying position. Of course, he does not wish for that to happen, but the idea most definitely fuels the fantasy.
"Because you know, deep down, that you're safe right now, don't you, Judge?"
His stomach takes an anxious roll at her use of his formal title, and his eyes lock onto hers. Where he expected perhaps a malicious sneer, he finds instead a softening, a connection from one person holding all the power to another in precisely the same position. Though the danger is still present, he understands on a visceral level that he's trusted her all along—first, to keep this visit between the two of them, and now, to take proper care with his body and his pride.
"Yes, Mistress, I do." She acknowledges his answer with a slight nod, and he feels compelled to add, "And thank you."
She meets him eye-to-eye for several seconds, then walks over to her bag once more and pulls out a leather riding crop. His eyes pop open as he understands exactly how profoundly dangerous this might be, and he fights the instinct to berate himself for his weakness.
"I'm a good person, Judge, and a great mother."
She flicks one of his sensitive nipples with the flat end of the crop, and he jerks away. Undeterred, she catches the other side.
"I made one craptastic decision, and I've spent the rest of my life paying for it."
She works the crop lower, swatting at his belly, and lower. She teases his tip with a light swish before moving to the inside of his thighs. Higher, higher, closer, he wants it, he doesn't want it. He's scared, he's desperate.
"You like this, don't you, Judge?"
"Yes, Mistress." She rewards him with a swift, light, repetitive swish of the crop back and forth across his shaft, building, higher, until it reaches his bare skin above the lace. He groans as his knees buckle from the sheer relief of being touched, but it's not enough.
"I like it, too," she replies, tossing away the crop and cupping his sac with her hand. He gasps and leans forward. She catches him with her thigh while the other hand closes around his tip. "I like having you at my mercy, knowing that I can do whatever I want to your body because it's one hundred percent consensual. At any time, you can ask me to leave and I would. I crave this because I see what it does to you. Look how hard you are for me."
His eyes drop to the scene of her two hands on his bright red, throbbing cock, and just when he's sure he can't hold on, she releases him. His head falls forward onto her shoulder as he pants vigorously while the ache subsides. Pain, pleasure, tease, deny...a swirl of confusing sensations serving as the backdrop for her lecture.
She cups the back of his head and tenderly kisses his cheek. "Your need is beautiful to me."
Tears sting at the back of his eyes. He's losing his mind here, and there's only one way back—her way.
"Should you be punished for your desire to feel shame? Should you lose everything you've worked for because you crave the domination?"
She slips two fingers inside the panties, caressing his balls without the lace barrier, and his cock is so jealous it's literally weeping.
"Then why should I? Why should I lose my children for it? I don't hate men as my ex would have you believe, Judge. Not at all. I love your strength, love the majesty of the male body..." With this, she starts her fingers up his shaft. He loses his breath for a minute at the intense pleasure of finally being touched. "I find my greatest joy in your submission—as do you."
She wraps her whole hand around his shaft and pulls his cock through the tight tunnel of her fingers. "NNNNNNNGGG!" Immediately, she repeats the motion until he's nearly incoherent.
"I bet that feels good, Judge. To be taken care of this way?"
"And what if I add a little pain?" The string up his ass is pulled higher, dragging his balls downward while she pulls the opposite way on his shaft. His knees buckle and she supports him with her body, but she doesn't let up on the tension.
"You give up control by decision. It's what you crave...but it's not what I want. You see the difference?"
"Mmmiiiiiiiiiyyyyy!" She gives the string a sudden tug and he sees stars. But then that other hand...that other hand...the pulling, the fingers, touching, rubbing...
"Do you see the difference, JUDGE?"
"Good," she replies, dropping the thong and letting his balls join the rest of him. "Then please, don't take control from me."
"Okay, pet. You did beautifully. Now, you get all your rewards." With one hand at the back of his neck, she presses his face into her cleavage. He tastes her hungrily, lifting his face only to thank her.
She uses his fluid to slick her tight palm up and down his shaft. He groans into her breasts, incoherent noises, desperate, animal sounds.
"Shhh, pet. Quiet now; you don't want your friends to hear you," she teases him, overstimulating his tip until he begs her to let him come.
"See there, pet? I knew you had good manners. Yes, baby, you can come."
She flattens her palm against his shaft, and his muscular thighs pump violently, rocking into her hand with a crazed fervor. She extends her fingertips to his balls as he squirts long ribbons of thick cum up his chest and all over his tie. He clamps his teeth around the edge of her bodice, grunting into her soft skin with his release. When he finally finishes and slumps against her, she soothes her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck while releasing the thong from the crevice. He turns his head to breathe and lets her rock him slowly while her other arm moves up his back.
"Let me take care of you, pet. Can you stand on your own?"
Dazed but coherent, he pulls his head up and regards her through glassy eyes. He wants to thank her again, but he doesn't quite know how. He watches her work the thong over his thighs and knees, and he steps out while she holds him by the elbow.
"Souvenir?" she asks with a wink, causing him to chuckle.
"No, thanks," he says, then thinks better of it and quickly adds, "Mistress."
"The scene is over. You can go back to calling me Bella."
"I never called you Bella before," he grins.
"I suppose that's true, Judge."
"Edward," he corrects her immediately.
She steps in front of him and grasps the loop of the tie, carefully working it over his head so as not to sear cum in his hair. He has an overwhelming desire to kiss her, but he fears it wouldn't be welcomed. He settles for eye contact, and he is rewarded with a shy smile. She runs her hands wistfully over his chest one last time. "You really do have a nice body."
"Thanks. So do you."
She steps behind him and pulls his shirt up and over his shoulders. The robe takes a little more effort, but soon she's got the cuffs exposed and opened. Edward thanks her yet again while he rubs his wrists.
"I'd like to massage your shoulders without your clothes in the way. Is that okay?"
He tries not to grin like a loon. "I guess I could handle that."
She slips the shirt and robe off together and Edward watches every step as she crosses the room and lays them carefully along his couch. He stands passively with his arms down by his sides as she begins to knead the tension out of his shoulders and neck. His head drops forward, and he drifts off on an endorphin high while she takes care of him, his mind blissfully at peace for the first time all day. Truth be told, he hasn't felt this relaxed in weeks.
"Edward?" she asks softly.
"I suspect this was your first time doing anything like this?"
"Yesss," he slurs lazily, concentrating on her hands and the soft brush of her thighs on the back of his legs.
"I know these are...unusual circumstances, but I'm here if you want to talk about anything. Normally, we'd have a chance to talk afterward."
"Not sure...I can think...right now." He lets out a long, relaxed sigh.
"Fair enough." Her hands relax, and her stroke becomes a soft caress.
It's time to go. Her toys are packed; she proved her point; she got what she came for...and yet, she finds herself reluctant to leave him. She tells herself it's out of concern for him, that she shouldn't abandon him after such an intense experience, but when he spins around to face her, she has to admit there's more to it.
His strong arms close around her waist, and she feels his heft against her thigh. She can't help but look down incredulously. "Wow. That's just...wow."
He blushes again and shrugs. "Thank you?" They both laugh, and he takes a chance and pulls her closer, tipping his head down and resting his forehead against hers. "I guess I do have one question," he says.
"Sure. Anything," she answers breathlessly.
He feels like a teenager asking a girl to the prom, and in the same moment, he cannot believe the exhilaration of it. "Do you have a rule about kissing?"
Her eyes grow wider and she slides her hands around his neck, settling back into the security of his embrace. "No," she whispers.
She sees his eyes light up just before he closes his lips over hers.
THERE'S A FIRM KNOCK ON THE JUDGE'S DOOR.
"Come!" he answers, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his robe.
Emmett strides over to him and hands him a small white envelope. His voice tight, his friend says, "She asked me to give this to you."
"Fuck, Em, I'm sorry you got dragged into this," the judge replies, taking the envelope.
Emmett's hands immediately find his hips. "Is she worth it?"
Edward doesn't even pause; his face opens into the most relaxed smile his friend has seen in years. Emmett rolls his eyes, but he can't help smiling in response. The two men share a brief acknowledgment that something monumental has happened, then Emmett starts pacing madly in front of the desk. "What are you gonna do?" he asks, dragging his meaty hand through his short, black hair.
Edward walks over to his mirror again and readjusts his tie. "This one's easy, Em."
"So says her ex," he retorts.
The judge's hands still on his red paisley tie and the two men's eyes lock together in the mirror. "I wasn't referring to the girl," he says through tightly clenched teeth.
"Oh shit! Sorry." Emmett holds up his hands in apology.
Edward's fingers move to the buttons of his robe, watching his friend's reflection pace furiously in the small space. "Sit down, will you? You're making a trough in the carpet."
He watches Emmett's retreating form and hears him sink into the couch with a loud sigh. After a short silence, Emmett says, "Please tell me you're going to lay low for a while."
Somewhat appeased, Emmett stands and walks to the door.
His robe buttoned, Edward turns to his friend. "Thanks, Em."
Emmett smiles the way he used to smile, back in the days when Edward was fun and Emmett didn't have to worry about him, and Edward feels a strong pang of affection for his old friend.
There's a gleam in Emmett's eye. "I always knew you were a sick fucker, Cullen."
Edward chuffs, "Took me a while to figure it out."
"See you inside, your Honor," Emmett responds before slipping out the door and closing it quietly behind him.
"ALL RISE FOR THE JUDGE'S DECISION."
Jacob Black and Bella Swan stand at their separate tables and hold their breath as the Honorable Edward Cullen pushes through the door leading from his chambers and onto the raised platform behind his bench. The judge takes his seat and lifts his parchment, though he has it memorized. Locking his eyes studiously on the page, he reads:
"Whereas the activities in question between the defendant and other unnamed parties take place between mature, consenting adults outside of the perception of the children, this court hereby deems there to be no endangerment or unseemly conduct on the part of the mother. Therefore, my ruling is for the custody arrangement to remain in full force exactly as it was established in this court on the eighteenth day of April in the year 2012, with full custody residing with the mother, Ms. Isabella Marie Swan. This court is adjourned."
"Thank you, your Honor," Bella says quietly, catching the judge's eye when he finally allows himself a glance in her direction.
Edward nods seemingly without emotion, but they both know otherwise.
Jacob barks out a disappointed but respectful, "Thank you, your Honor," before picking up his documents, shooting Bella a nasty look, and disappearing down the center aisle and through the door.
Bella takes her time gathering her belongings at the defendant's table, and just before she turns to leave, Bella glances up at him one last time. The judge's eyes are fixed on her, soaking in every new image he can capture without giving himself away.
If the bailiff were asked to describe the scene, he'd say they looked like two wild mustangs, straining to run full force toward each other but constrained by invisible reins. Chomping at the bit.
Reluctantly, it seems, she tears her eyes away, turns, and saunters down the aisle. Edward allows himself the pleasure of watching her soft curves bobbing under the straight black skirt. He stays for a moment after the doors close behind her, mesmerized. Emmett clears his throat, and Edward shakes his head briefly, stands, and exits to his chambers.
He walks straight over to his couch and pulls the envelope from his shirt pocket. Somehow, he knows she'd want him to take care in opening it, so he imposes that unspoken command. As Edward reverently unfolds the paper, he feels a pleasant stirring in his briefs.
To his utter delight, the judge enters into his own personal evidence "Exhibit M," a full-color print of Mistress Swan's equipment cupboard. Unlike the image she provided yesterday, this time the doors are thrown wide open, revealing all the implements of her avocation: thick leather cuffs and metal spreader bars, heavy blindfolds and intimidating gags, and a dizzying array of riding crops, paddles, and whips. A drawer is open just below, and several of Mistress Swan's corsets are artfully arranged for the camera.
Edward's face breaks into an unstoppable smile as he manages to reach the bottom of the page, where he's rewarded with a brief message written in elegant script:
Don't keep me waiting.
I am not a patient woman.