The Dreamatorium

[Scuttle Buttin']

Icy blue eyes slid smoothly from his wife to her lover, a quiet snort of laughter ejected as she told him to leave. From his home. From his room. From his wife.

Linda's voice drew his attention back to her, and somehow sorry just made it worse. Perhaps if it was sorry and she was out of the bed. Perhaps if it was sorry and she had clothes on. Perhaps if it was sorry and she didn't have Jayla's fucking hand still between her splayed legs while she said it. But that it was none of them, that it was so feeble an attempt...

His head shook once, slowly, and he rose from the chair without a word to either of them. Moving to the bedroom door, he pushed it closed instead of passing through and out of the room.

The house, updated in some areas but still rather old in others, had a few rooms remaining that locked with a key. They'd always found it kind of quaint and charming, and with the two of them here they rarely locked doors anyway, and so they'd left the antique-looking key in the lock of the bedroom door and not bothered to replace it with a more modern, keyless lock.

It was this selfsame key that he now twisted, removed, and slipped into the pocket of his trousers. While he was sure Linda would recognize the sound, he didn't know that Jayla would, or that she would know quite what it meant.

Together, they were locked in. And he had the key.

The key secured, he turned and returned to the chair in silence, pulling his phone from inside his coat pocket as he did. Eyes on the screen as his thumb moved against it, at last he spoke.

"You won't 'whore her' for me, Jayla?" he asked, his tone low and even, almost distracted. "That's your choice, of course. But see, the thing you ladies don't get is that-ah, here it is."

He paused, two more taps on the phone's screen, and then continued, looking up to the pair of them now.

"The thing the you don't get is that men talk to. And your husband, Jayla, told me all about the prenup you so foolishly signed, because you were so in love." Extra emphasis was added to this final word, and his eyes rolled with it as if annoyed by it's very presence on his lips.

"So I'm going to give you a choice, Jayla."

The phone was extended towards them now, screen out, her husband's contact information blazing at the pair of them in high definition.

"You can fuck my wife, or I can make sure you are left without a single fucking penny to your name."

And as pleasantly as if he'd just closed a deal and was finalizing it with a handshake, Alaric smiled.

 

[Miss_Vivi]

"I'm sorry..."

It was Linda all over, fuck her lover, fuck her husband then bleat out little apologies like that would solve it all. Jayla hated her in this moment. Loved her, and hated her and had any one asked her why, she would have shrugged and said that it was the way she felt that's all, and it hurt. It fucking hurt to hate the woman.

Then he spoke. He got up and locked the door and Jayla knew what he was doing because Linda had shown her the doors and gushed about the house after they had purchased it. They were locked in the room with this maniac. Jayla felt downright murderous.

"You won't 'whore her' for me, Jayla? That's your choice, of course. But see, the thing you ladies don't get is that-ah, here it is."

She knew what he was doing. She knew it was his ace card.

"The thing the you don't get is that men talk to. And your husband, Jayla, told me all about the prenup you so foolishly signed, because you were so in love."

Jayla's stomach dropped, even before the words came out of his mouth.

"So I'm going to give you a choice, Jayla."

She knew that her husband would want to know what she was up to and that he'd leave her without a penny, or try to. She knew that he had been fucking members of his staff pretty much since their marriage began. Jayla lived with it.

It kept him off her, at least.

Alaric held the phone out to her, triumph in his gaze as the light flashed Clark's contact info at her. What a terrible little device.

"You can fuck my wife, or I can make sure you are left without a single fucking penny to your name."

Her mouth was dry, and he had backed her into a corner, and expected her to cower before his wrath, his power and his threats. Why do men feel it's necessary to corner women when they are afraid?

Fucker.

"Want me to fuck your wife, Alaric?" She gritted through her teeth, as her hands went to work eliciting pleasure from Linda. She rubbed the right spots and listened and watched her lover squirm under her touch. Her fingers were quickly slick and slid inside and past the thin cover of fabric that had previously held her back.

"Since you aren't capable of doing it yourself." Jayla's fingers slid in and out of Linda easily, she slowly added fingers until four of them were filling the other woman's cunt. "Yeess.. look at her fuck my hand, Alaric. Look at her grind her hips into my fingers. We both know she doesn't whore herself out like that for you. Does she?"

"Show him, my love, show your husband that his cock is nothing but a useless battering ram to you, show him." Jayla called urgently and softly to Linda while her right hand pumped in and out of the woman, fucking her, while her left hand rubbed her clit. Linda was a moaning, writhing mess on the bed.

"That's right, my little whore, you like it when I fuck you don't you? You like it when I slide my hand inside you. Show me. Cum all over my fingers. Come on, Linda, cum! He never fucks you like I do, does he?"

She waited until Linda screamed for her..for Alaric. Then Jayla was up and off the bed like a shot. She didn't wait for Linda to calm down, just grabbed the woman by the hair and pulled her roughly off the bed.

Hating them both. For being in her life. For wanting to ruin her life with their little games, and little moans. Fuck them both.

Jayla dragged her lover and best friend by the hair across the room and tossed her carelessly at the feet of her husband.

"Consider her fucked Alaric," she taunted at him, "fuck you too." She swung her wet, cum covered hand through the air and caught him right in his smug cheek, smacking him, soaking it and reddening it at the same time.

She smiled.

"Go to hell."

 

[Britwitch]

The dull click of the lock is what did it. Fanning the panic already rippling inside and rapidly causing it to grow stronger and deeper. Her chest felt tight and she wanted to cry. She hated feeling like this. As if things were beyond her control. She hated that she'd felt that feeling often enough to recognise it instantly, felt it far too many times.

"You won't 'whore her' for me, Jayla? That's your choice, of course. But see, the thing you ladies don't get is that-ah, here it is. The thing the you don't get is that men talk to. And your husband, Jayla, told me all about the prenup you so foolishly signed, because you were so in love."

Linda felt sick. That side to Alaric, the one she tried to pretend didn't really exist, the one she denied to Jayla so many times, was bubbling cruelly to the surface.

"So I'm going to give you a choice, Jayla. You can fuck my wife, or I can make sure you are left without a single fucking penny to your name."

"Want me to fuck your wife, Alaric?"
Linda shook her head, eyes wide. She barely had time to draw breath in an attempt to placate her husband and delay her lover's angry response to his baiting before Jayla's hands began their delicious torment.

"Nooo..." She groaned as fingers teased and touched those sensitive places, areas that before Alaric had returned home had been spasming against her lover's mouth. "Please...don't..." The words were whimpered as finger became fingers, steadily increasing until tight sex was stuffed beyond reason.

"Since you aren't capable of doing it yourself. Yeess.. look at her fuck my hand, Alaric. Look at her grind her hips into my fingers. We both know she doesn't whore herself out like that for you. Does she?"
Linda didn't want to. She didn't want any of this. This was cruel and sick and twisted and whole lot of other things she couldn't even think of names for. She didn't want her hips to move as they were, she didn't want her pussy to grow obscenely wet around the hand that fucked it, she didn't want her pleaded words to turn into guttural moans that hung in the air like a fog over the bed.

"Show him, my love, show your husband that his cock is nothing but a useless battering ram to you, show him."
"...Please...Jayla...please, don't..." She managed to whine, to beg, just before precise pressure was applied to her clit and the world started to alternate between midnight darkness and rainbow brightness.

"That's right, my little whore, you like it when I fuck you don't you? You like it when I slide my hand inside you. Show me. Cum all over my fingers. Come on, Linda, cum! He never fucks you like I do, does he?"
Linda fought it, she tried to hold it back, but she wasn't strong enough. Not nearly. She couldn't fight off Jayla, she certainly couldn't fight off Alaric. Seemed she couldn't even defeat her own body.
Within seconds of being all but instructed to, she came. Bucking wantonly, gushing across the bedding and letting a steady stream of obscenities flow from her lips.

She'd barely begun to catch her breath when she felt Jayla roughly extricate herself and then haul her from the bed, by her hair. Linda squealed, hands rising to try and ease the pain in her scalp. Terror now replacing the anxiety. Jayla was her friend, her lover. This...this wasn't right.

"Consider her fucked Alaric...fuck you too."
She hit the floor at his feet a split second before the wet sound of a slap rang out in the room. Linda's head snapped up, eyes immediately spotting the rapidly reddening mark on his cheek.

"Go to hell."

Linda knew she had a tiny window of opportunity. Mere seconds to act before the shock of being struck wore off her husband. She shifted shakily onto her knees between his legs, still battling the aftershocks of an orgasm that would have damn near killed her before beginning her affair with Jayla.

"Darling...darling, please..." She used the voice she knew he liked. The meek one, the eager to please one. "Let her go home. Please. I promise this won't happen again. I swear..." Hands trembling as they ran up and along his thighs. She knew he likely wasn't even listening. The fury rolling off him in waves and now directed at Jayla. With any luck he wouldn't notice her at all.

Stroking palms rose up his thighs, one aiming for his crotch, the other...his pocket. If she could get the key, she could risk going for the door, unlocking it and taking Jayla with her. Other rooms had locks too. They could barricade themselves in. Phone for help.

A few inches more and fractions of a second to do it. To reach inside and get the key. Almost there. Almost.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

Alaric was like the red hot coals at the bottom of a fireplace as he watched them on the bed. On their bed.

Burning.
Consuming oxygen at a rapid pace.
Past the point of ignition.
Raging quietly.

How had things spun so out of control so quickly? A night that was supposed to be good, a happy welcome home, and now his wife and her best friend

fuck buddy​

lover​

were on his bed, lost in each other while he watched.

The phone, still gripped in his hand, timed out and went to black, and he lowered it to his lap as he watched them in silence.

Disbelief.

A steady stream of words flowed from Jayla's lips, words she'd probably used in this very room before, but now they were slaps instead of caresses. Daggers for him instead of urgings for her.

All too soon (not soon enough?) he saw the tale tell signs in his wife and knew she'd reached her peak - an idea that somehow angered him more, that she even could despite all that had happened since he walked in the door - and then suddenly she was being flung at him. Cast as his feet.

He barely had time to register this fact before he was being slapped by Jayla, and the snap of his head ended the rise of anything in him that was not anger.

Fuck her.

Fuck her.

Fuck them.

Fuck this.

Why was she even talking? Why was she touching him as if it was something he wanted? Hands on his legs, hands on his crotch, hands moving over him, words he wasn't even paying attention to, and hands moving toward his hip, and he

His hip?

Unbelievable.

The hand not still wrapped around his phone flashed out, closing around her wrist and lifting it off of him. He ignored, for the moment, Jayla standing near them, and the throb in his cheek, and the smell of her sex drifting from that same cheek, and instead looked down into the face of his wife, his head tilted to the side a bit. Almost curiosity.

"So this is how it is, Linda? She throws you at me, and you're still with her? No hesitation?"

A glance was cast to Jayla, who still stood almost entirely naked, matching his wife in more ways than one.

He leaned forward, looking back into the face of his wife, his voice dropping as he did.

"How long, Linda? How many nights did you sleep in that bed with me after fucking her?"

 

[Britwitch]

Fingers had almost found the seam of his pocket when a strong, angry, hand caught hold of her arm and pulled it away. Holding it up. Holding her down. She pulled tentatively, wanting to put space between them. Wincing as his grip didn't falter for a second.

"So this is how it is, Linda? She throws you at me, and you're still with her? No hesitation?"

"Darling, it's not like that, honestly it's not. I just thought that we needed to calm things down. And the door-" She stopped babbling as he leant closer and she felt her breath hitch. Feeling a sudden dull, heavy, punch to her gut of guilt as the blue eyes that had drawn her in all those years before now glared at her with hatred simmering in their depths.

No. It was exactly like that.

"How long, Linda? How many nights did you sleep in that bed with me after fucking her?"
"Never! I swear, until tonight we'd never done anything here..." Linda's voice was still husky from the orgasm Jayla had forced upon her which she was certain didn't really help her cause. She also knew she hadn't answered his question.

"And it's been a few months..." Linda winced, drawing back a little as much as she could without tugging on the wrist still surrounded by long, strong, fingers. "Neither of us meant for it to happen. You have to believe me but...you'd been, well, we'd had a fight and I was upset and...one thing led to another..." Her cheeks were on fire as she tried to explain to the one person she never wanted to know.

She shook her head for a moment. It was all so insane. Far too crazy to actually think about. Her and Jayla almost naked, him sat there full clothed. The three of them locked in a room together. None of what had happened made any kind of sense.

In the odd little nightmares she'd had about discovery, Alaric goading Jayla into fucking her in front of him had never come close to featuring.

In those panicky moments when she'd only just stepped out of the shower as he'd come home, certain he'd be able to tell somehow what she'd been up to. Heart racing when he'd held her, hoping he thought it was excitement for him and not terror for herself.

She loved him. She did. She was sure she did. Otherwise why would she have stayed?
Through the fights and the moods, through his tempers and...

Linda fought a sudden urge to cry, wondering why she had stayed, tears building up despite her best efforts.

"I don't know what you want me to say..."

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

 

[thestruggle]

[WARNING: May contain graphic/violent/disturbing content.]​

An orchard at night. The trees, so bright and cheerful in the sun, were shrouded and dark. Rustling branches, no night calling of animals. Only the movement of the leaves and the dark bounty of the fruit that hid among the boughs. A misted ground. An encompassing quietude. A scene was set, but what would come?

A wraith walked. A girl with red hair, tumbling and free. A girl in a white dress, surprisingly stark against the shadows. Bare feet. Red nails. Her toes hesitated in the dewy grass. Step, pause. Step, pause. A touch of a hand to a trunk, rough and sturdy. Small, delicate, subdued. She had come far, to walk through the trees. She had fought her way to the bower. The tenebrous grasp that so many resisted embraced her, welcomed her. Didn't it?

I have been one acquainted with the night.

Her fingers closed around a cherry, pulled the fruit free.

I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.

Her teeth sank, blissfully, into ripely sweet flesh.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

The juice filled her mouth, the pulp rolled on her tongue. Full, satisfying, forbidden.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

A half-eaten cherry gleamed up, sinisterly, from her fingertips. Her pale skin was stained with the proof of her tasting. No going back now. She had come that far. What answer lay in the harvest?

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

She finished the fruit, tossed away the pit. Drawing a trail of cherry ichor down the tree next to her, she moved on. The thoughts swirled, crept, whispered: much like the fog around her ankles. For all the orchard's endless ciphers, she felt at home. The fear still prickled up her spine—she welcomed it. The anxiety still clenched at the inside of her stomach—she seized it. What was darker? The girl or the wood?

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Did she need a beacon? Did she need to be recalled? The answer was here, somewhere. Her skirt moved around her thighs. Her feet brushed over the blades of plants underneath. A scene to be set.

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

Cherries.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

She was not alone.

 

[Miss_Vivi]

A single hand through short brown hair, unkempt bangs down in front of green eyes, a smile on a dirty face. Nighttime. Freedom. Nighttime. No work to be done, just gently swaying trees and fantasies of pretty girls in white dresses, dripping the red death of cherries down her chin.

Wait.
Not a fantasy. A girl.

In her orchard. In his orchard. In their orchard. Fucking pronouns. Fucking girl.

White hot anger. Intruder. Intruder! Seething screaming needs floating like bile in the back of this one's throat. This one who owns the orchard. Who doesn't care for intruders. Who is both girl and boy and everything sugar and snail, spice and puppy dog tails. Who doesn't fall on one side of gender or the other but dances that line with dirty feet and an impish grin.

Quick silent steps born of familiarity on her home ground weren't heard, she presses the girl against a tree. Rough hands seek out small branches, easily broken on soft skin, which doesn't matter because these same rough hands close so easily around the soft and now gasping throat of the one she found in the orchard.

The why, who, what, doesn't matter. The girl in white's guilt colors her lips and stains her dress.

Interrogations can and will wait. Anger boils, and the gasps of the pretty guilty one do nothing to assuage the need that fills this pretty and strong farmer. The ease of which this pretty pale one falls to the ground, the way her cherry covered lips form an "O" don't stop the farmer from falling on top of her, from slapping the pretty cherry colored cheek. There is no stopping him from straddling her, from pinning her arms down, and meeting those guilty eyes with her own.

"The pretty one wants my cherries."

Statement. Not a question. Truth. To be wrenched free of sanguine lips before they entranced this farmer. The girl was guilty and needed to be cleansed.

 

[thestruggle]

A cry, startled out of her mouth. Not a scream—too abrupt to scream. The scratching and digging of branches, snagging in her dress, pulling at her hair. So carefully arranged, so easily unraveled. Short hair. Anger, so angry, but avid, those eyes. Hungry for something, for what?

“Wai—”

Squeezed out, hands on her throat, rugged and coarse. A different kind of fear at the touch of skin. Real, factual. No dreaming orchard. Not just a nighttime walk. There is her, with fingers on her neck. The trees brush and whisper above her head, but the roaring in her ears obscures it and then begins to subside. A pounding heartbeat.

“Who—”

The sudden movement of tumbling to the ground, inertia—oh inertia, the knocking of wind from her chest as her back meets the grass. Blades harshly tickling her feet, her calves, the backs of her knees. Dirt staining the back of her dress. The moisture in the night air has left the ground damp, chill and solid beneath her. Stunned, dazed, the contact of a snapping palm to her cheek rockets her head to the side. Raising arms to duck but then they are pinned, a butterfly caught.

It's the slap that does it.

Breathing heavily, eyes full of venom.
Yes, venom.
A white dress.
Poisonous.

“ The pretty one wants my cherries.”

No telling what has her. Some imp, some gray line. Her wrists protest the anchored hold. The pale cheek flushed, the red bloom spreading and tattling its rough treatment. Mouth full of hot, sweet juice and slowly drying from her labored efforts to gain oxygen.

It's the slap that does it.

What's left to lose in the night?
She could be sweet, she could beguile.
But she is caught.
The fear trickles away and leaves adrenaline.
Panting, her feet and legs kick out, struggling.

“They're mine.”

Spitting out what liquid she has left, red and raw. Up at the face, the waiting face, that greedily watches her.

“I'll take them.”

Back arching up, trying, heels pressing into frosted ground.

“Who are you to stop me?”

 

[Miss_Vivi]

"They're mine."

The spit covered farmer couldn't breathe for the anger that choked their, her throat, that without thinking spit back onto the cherry lipped thief that struggled under those rough dirty hands.

Oh nighttime with skittish creatures and dark hunters that Nox owns. Of ominous fears and the death of a thousand innocent animals, that shout their last words to the sentinel sky.

Like the one in the dress.
Like this thief that borrows, and steals and claims what is not hers. Her sinister words put forth to test the will of the farmer. She lies.

You can hear it on the wind. Her lies that dance around the farmer, that drip from the spittle on her chin.

She lies and is trash.

"No!" The farmer screams the sort of scream that startles the quiet night that had heretofore been unaware of the little struggle between the two women. The stars still twinkle, but the orchard breathes in the violence as it will soon drink the blood of the thief that had killed it's children and spit their detritus over their roots.

Their farmer will take care of them.

She does then. Dragging the pretty thief to a basket filled with cherries. These ones dying, bleeding their ocher through wicker that had been stained with generations of their fallen and rotting sisters.

"These are your cherries thief!"

The girl is covered then in the flesh of hundreds of decaying cherries. Their blood spilling all over the pretty one, staining her dress, though they themselves were merely the castoffs from their mothers that hung above them, aborted and misshapen children of the orchard.

And now they belonged to the thief, they clung to her, bled on her, died on her and colored her red. And though she had been anointed in their blood she was still unclean.

The farmer stepped back and laughed at her.

"You are unclean, pretty thief. But you have your cherries."

That face that stared at the farmer with hatred needed more coloring, and so she broke the silence of Nox's cloak with yet another sound. This one a crack, a slap against a soft cheek that sent the thief back into the dirt.

It felt good.
And the nighttime came alive around them.

 

[thestruggle]

“No!”

The scream stalls the kicking, steals the girl's movement, knocks breath out of her lungs. Oxygen pilfered: who is the thief? The girl's gaze: round and fearful, wild pools. A pause that tells nothing except that she has touched a deep vein, somewhere. The red is on her lips, on her chin. The clicking of her eyes as they move around their sockets, chest heaving. But then, as she adjusts to the shock, there is a shift.

A raw and ragged noise is pulled from her as she is jerked, yanked forward, fingernails digging into the dirt. Her hair is tangled around her head, she can feel the knots beginning to set against her skull.

“No, no--”

The dress catches and twists up her torso. Frigid, rugged clay against her flesh, there and then gone. The terrific helplessness of a small body weightless in the face of a farmer's wrath, for all she grips and protests and thrashes. Her cries aren't movie screams. They aren't staged or false. They are bleak and hoarse. They are full of rage.

Full stop.

Head moving like a bobble around to see, to orient herself. Where, what is it? What the fuck is it? Her elbows won't support her at first: her upper body is too busy trying to move away to be stable. A struggling animal. Hardly a girl. Small incoherent negation streaming from her discolored mouth, an effort to scramble madly backward. A smell comes to her then, fills her nostrils: sickly and sweet and sour and rotted. A foot kicks out and touches wicker, feeling the rough pattern--rattan, her mind helpfully supplies. Oh god. Oh god.

"These are your cherries thief!"

The container is tilted and her hands fly up to protect her face, moonlight snaking across the bars of her fingers. Black, then, no sight—but sound, the wet connections with her dress and flesh and the ground. Oozing over her. Drenching her. Seeping into cloth. Loathsome fruit, spoiled and foul. She doesn't want to bring her hands from her eyes, but it's an irresistible pull. She sees the evidence of humiliation on her dress. Hardly a girl. Her palms wink out as she makes to try and stand.

They are relatively clean.
Not for long.

“You are unclean, pretty thief. But you have your cherries.”

Slapped into the ground. Head back into the soil and grass, feeling the squish of cherries beneath her. Her throat feels rubbed raw from gasping, fighting. Bricked over, where no air can get through. If only the ground felt safer. If only the grass could hide her.

She could weep.
She might be weeping.
Fruit of shame.

The time seems to drip by, slow and steady, ignoring the furor that has just taken place. Two women breathing. One laid low with hateful degradation, but not yet contrite. Not yet regretting her theft, but weeping for her dress. The other--the other unknown. The back of the girl's hand swipes at her eyes, heedless of her bangs.

In this orchard, in this night, where she has come looking--come begging, come searching. After the last tumult, she lets her hair fall over her face. It hides her. It shades her. It gives her something. It nurtures something. In shadow, she can reclaim--what? She feels boiling full, maddened. Something dark is nudged within her. Some long forgotten coal is stoked. The shock ebbs away into something else, some kind of maniacal glee.

She feels the figure standing over her. For the first time she looks through the strands of her auburn hair up at that face, cruel and so far above. While laying on her side she picks up fistfuls of the dead harvest beneath her, feeling her hands heavy with pulp and grass and stems and moldering substance. Her eyes gleam. She gets up.

She gets up.
She kneels, gathers herself.
Holding out her handfuls of rot.

Still, stubbornly, incredibly, defiant,

“I can't eat these.”

Throwing the mess at her attacker. Knowing she needs to, knowing she cannot placate--what use is it to placate? Feeling the handprint on her face and knowing it as a caress. As a touch of a lover.

"I can't fucking eat these, do you hear me?"

As a key in the lock.

"This fruit is ruined. And look at my dress."

Her tongue clucks against her cheek, fingers now throwing one cherry at a time.

Splat.

"My dress is ruined."

Splat.

"But I'm still here."

Splat.

"In. Your. Orchard."

 

[Miss_Vivi]

The thief talked. She threw her rotting cherries at the farmer and talked. Made threats, and wasted her precious breath, when she should have moved. Should have turned tail and ran, should have left this place, this orchard on this night, this dark night where even the moon hid behind a veil of clouds and the trees crowded close to hear the heated whispers of the two women.

Though the orchard held it's breath.

Waited. Having been on the receiving end of the farmer's wrath and work for many years, it knew. It waited. It would feast on the blood of the pretty murderer, deepen the hue of their fruit to match that particular feast. Whether the trees hungered for the blood of the pretty thief, we may never know, but that they would soak it up is an indisputable fact.

The farmer, waited, as well. Let her thief throw her fit, her little girl tantrum. Toss her atrophied and bleeding cherries at the farmer. She ignored them.
Took a deep breath and a step back. Sunk her feet into the floor of her orchard, felt the hush, the baited breath of her trees. They waited for her, waited for her action, her violence, her strength.

For years this place had been her home, she had toiled her, had fought to make the trees blossom and bloom every year, her blood, sweat and tears dripped over the soil that she now tensed in. These trees, this fruit was hers and no pretty thief would take them without paying for the consequences. Therefore, no word was made, no laughter or insult hurled into the face of the pretty rotting one.

Launched instead was her body, pushed up from the ground, the force of her leap from her orchard right into the body of the pretty thief. A grunt from them both as they collided. They both fell to the ground and though the thief might've fought back, might have screamed her epithets between intakes of breath, none of it was caught by our farmer.

It was enough.
She'd had enough.

Her fist slammed into the face of the thief and delighted for a moment at the dark blood that appeared under her hand. She quickly caught the hands of her thief and held them away from her, pinning the flailing legs under her own.

"Let me see, my pretty thief."

She pulled the dress up, not wanting to damage it, not understanding why this should be kept in one piece, but desiring it all the same. So those wriggling hips helped her raise the dress over the hips and belly of her thief. White cotton, stained red cotton, kept her from seeing the whole of her thief.

This is what the farmer wanted. To see her. To touch her, to turn her red with her hand.

The cotton was torn from the body of her thief, ripped unceremoniously by those vulgar hands that did not touch her there, refused to.

"You are filthy, my thief. Unclean, and it is disgusting."

She punched her thief then, knocking her unconscious. She freed herself from the entangled and limp limbs of her thief. Bent down and picked up her thief almost gingerly, sweetly then, cradling her pretty thief to her own heaving chest.

The farmer carried her then, away from part of her Orchard, to where a small creek cut through her trees. The water constantly coldly spilling over rounded stones, babbling to the trees and speeding itself out of the orchard. There was a spot where the water pooled and collected, not too deeply, but around the waist of the farmer.

She dropped her pretty thief into the pool, watching as the water carried the blood of the spoiled cherries away, turning her red dress white once more. The farmer pulled the sputtering girl from the water and held her close, her fingers closed around a pulse in her neck.

"Spread your legs for me, my pretty thief."

Part of the farmer wanted the girl to comply.
Part of her wanted her to fight.

 

[thestruggle]

There had been confidence, once. The fruit she threw had been sweet and ready, not long before. As the trees held their burden, the ground held the remains. As her hands had once been pure, they held instead the leavings. To throw them at her attacker was a shifting of hindrance, of blame. What did her hands hold? What had she taken? Her mouth puckered around the taste of a lost cherry, swallowed and gone. Her hair stuck to her head: its lush gleam was instead shaded dull with dirt and damp. The thin skin of her knees felt cold, roundly bruised. Kneeling and ready. She had made the invitation. What would she be fed?

They took the measure of one another. Their eyes in turn coveted and challenged. Her eyes burned when she tried to look, but she still looked, she still watched. The gaze felt defined, concrete: she could reach out and touch it. Her hands were held wide, a supplicant. Wasn't she? She had gone begging in the night.

And all at once, she had her answer.

That flash of movement, those pattering feet – if she could have steeled herself for it, could have caught... But the grass rustled, and she would have expected a shouting chorus to accompany that swiftness. There was nothing. There was only the burst forth and thought – no – too late to speak, and the impact as solid flesh slammed into her beggar's body. That horrible sickening as no breath would come, and then the panicked swell of her lungs once she met the ground. A pathetic cry then, some hateful sound.

Hoarse, it hurt.

“No, no, no-”

So much hatred at that, that the only protests she could make were piteous and childish. Her teeth ground together, feeling the pinning weight on her, bringing her elbows and wrists and fists up to slap and jab. Her bones connected, fought, moved with none of her earlier agreeable grace. She was a kicking mass, an assemblage of objection and tendons and muscle. And always that face, the face above, grinning and mocking. Pushing her down. Always that face. She wove from side to side to escape the notice, to shift away from the eyes – didn't she want her to see the fight? Didn't she want her to take caution, to understood she would harm? Would she harm?

And all at once, she had her answer.

The fist came, and her hand in its white sleeve flung back into the grass. The smack of knuckles into her lip – surely they couldn't – but they bit in, feeling the encompassing agony of teeth into driven mouth. The noise then was of choking anger. The adrenaline seized her and flared, surprising her as it always did, its vicious and sudden exhibition blinding any other recourse.

She tasted salt on her tongue.
She felt the cut in her lip.
Her voice was gasping, deadly.

“Is that all you have to--”

Her hands were snatched away, and she groaned in frustration. The battle was wearing at her, the blood was smeared on her face. The drying clot of the cherry basket itched, her dress rasped against her. Rasped against – it was being pulled, shifted away.

“Let me see, my pretty thief. ”

“YOU CAN'T--” Swallowed the blood. “—HAVE THAT.”

But her thighs were there. Her hips were there, curving and screaming for notice. Her stomach, arching and twisting as her muscles strained. Her ribs, rolling again and again into pale skin streaked with brown and red. The dress coming up, yanked to her neck. The heels of her feet dug into the ground, over and over. The grass slipped and squeaked under her skin. The tears were back, hot and strong.

“You can't-can't have that.”

What was she taking?

The last defense was clenched in a brutal fist, torn, in a rip that died at once. It was her bones creaking with dread that she heard, then. She sobbed. The night felt chill, but had it ever been warm?

“You are filthy, my thief. Unclean, and it is disgusting.”

“You—”

And all at once, she had her answer.

-----​

Cold. Freezing. Surrounding. Surging around her – oh god drowning – pressing down. Inhaling a mouthful of the liquid, not tasting, not--

And the world came alive again for her, a fuzzy night turning clear and whole. Her lungs were burning, frightened, cowed into frantic gasps. There was a trickling noise – water? Her eyelashes struggled to blink away liquid. She was alive.

She was alive.

Breathe.

She clung to her captor, her fingers tight around arms. The need to breathe and reaffirm that she could indeed use oxygen overrode everything. The dress clung to her, soddenly. So pretty before. So pretty. Clothes had kept her body safe before. Didn't she want to be safe?

A hand was wrapped around her throat. Fingers pressed against the thrumming beat of an artery. Her head lolled, and her wheezing drifted into deep breaths. The farmer had her. The orchard had her. The night had her. Didn't it?

“Spread your legs for me, my pretty thief. ”

And at that moment, the exhaustion was complete. There was nothing left. There was only one possible answer. Her eyes closed.

And all at once, the farmer had her answer.

“Fuck you.”

 

[Miss_Vivi]

His hand closed around a dirty throat, grimy to the touch but this thing, this thief in his orchard had to pay for his.. wait... what was that? Those were breasts beneath the overalls. This wasn't a boy. It was a woman. And women can be raped. Easily.

This one would probably like it. He slapped her quiet.

It shrieked. Struggled. His wide fat hand hit her again. His tiny tongue slipping between large, oily, lips to lick at this thief that invaded his orchard.

Invaded.
The farmer knew what he was going to do.

“Fuck you.”

Her pretty thief choked and sputtered these words into her face, water spraying over her face. A feral grin on the farmer's lips. This wouldn't do.

This was her orchard.

Her river.

Her cherries.

Her strong sinewy hands turned her pretty thief in her arms, keeping her body close. The thief's small frame pressed against the farmer, her shoulder blades crushed against the farmer's chest. One tan arm wrapped around a throat, the other slipping, slithering down a wet white dress, past pale shivering thighs, seeking the warmth between those spread legs.

They weren't spread.
This didn't matter to the farmer, who found that spot, that tiny cherry of nerves and sensation and she played there. Enticing it's growth. The thief's receptivity was of no consequence. The noises she made were given no mind.

Her cherry.
Her thief.

She dragged them both out of the water.

"Please don't!"

He didn't care now. This was his thief. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. The trees listened however to the calls of this woman, on this dark, hot and wet night when they had lured her into their shelter.

She had caressed their branches with love, knowing which cherries were ripe just by a gentle press to their bodies. This one would love them, the trees knew this. They wanted to keep her.

But he didn't.
He stripped her, ignoring her struggles beneath him, his heavy alcohol laden body pinning her to the earth. Unseen roots stretched through the dirt, waiting collectively for the bounty that would surely come.

Pinned beneath her the thief looked radiant in the moonlight, as if the trees themselves had moved their branches so that the wispy white rays bathed her in bleached beauty. The only color from the cherries that had stained her lips red in her short, but resplendent feast upon them.

The farmer pressed their bodies together, fingers sliding deeper. If the thief noticed or cared or even fought, the farmer didn't notice, the power of this moment blinding her to all else as her thief slid over her hand, became her puppet to control.

The farmer was drunk on this moment.

She felt so good.
She felt so good.​

Her legs parted for him, and he took it that she wanted this. This dirty thief wanted this, and he didn't care. Heaving his body into her, oblivious to the rain of tears. Those hidden roots shivered in ecstasy at this little boon.

Her fingers sunk into the earth, brushing the roots that reached for them. Breathless pleas to the orchard, to the night, to the moon and the storm to save her. Unseeing eyes that ignored the pain, the degradation of this thing, this farmer flopping over her.

She wanted to vomit.

Fingers closed around a rock.
Like a lifeline that suddenly gave her hope.

Her pretty thief cried out.
The farmer almost stopped.
Almost.

It was the lightest rock in the world. And her arm arced perfectly through the air.

The farmer paused.
She looked at her thief.
Her beautiful pale clean thief.
Removed her hand and slapped her thief across the cheek, wetness mixing with salty wetness, scent and tear, and the Farmer wanted to kiss it all away.

There was a thump, a dead sound when the rock met his skull. It happened again, and again, and again. The thief didn't know how many times she had hit him. But he grunted.


She had to stop.
Her pretty thief had a rock.
She had had a rock too.

He laid still and she slid away from him. Screaming to her trees about this pain. They whispered back to her their want of the blood, it would nourish and make them fat and juicy.

The trees whispered again. The wind through their branches, their daughters swinging effortlessly.
They weren't talking to the farmer.
Her pretty thief, with the light rock in her hand.

They wanted blood. The trees.
They wanted the strength of the farmer. It would make their branches sturdy for the fruit they would give the thief.

It was the lightest rock in the world.
And it arced through the air.
The farmer knew it was coming.

Sweat, tears and blood for her magnificent trees, for her pretty thief, on this moonlit night.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

The bell - although there were no real bells anymore, they were all little electric alarms that sounded like bells now - chimed as he opened the door, bits of sand and gravel crunching underfoot as he moved aside to let his colleague enter first. The diner was mostly empty, not much of a shock given the hour, and both men paused just inside the door to let their eyes run past the man at the counter who seemed to be trying to sober up from a hard night of trying his best to peer at the bottom of a bottle with an unobstructed view. A skeleton crew, one cook, one waitress, rounded out the collection of humans, and somehow this seemed appropriate. They'd probably never know why.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, they glanced at each other and one lifted his brows and shoulders in a semi-shrug. What are our options, really? that shrug said, and both knew that any of the others were entirely unappealing. In their heads lived knowledge few other people in the world had, and in that knowledge ended everything. It wasn't Armageddon, not really, but it was close enough for government work, as they say. Ironic, that.

The taller of the pair, balding and with glasses perched on his long nose, seemed to realize the lone waitress was staring at them and made the first move into the diner proper, tipping his head in a quick nod of greeting as he did. The man with him, early 50's, his own pair of glasses inching their way down his nose, tall and thin with dark hair and small eyes, followed quickly behind, and the pair slipped into a booth in a far corner. The waitress released an irritated sigh at their chosen destination, hoping they'd sit near the drunk at the counter to lessen the walking back and forth she'd have to do, but it just wasn't her night. If only she knew, they would've said had they been aware of these thoughts, but in the end she neither said, nor did they reply, and it wasn't until the very end that their interactions became anything different than those of a typical waitress and typically late-night customers looking for coffee and eggs. But by then, did it matter anyway?

"What can I get you fellas?" She chewed gum as she stood with order pad at the ready, pencil perched to take note of their requests. Ordinarily both men would be annoyed with the wet sound of her teeth working on the green piece of gum in her mouth, but tonight... who cares. Let the woman chew her gum.

"Two coffees, and..." he paused, looked across the table. "Something to eat?"

The other blinked at this, as if he hadn't really considered it, and then looked up at the waitress. "I don't supposed you have oysters at this time of night, do you?"

A blank look from the waitress was unchanging in the face of nervous laughter from both, and then the first man shook his head and looked back to the woman who was tolerating them, at best.

"I think just the coffee. Thank you."

 

[saysalice]

 

[saysalice]

Warning: This is going to be about rape. I've asked to play out this scene for personal reasons, but I really don't want to hurt anyone who might inadvertently see themselves somewhere in this story. If you think this might apply to you, please proceed with caution.



"Oh, fuck me!"

Anne Davies's jaw snapped with the sudden profanity, and Sadie stared. Under the circumstances, it was rather inappropriate.

"Ex-cuse me?" she ventured timidly.

Ms. Davies was looking past her with slitted eyes, and Sadie turned her head to look too, but couldn't immediately see the source of the woman's exasperation.

"It's Gordon," she positively hissed.

Sadie blinked, trying to keep up. "Gordon who?"

Ms. Davies gestured with her pointy chin in the direction of two suited gentlemen standing near the entrance. One was slightly younger-looking. They might have been mistaken for father and son.

"Jeremiah Gordon, Defense Attorney. Standing there with your accused," she answered grimly. "No - don't pretend not to look. He sees you looking. That's why he's smiling."

Sadie saw them now, and in spite of the advice, turned away abruptly as she met the stony glare of Daniel Morris. She heard their footsteps approaching even in the busy corridor, and would not look up when they stopped a few feet away.

Her attorney's tone was crisp as she acknowledged them: "Mr. Gordon, Mr. Morris."

"Anne." An unfamiliar voice lingered on the familiarity - his mouth caressed it, so that Sadie wondered if their previous dealings had been exclusively professional. Daniel said nothing. Sadie refused to look up from the floor, and a pair of polished shoes stepped into her line of sight - into her personal space. She imagined she could feel the heat from his body against her bare arms and face. She didn't know which one it was - until he spoke.

"And this must be Sadie." His voice was close, over her head, and smiling. She wouldn't look up. There was a tense moment of silence as she held her breath and waited, frozen to the spot. At last, she heard him chuckle softly.

"Well. I'll see you inside, Sadie."

She raised her eyes to knee level, watching his shoes and pressed slacks walk to the door and hold it for the other pair of pant legs to step into the courtroom. She felt safe enough to look up as Gordon followed his client through the door - and experienced a bad shock when he turned back over his shoulder casually, to look directly at her. He tipped her a wink.

The door swung closed behind him. Her lawyer's sharp face clouded with a scowl and she swore again as Sadie's eyelids fluttered in confusion.

"I should've known they'd get Gordon," Ms. Davies muttered irritably.

"Is - is he - good?" Sadie stammered.

The prosecutor saw the anxiety in her young client's eyes and checked her own emotions, her features smoothing with calm assurance. "He is. But I'm the best," she smiled confidently.

Sadie was still staring at the closed door. She wanted to be reassured.

"Do you believe me?" Ms. Davies prodded gently.

She dragged her eyes away and nodded. Her lawyer uttered a clipped, "Good," and nodded too. "Now tell me this: do you find him attractive?"

Sadie frowned and shook her head in disbelief. She must have heard wrong. "What??"

Ms. Davies was resolute, and repeated herself deliberately. "Gordon. Do you find him attractive?"

Sadie's mouth worked wordlessly, choking on outraged incredulity. Finally she blurted, "He's - my rapist's defense lawyer!"

The prosecutor's expression was cool, merciless, as she replied, "Yes, he is. If he wanted you, would you have sex with him?"

The girl passed her fingers across her forehead, pushing her curls off her face, feeling dizzy and wincing with distaste - had everyone gone insane? "No!! Why are you asking me this?"

Her lawyer held her gaze and spoke calmly, "Because he may ask you, when he has you on the stand." Her mouth twisted on a humorless little smirk. "And if that's going to be your answer, you'd better be able to say it without blushing."

Sadie looked away again. The warmth in her cheeks, which she'd assumed was hot indignation, bloomed into a full-blooded flush as she felt Davies watching her.

Her voice was not unkind when she spoke again.

"Tell him the truth, whatever he asks you - whatever he says. He'll catch you in a lie, and that won't help us."

After a moment, Sadie nodded. She couldn't meet her attorney's eyes. She was afraid of what she might see in them.

Anne Davies's heels clicked on the marble tile, and she put a hand in the small of Sadie's back, guiding her gently towards the door.

"All right," she murmured. "It's time. Let's get this son of a bitch."



Sadie McGinley, 19
Appearance

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

To the police, he was a villain. To the opposing attorney, he was a harbinger of doom. To the his clients, he was a hero. To himself, he was the only one that really mattered.

It was not getting his clients off that thrilled him, not watching the flustered and woefully unprepared women wilt under his cross examination, their stories twisting and melting like a child's toy in the microwave in front of judge and jury and, most satisfyingly, their own eyes. Oh, it was fun, but it was not about any of that, really. It was about winning. In all things, he strove to be the best. In the courtroom, he would be the best dressed there (his client, he made sure, was a close second). During the trial, he would work tirelessly to embarrass the opposing lawyer. He even liked some of them, fucked more than a few, but once the gavel came down it was game on. And he was always on his game.

He was Jeremiah Gordon, attorney at law.

This case would be no different. They had fucked, both admitted it, and the rape kit had found Daniel's semen inside her to the surprise of no one. The only question was just how much of a fight, if any she had put up. A classic he said/she said. The encounter between them began with her more than happy to blow him, and with it she blew her chances at walking out of the courtroom satisfied. Walking into the courthouse, Jeremiah was practically salivating at the chance to thunder away at the bitch and watch her dissolve.

And then he saw Anne Davies, and his day got better.

Half-turning towards his client, he was smiling at the woman whose day he was about to completely fuck up when he muttered to his client.

"You weren't lying. Nicely done."

Briefcase in hand - dark leather, clearly expensive in the same way that every thread on his body was - his shoes were audible on the hard and reflective floor as his long strides devoured the distance. Of the foursome, he was easily the tallest among them, his frame lean and athletic, and he had grown accustomed to using that size to his advantage. It was interesting what something as simple as being taller than an opponent could do to their psyche.

"Anne."

-------​

Once in the courtroom, he was all business. In here, there were too many ears that could pick up stray pieces of conversation, catch a random comment about the nice job his client had done in his choice of a... victim. No, in here it was whispered sentences, and strictly instructions or short, pertinent questions that needed answers. Anything else was for later, in his office over a celebratory drink.

"All rise!"

Unfolding his frame from the hard wooden chair behind the defense table, the impeccably tailored jacket was buttoned and smoothed as the judge entered. A blank yellow legal pad sat before Jeremiah, ready to accept the notes he would scribble as the testimony played out. No detail missed, no contradiction overlooked, no weakness ignored.

His client had raped Sadie McGinley. He had not come out and admitted it to him, but he didn't need to. It was pretty obvious from the story he told when Jeremiah agreed to take on his case. The problem for poor Sadie McGinley was that she had no real evidence, except the sob story she would unspool for the court.

And then Jeremiah Gordon would rape her again. Break her. Shred her. And use nothing more than words to do it.

 

[saysalice]

Sadie followed Ms. Davies to the table, keeping her eyes forward. She wouldn't look - she wouldn't look again, not for anything. She tucked her skirt under her before she sat down. Anne had told her how to dress today: something conservative but feminine; not a lot of skin, but not buttoned all the way up to her chin, either. Think young, innocent and demure, she said - but not Amish. Sadie had settled on a pretty sundress with a modest neckline and a knee-length hem. She'd worried about the color - scarlet woman, and all that - but Ms. Davies was adamant in her approval. Sadie hadn't done anything wrong, and had nothing to be ashamed of.

"Get that through your head," Anne admonished, and Sadie had promised. She believed it, but she was still nervous. She didn't want to be here - not really. She hated confrontation, it was half her problem - and this was going to be rough. Anne had warned her that there would be hard questions, uncomfortable questions - but promised that she would try to ask them, to keep Mr. Gordon from asking them.

"Answer truthfully, but briefly. Don't ramble," she said now in a low voice, as they watched the jury file into the box, "And look at me if you need to, even when he's questioning you, look straight at me."

They rose dutifully as the judge entered the courtroom and took his seat behind the bench. Male judge, but there were several sympathetic-looking women on the jury. "Remember - it's okay to cry, up there," Ms. Davies murmured, her lips barely moving, "In fact, if you can manage a few tears..." She trailed off and only raised an eyebrow at Sadie wistfully, and shrugged. "But don't force it, and don't fake it."

Sadie nodded and nodded, trying to take in all this last-minute advice, already feeling overwhelmed. She glanced at the defense table - a mistake. Mr. Gordon was watching her. Her lawyer cut her eyes at him with a glare as Sadie looked abruptly away. Daniel, at least, was focused on the jury.

The judge was speaking, but Sadie couldn't seem to catch a single word. "You're going to be fine," Anne assured her quietly. "Don't let him get to you. Just look at me. We'll get through this, okay?"

Someone called her name, and she nodded again, feeling her legs shaky under her as she pushed out of the chair, knowing he was watching her as she crossed the room to take the stand and raised her hand to swear meekly to tell the whole truth.

*

Anne started out with the easy questions: how she'd met Daniel in passing, as a friend of her boyfriend's, and how she'd begun speaking to him a few months later, when her boyfriend broke off their relationship.

"And you liked him?"

Sadie stiffened and glanced at the jury. "I liked...who I thought he was," she answered carefully.

"But you thought he was attractive," Anne pressed.

It was too close to the question she'd posed in the hallway, and Sadie turned her attention back to the prosecuting attorney with a hard look. She knew to expect this, but it didn't make it any easier. After a long moment, she conceded: "Yes."

"Attractive enough to sleep with?"

She kept her eyes locked on Ms. Davies. "Maybe," she admitted quietly, "But not right away."

"Why not right away, Sadie?" her lawyer asked, more gently.

"Because -" She could feel herself getting defensive, and made herself stop and take a breath. "Todd was my first, and then he dumped me. I wasn't ready to rush into more sex. And I didn't really know Daniel very well, either."

She peeked up. Ms. Davies offered her a quick, reassuring smile. She looked past her to the defense table, but neither man was looking at her. Mr. Gordon was writing something unhurriedly on a notepad in front of him, and Daniel's head was inclined to read over his shoulder. Neither was smiling.

Ms. Davies walked her through the events of that night - how she'd seen Todd with his new girlfriend and had started flirting heavily with Daniel, finally asking him to come with her to a friend's empty apartment. Just to fool around, just to have some fun and feel better about herself. Not for sex.

"And you told him that?" Anne made a point of asking.

Sadie nodded, feeling more confident. She had, and he knew it. "Straight out, as soon as we got there," she answered. "I said we could do whatever else, but no sex - not that night. And he said okay. He was okay with it."

It was hard to answer the next few questions, but she knew it was necessary to tell the court exactly what had happened.

"We were making out. Kissing, and touching. I took my top off. He fondled me...between my legs. I could tell that he was getting excited, so I...per-performed oral sex on him," she stammered, struggling use the proper terminology and not fall into the slang everyone used. "He, um...ejaculated, and I thought that was the end of it. We had a nap together on my friend's sofa."

A man on the jury coughed. Ms. Davies's voice was solemnly respectful. "What happened next, Sadie?"

She could feel the warmth in her cheeks, and she swallowed. She'd gone over and over this in her head so that she wouldn't forget anything, but it was still difficult to tell.

"Well, he - he woke up, and started kissing me again, and - I didn't know, but he was trying to get - to put his penis inside me. He was erect again, and he just kept trying, until I could feel it - in my vagina, and he was right on top of me. And I said 'don't', and I said 'no' - I said 'no' so many times... But he wouldn't listen to me. And then he was all the way in, and I just couldn't believe it, I didn't know what to do."

Her eyeballs felt hot around the edges, but she couldn't cry. The courtroom was still enough to hear a pin drop. She wouldn't look at him. "I said 'stop', but he wasn't listening to me, so I started to cry. He just kept on - kept...like, bouncing on me, so after a while I stopped saying anything. I just lay there crying and waited for him to be finished."

"You stopped saying 'no'?" Ms. Davies was facing the jury, asking this question for any of them who might be wondering.

Sadie pressed her lips together briefly in exasperation, "Yes, because he didn't care that I was saying 'no'. But I said it at least a dozen times."

"It wasn't what you wanted?" Anne reiterated.

"No," she answered immediately. "And he knew it."

Slightly annoyed at the question, Sadie glanced over at Daniel. He looked bored - impassive - noncommittal. His lawyer wasn't writing now, but was watching her with an expression that was almost sympathetic. She shivered and looked away. Very, very dangerous, to start believing that about him.

Ms. Davies asked her to continue, and it was a little easier now. "It took him a long time. He - pulled out as he was ejaculating. He got me a towel, and then I went into the bathroom to fix myself up. I didn't say anything to him. I guess I was still in shock. I didn't want to believe what had just happened - that I was in the room with a rapist."

Mr. Gordon was still looking at her, but the empathy was gone from his expression - if it had ever really been there. Sadie trained her gaze on her own lawyer's face, but could still feel his eyes on her, as if he could see right into her.

"He walked me to my bus stop. I just went home - I didn't tell anybody, I didn't want to believe it - I just went home and went to bed."

"But you did tell someone, the following day?"

Sadie nodded. "My friend. His girlfriend made me go to the hospital. They found his - Daniel's - semen, up inside me, and they took pictures of the bruises..."

Anne coolly submitted the report and the findings of the rape kit, and held up glossy photos for the court to see: close-up shots of Sadie's pale breasts, showing distinct purple bite marks in several places. They had been matched to Daniel's dental records. Sadie squirmed in the chair, but her attorney's face was alight with confidence as she turned back to her.

"Thank you, Sadie. I know how difficult this has been for you. No further questions." Ms. Davies made a subtle gesture with forked fingers, pointing at her own eyes before she retreated to the prosecutor's desk.

Sadie knew it was good advice, and tried valiantly to stay strong and to not look away, but Mr. Gordon was rising from his chair and smiling straight at her. She clasped and twisted her sweaty fingers in her lap, where no one would see. She was afraid to let him out of her sight.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

At no point during the tale of woe that was laid out for judge and jury was Jeremiah surprised by what he heard. Notes were taken, a path laid out for a cross examination he'd practiced on a paralegal who had been trying since her third day to get into his pants, but the destination had not changed. He'd made poor, fat Martha cry, and she hadn't even been the one that was bringing charges against his client. Sadie McGinley was bleeding into shark infested waters with every word she let loose.

The questioning was finished without a word spoken between lawyer and client, Jeremiah thankful his client's proclivity for impulse apparently limited to the bedroom. Four hours a day, for two weeks, Jeremiah had stalked around Daniel as he sat in the middle of his office, firing questions and berating him, tearing him down and building him up, calling him a great man and a lousy fucking pig, sometimes in the same sentence. Nothing that any lawyer, and especially Anne Davis, was going to throw at him would come as a surprise. Outbursts were dealt with swiftly and harshly, questions given a full answer that was then drilled into him until the idea of asking seemed patently absurd. The story was told, and retold, and told again, over and over. More than once Daniel was woken late in the night by a phone call by his lawyer and made to tell him the story again, with inconsistencies attacked with rabid zeal. Jeremiah Gordon had reduced his client to a prop that would sit and show no emotion. Remorse would be fake, they both know, and there was no reason to risk the jury seeing through a bad acting job. Instead, he would appear above it, as if he knew the outcome of the case before it even started. He had been wrongly accused, and justice would prevail. Every stone taken from the wall of Sadie would be added to his, and it was only a matter of time before hers crumbled to uselessness at their feet.

By the time the direct examination had finished, two-thirds of a page of notes were written, a short list of bullet points he wanted to hit based on her testimony. Sadie was already dangling, and each passing moment he would bet that rope grew harder to hang on to. It was for this reason that he took his time, rising slowly from the hard wooden chair, buttoning his jacket carefully, and then pausing for a moment to cast his eyes down toward the notes before him. He didn't even bother reading, merely keeping his gaze pointed in that direction until the judge, at last, spoke up.

"Mr. Gordon, did you have any questions for Miss McGinley?"

"Apologies your honor," he answered as he looked up and at Sadie with a bright smile, "I just needed to review something for a moment."

More time was eaten up by using the backs of his legs to push the chair further from the table, and then he made his way from behind it. The yellow legal pad and the notes contained therein were left behind on the table, and measured, yet almost causal steps carried him towards the witness stand. And then, at last, he was in front of her.

And, not by mistake, between her and her lawyer, obscuring each from the other's view.

"Miss McGinley," he began as he leaned against the wooden frame of the witness stand, his voice low despite the amplification provided by the mic in front of her, "First let me apologize that we find it necessary to even be here today. I know this is never something that is easy for a person to go through."

It was the first step out of the starting block, and it felt like it landed just as he wanted. Sympathetic, and yet admitting nothing. Was he sorry for her? For his client? For the jurors, that had to be away from jobs and families and carry the fate of another in their hands?

"I have just a few questions, and then I'll be happy to let you rejoin my counterpart at her table."

She was given possession of nothing so far. Not her attorney, but his counterpart. Not her table, or even the prosecution's table, but her attorney's table. He wanted her in possession of only two things when he released her, a label and the blame.

"Miss Davies asked you, and please correct me if I'm wrong here, 'It wasn't what you wanted?, to which you replied, "No, and he knew it." No pause was inserted, no opportunity for correction or agreement that he had things right before he continued on, "And yet, just before that, did you not testify that you - and not he - removed your clothing, allowed him to fondle you between your legs, and then performed oral sex on him?"

The smile was gone, and whether she looked away or not, Jeremiah Gordon's eyes remained on hers the entire time. His weight shifted so that he was turned just away from the jurors, allowing him both to hide his face from them, and to indicate towards his client as he continued on.

"And, also according to your own testimony, it was you who sought out my client, you who began flirting, and you who suggested going up to the apartment that night, isn't that right Miss McGinley?"

Here a pause was given, just for an initial answer and he continued on before she could offer any further explanation, his voice slowly, gradually increasing in volume and growing more assertive in tone.

"And you told us all that you liked him, that he was someone you found attractive enough to sleep with, did you not?"

Another pause, waiting simply for the first word out of her mouth, and then his next question was rolling out.

"And then you assert here, today, under oath, that you weren't ready to sleep with him. 'Not right away' were your words, but that was a decision you made before seeing your ex-boyfriend with someone else, before you were hurt and angry and wanted to get back at him, wasn't it?"

The smile was back, and he was well into his stride. He had not moved from his spot in front of her, keeping her entirely blocked off from the eyes of her attorney as he began to hack and slash at her.

"Besides, Miss McGinley - and I remind you again that you are under oath - this isn't the first time you've found yourself in this situation, is it? Robert Kingman, the person you were dating before Todd, is prepared to testify about the times - more than one - that you would be kissing, and fondling, and then you would regret how far things had gone and you would begin crying. You remember that, don't you Miss McGinley?"

Again a short pause, a small space for her to answer, but the simple fact of the matter was that her answers were immaterial. For the jurors, he was painting a picture, and her answers were simply permission to continue. Without them, her lawyer could object that he was testifying instead of asking questions. With them, it was just a little more paint on his brush, a little more color on his canvas.

His weight shifted just slightly, turning his back a little more towards the jury, and this time it was the gallery he indicated as he spoke.

"And returning to the night in question, Miss McGinley, you claim that you said 'stop' and 'no' repeatedly, and yet... do you recognize those lovely people sitting two rows behind my client?"

She wouldn't, he knew, and still he left her space to answer that she didn't before continuing on.

"They are the fine people that are your friend's neighbors. Her downstairs neighbors. And they are both prepared to testify, under oath, that they heard you that night. Not saying 'stop', not saying 'no,' but instead disturbing their evening with your... vocal sounds of pleasure. Not once, Miss McGinley, but twice. They are both prepared to testify that they heard you the first time, commented on it to each other, and then thought it was over and you had... finished. But it wasn't over, Miss McGinley, was it? Just over an hour later, after the nap you took following the oral sex you gave my client, they heard you again. And again, they commented to each other that you were, in their words, 'at it again.' They heard no distress, no cries for help, and will be more than happy to testify that they would've called the police if they had. And they didn't hear those things because you never uttered them, did you Miss McGinley?"

The protest would come, he expected it from her, and he gave her a moment to voice it until it seemed she had said enough to answer the question before pressing on.

"But just like with your previous boyfriend, Robert Kingman, we are now left with you regretting a position you put yourself in, and crying because of it. Only this time you're crying rape, aren't you Miss McGinley? You found yourself riding that bus home, picturing Todd and his new girlfriend together and realizing he wouldn't care if you slept with my client or not, and you regretted the decision you had made to do so, didn't you?"

Whereas the amplification system strained to pick up his voice when he started, it was now wholly unnecessary as he spoke, his voice easily carrying through the large room, easily heard by all of the jurors, easily slicing through any tears she may shed for them.

"Because that was your plan all along, wasn't it Miss McGinley? Your ex-boyfriend was with another woman, having sex with another woman, and you wanted that with another man to show him you had moved on, didn't you? My client was there, and attractive, and so he became your target. And look where that got him."

That was a shot at her without a question attached, and he anticipated the objection from her lawyer even as she was jumping to her feet to voice it.

"Withdrawn, your honor." His voice had dropped again, low and leaving everyone in the courtroom utterly silent so they could hear him. "I have just one, final question for Miss McGinley. When you were getting ready to go out, the night you slept with my client, did you do any kind of extra personal grooming, or wear any special lingerie?"

Without waiting for an answer, he turned from her and made his way back to the defense table with the same slow, measured steps. The question was left hanging in the air, writhing in front of judge and jury, demanding an answer from her, and still Jeremiah thought it would not matter what she said here. Anything short of the truth, and he would use the testimony of the doctor that performed the rape kit to show her to be a liar. Giving them the truth would make her last words on the stand paint her as anything but someone not looking for sex that night.

He had led her down the path and straight to the cliff. The only question now was whether she threw herself over, or he pushed her.

 

[saysalice]

He paused so long after her attorney stepped down that the judge had to prompt him, and in a moment of wild optimism, Sadie thought that maybe he wouldn't even cross-examine - maybe there was nothing left for him to ask, maybe her testimony had been so good that... Yeah. She couldn't even entertain the thought for long. There was no way he would just let her go.

She watched him while his head was bent over his notes. Reading - what had he written about her? - until the judge said his name, and he looked up and directly at her, like he knew he would catch her watching. His smile made her shudder. No, it wasn't over.

She looked away - to Ms. Davies, who met her gaze steadily with fierce confidence as Mr. Gordon approached the stand - but then, at once, Sadie was staring at the stripes of his tie - his buttoned collar - and then up, and wholly unprepared for that smile. She blinked in confusion up into his face - his face. Of course he'd guessed their little trick, and refused to let her have it.

He leaned against the box, and Sadie could feel herself shrinking away from him even as he spoke, even as he apologized - but not to her, not exactly. She nodded and mumbled her uncertain thanks, trying again to make eye contact with Anne as he spoke of her now - but she could only see a sharp elbow and the cuff of her sleeve, and her bony knuckles turning white as she gripped a pen in her fist.

Sadie swallowed and nodded again, feeling the eyes of every single member of the jury upon her instead. Seeing Daniel out of the corner of her eye - the one place she absolutely refused to look. She felt suddenly like an ant being studied with a magnifying glass. With Mr. Gordon standing over her, his intensity and the heat of him, like the sun.

"...did you not testify that you - and not he - removed your clothing, allowed him to fondle you between your legs, and then performed oral sex on him?"

Too soon, before she was ready, he was expecting her answers to - to complicated questions. He waited as she floundered, just long enough for her to get the first few words out:

"I - I - yes, but - "

Not friendly now, not kind. "And you told us all that you liked him, that he was someone you found attractive enough to sleep with, did you not?"

"Yes, but - but he knew...I said - "

He cut her off, raising his voice, drowning out all but what he wanted to hear.

"And then you assert here, today, under oath, that you weren't ready to sleep with him. 'Not right away' were your words, but that was a decision you made before seeing your ex-boyfriend with someone else, before you were hurt and angry and wanted to get back at him, wasn't it?"

"No!" she protested adamantly, automatically. "I - I mean -" She hesitated, lashes fluttering as she remembered how it had felt, seeing Todd all over a new girl just days after he'd broken it off with her. She had been hurt. And angry. She had wanted - well, something. But not -

He wasn't waiting for her though, and the next line of questioning felt like a sucker punch to the stomach when Mr. Gordon spoke a name, spoke of incidents she would have liked to forget. Who had told him about that? She felt her face grow warm as he reminded her of the times she'd burst into tears - like it was the same thing. But she was a virgin then, and -

"That was different!" she blurted in a rush of air, afraid that he would interrupt her again. But this time he paused to allow her to answer, and she stammered, trying to follow up with some explanation. "Bobby was always - always trying to - get me to - to do things..."

She trailed off, trying desperately to see past him. She needed some cue from Anne, something to let her know if she should be saying this. But he kept himself deliberately positioned, even as he turned to direct her attention to the couple in the gallery. Sadie was sweating, and so bewildered as she looked at the two faces, trying to recall if she'd ever seen them before in her life. She shook her head, murmuring her answer warily, and caught an unwelcome glimpse of Daniel. His face remained neutral, expressionless - but his eyes glittered like two soulless black diamonds, witnessing this slow crucifixion.

As it happened, the red was a bad choice. As Mr. Gordon revealed the identities of the man and woman, and what they'd heard that night, Sadie felt the hot blood rising in her face, rivalling the color of her pretty sundress in stark contrast to her pale skin. She leaned over on her elbows and buried her face in her hands and her low moan, though muffled, carried almost directly into the mic. Her eyes glassed with stinging tears of humiliation as she peeked up at the women of the jury - not so sympathetic-looking, anymore. Some of them wouldn't look at her at all.

He'd never let her explain. "I just wanted him out of me!" she wailed. "I thought - if I - I made noises...he'd - finish - "

He was speaking again, and she sputtered, "Please - " but he went on without pause, speaking over her, ignoring her, not listening, telling the jurors that it was like all those times with Bobby - but worse.

"No!" Two tears dripped and ran down her flushed cheeks. "I mean - I did regret it - but I..." She stopped to wipe her nose with the back of her hand, and tried again. "But he knew -"

She looked back at Daniel. She wasn't wrong. There would be something - something in his eyes, like there had been that night. Mr. Gordon took advantage of her hesitation to plow forward with his accusations: that she was a vengeful bitch, a woman scorned - worse - that she had turned on every man unfortunate enough to make her acquaintance - and through it, even through her prosecutor's heated objections, Daniel's return gaze spoke nothing but placid innocence. Stoic. Victim. Martyr.

We've lost, she thought suddenly. We're not going to win this. She blinked up at Mr. Gordon in stunned disbelief - and yes, in his eyes she saw it, that hard gleam. He knows what happened. He doesn't care.

He knew, too, that it was over. His tone dropped to normal, conversational decibels as he posed his final question, and Sadie raised her hands - to cover her eyes this time, as she heard him turn away and walk back to his table. He didn't need this. He'd won - the court didn't need to hear this. But he would have it entered as testimony. He would make her say it. As the final nail in the coffin, her final humiliation.

She couldn't deny it - there were pictures. She thought she might spare herself and simply answer: "Yes," but knew that if she didn't describe the preparations, Mr. Gordon would. And he had a way of twisting things, making everything she said sound...horrible.

Her voice wavered as she took her hands away and spoke quietly into the mic. Turning her red-rimmed eyes with their matted lashes to stare at his turned back for several seconds before it occurred to her that he wasn't standing between Sadie and her lawyer anymore. But she couldn't look at Ms. Davies while she admitted this.

"I - shaved my pubic hair, and I was wearing a - a thong with lace," she answered haltingly.

Mortifying, to confess it to the judge and jury and everyone present. But even worse, somehow, to know that Jeremiah Gordon had known the answer before he asked - and probably knew, too, that the thong in question was quite similar in shade to the dress she was wearing today.

And all for nothing. She looked to Anne finally, and saw it in her eyes - it was over.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

The chair creaked in the silent courtroom as Jeremiah lowered himself into it, and he let it be the only sound in the courtroom for a moment. It took a fine touch, measuring the latitude a judge would give someone before asking if he had any more questions, and Jeremiah had built his career on knowing when just right began to turn into too much.

"No further questions, your honor."

His eyes slid, a smooth lateral move to where she sat on the stand, tear-streaked cheeks and shoulders slumped in defeat.

"The witness is excused."

He looked away from her then. As much as he might wish to revel in her demise, to bask in the glory of her defeat, the case was not over yet and he would not allow something as simply as a moment of pride in his work to derail things. The drink he would have in his office later, though, recalling the way she crumbled in front of him as he sipped slowly... that would be his moment.

To Anne Davies' credit, she continued on with her case as if it had not just run over a land mine, calling the doctor who had performed the rape kit next. When she finished with her testimony, Jeremiah's questions for her were few and simple.

Is it true that Miss McGinley had no pubic hair when you examined her?

Is it true that her physical condition upon examination could also be consistent with rougher, but consensual sex?

Is there anything in your examination that points to rape as the only possible explanation?

All answers were as he expected them to be - you never asked a question you didn't already know the answer to unless it was a last-ditch effort in a case that was all but lost - and he thanked the doctor for her testimony and dismissed her after only a few minutes.

The prosecution rested soon after, and attention shifted to the defense. Rising from his seat, Jeremiah Gordon announced that they would not be calling any witnesses, including the pair that he claimed had overheard them that night, and the defense rested. It was an unusual move, but a calculated risk that would be explained in his closing arguments. They followed quickly, and as the prosecution spoke, Jeremiah wrote a series of notes on the yellow legal pad before him. Mostly, though, he watched the jury. People rarely realized how much of their thoughts they gave away, not only in the expression on their face, but in the way they sat, where their arms were in relation to the rest of their body, and even in their breathing. Anne Davies, bless her heart, she tried as best she could, but it seemed quite obvious that the jury was not buying what she was selling.

When she thanked the jury and sat, Jeremiah rose from his chair and paused a moment to button his jacket. Another was used glancing down at his notes, and then he looked up at the jury from behind the defense table, and smiled at them.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, at last moving out from behind the table and approaching the jury box, "Let me first begin by thanking you for coming today. I know jury duty isn't something anyone looks forward to, but I can tell that you have done your civil duty well, paid attention to the evidence that was presented, and after the judge gives you your instructions, you will deliberate and reach a fair, and reasonable conclusion based on that evidence.

"We can all agree this is a tragic case, I think. There are no winners and losers here, just lives disrupted unnecessarily, innocents made into victims, and lies used to hurt another person."

He paused here, and moved to stand a short distance from the prosecution's table.

"Young Sadie here," he said, indicating the girl with a gesture of his hand as his eyes shifted to her, and when he continued it was her he looked at, "Would have you believe that my client went out with her, a girl he liked and found to be quite attractive, and a girl he was hoping to see again, and after things had gone so well that she agreed to go back to the apartment with him, kiss him, undress with him, and perform oral sex on him, he decided to ruin his chances of seeing her again by raping her."

He shook his head, at her, at this obviously ridiculous notion, at the fact that any of them were there to begin with, and then turned his eyes back to the jury.

"She would also have you believe, ladies and gentlemen, that she did not want to sleep with this man she found attractive, despite going to that apartment with him, despite taking off her clothes, despite performing oral sex on him, and despite her own admission that she shaved her pubic hair and wore special lingerie that night. She would have you believe that our being here today has nothing to do with a young girl that has a history of sleeping with men and then regretting that decision later. A young girl that saw her ex-boyfriend with another woman and wanted to get back at him, and decided to use a guy that found her attractive to do it with.

"Miss McGinley is only 19. I think all of us here today can remember what it was like to be that age, and still learning about the ways the world works. I understand that, my client understands that, and I think all of you do as well. My client has no desire to see her punished for her false allegation, or to see this whole tragic episode dragged out any longer than it has to be. She is a young girl, no doubt with a bright future ahead of her. Not only will we do her a disservice today if we tell her she is a victim and let her hide her actions behind that label, but we insult the actual victims of rape that have stood in this court room and demanded justice for what happened to them if we tell young Miss McGinley that she can later regret something she did and be counted among them.

"I know, as you look at the transcript of her testimony here today, of the facts she admitted to while on the stand, that you will reach the only outcome the evidence will allow. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen."

With a final nod of thanks to those assembled in the box, he turned away - his eyes settling for the briefest of moments on Sadie next to her lawyer - and made his way back to the defense table. Once seated, the judge turned to the jury and gave them their instructions, and everyone watched as they filed through the door for the short walk to the room where their deliberations would happen. Court was adjourned shortly after, with instructions to both parties to remain close by, as the judge was hopeful a decision would be reached soon, and the case would be ended today.

Turning to his client, Jeremiah leaned close before speaking.

"Keep your eyes on me. Let them leave first, and then we'll step out. Don't acknowledge her, don't give her lawyer a chance to go after you. Until they come back with a verdict, you stay by my side. Understand?"

Daniel gave a quick nod, more than happy to do anything his lawyer instructed after the way things had gone for him thus far, and then the two involved themselves in idle and pointless chatter until the two women had exited the courtroom. Jeremiah's office was within walking distance of the courthouse, and so the two men retired there to await word that the jury had reached a decision. In what Jeremiah took as a good sign, the call came less than two hours later.

Almost exactly two hours after they'd been dismissed, everyone was assembled back in the courtroom for the reading of the verdict. When the time came, Jeremiah stood with his client, and both men held their breath as the verdict was read.

"On the count of rape in the second degree, we, the jury, find the defendant, Daniel Morris, not guilty."

Everyone exhaled collectively, some in relief, others as if they'd just been punched in the gut, and at the defense table the two men exchanged a firm, enthusiastic hand shake. The judge quickly thanked the jury for their service, and then informed the defendant that he was free to go. Another handshake was exchanged between the men - not the last thing that would be, Jeremiah had a hefty sum of money headed his way for this case as well - and they parted ways as Daniel went into the open and happy arms of his family.

Jeremiah took his time collecting up the various papers on the table before them and slipping them into his briefcase, and then flipping the latches closed after he folded it shut. The briefcase was lifted by the handle, and he stepped across the isle to where Anne was attempting to console her client.

"Always nice to see you, Anne," he said simply, with a nod of his head, before his eyes shifted to the woman next to her.

"Sadie," he said, smiling as he looked at the girl. "I hope to see you again some day. Good luck with everything."

His eyes shifted back to the other lawyer, and he nodded to her once more before he stepped away from the table and made his way from the courtroom. A short exchange of pleasantries and congratulations followed once he was outside, though he politely declined Daniel's family's offer to come celebrate with them, choosing instead the quiet of his office and the expensive burn of scotch in his throat. Leaving them with handshakes all around, he made his way into the fading sunlight, and strolled casually back to his office. Triumphant.

 

[saysalice]

Sadie stumbled back to the prosecutor's table, sank into her seat, and put her head down on her folded arms. Anne hissed at her through barely parted lips: "Sit up. It's not over yet."

She sat through the doctor's testimony in a bit of a daze, hearing nothing helpful. There was not much evidence of a violent assault, and no sign of a struggle - there hadn't been one. Ms. Davies tried valiantly, but then Mr. Gordon stepped up to cross-examine, and his first question made Sadie wince, like acid thrown in her face. Every answer he received seemed only to support his terrible version of events, and every word was true.

Anne rested for the prosecution, and Sadie stiffened in her chair as the judge turned his attention to Mr. Gordon. She didn't want to sit through whatever sordid tale they had, between the two of them, twisted the facts up in. Anne's voice murmured grimly across the table: "We've got this. Let him dig his own grave. I'm going to nail his balls to the wall."

Sadie peeked at Daniel for the first time since Mr. Gordon had finished with her. If Ms. Davies could grill him, tear into his testimony as Mr. Gordon had done to her - if she could make him feel the way Sadie was feeling now -

The defense rested. They would call no witnesses. Daniel would not testify.

Sadie blinked at Anne in shock as her attorney cursed under her breath, visibly rattled, shuffling papers to find her closing arguments.

"Why would he do that? Doesn't - doesn't he have to call Daniel? It's his defense - doesn't he have to...defend himself?"

Ms. Davies was standing. Sadie grabbed her arm, looking up at her in horror. "Can't - can't you call him up there? He doesn't have to testify at all?"

Anne's face was determined, but there was a wild look about her eyes that Sadie had never seen before as she left the table and approached the jury box.

Sadie leaned forward on her elbows with her head in her hands and listened as Ms. Davies plowed doggedly through her closing arguments, trying to turn the defense's choice to call no witnesses against them. Mr. Gordon had never once contested certain facts: that Sadie McGinley had set clear boundaries, had said "no" multiple times to penetration, and had been reduced to tears for the duration of the assault. It was not even a case of "he said/she said", as Daniel Morris had not bothered to recount a different recollection of the events of the night in question. The jury had only Sadie's testimony to consider (did her voice waver slightly here, or was it Sadie's over-wrought imagination?), and for all of Mr. Gordon's vile, typical attempts to smear the victim's character, the facts remained undisputed. Sadie McGinley had said "no" to intercourse. Daniel Morris had forced intercourse upon her. He had not taken the stand to deny it, because it was fact. The jury must find him guilty.

Ms. Davies returned to her seat at the table next to her. Sadie could see wisps of hair escaping at the base of the other woman's neck as her tight bun began to unravel, and noting the light sheen on her lawyer's forehead, she realized that Anne was sweating.

Sadie tried not to listen to Mr. Gordon's closing statements - it would be more of the same, she was sure. She felt numb, but was unpleasantly surprised to find that his digs - and there were so many of them - could still hurt her. It felt very much like enduring the necessary indignities of the rape kit: still raw from the assault - in shock, but uniquely vulnerable - keenly aware of every little humiliation, every little bruise poked in passing.

When he spoke of his client's compassion, implying that it was Daniel's benevolent choice not to testify and draw this out any longer, Sadie dropped her head into her arms on the table. Not even a swift kick from Ms. Davies could persuade her to lift it again. He was twisting it all around, and he sounded so sure that Sadie found herself - incredibly - beginning to doubt, beginning to wonder if perhaps...she had it wrong. When he said that she was insulting actual rape victims by being here, her face burned against her bare arms - her ears ached with it. He was so convincing, and it was her ingrained tendency to defer to the judgement of an older man. It was tempting. She made mistakes all the time.

Except that she was here. What woman would go this far, for attention? She lifted her head to glare at his back as he spoke to the jury. What woman in her right mind would choose to endure this tearing open of fresh wounds, the public exposure, the scathing accusations, the excruciating intimate details...why would she be here, if she didn't truly believe - know - she'd been violated?

He glanced at her once as he returned to the table with Daniel, and seemed thoroughly unsurprised and unperterbed by the hateful expression on her face. The judge sent the jury off to their deliberations and excused the rest of them. Sadie rose when Anne did, and glowered at the defense table, just waiting for one of them to look up. Neither of them did, and finally Ms. Davies nudged her into the aisle. Sadie kept her chin up as she passed those still assembled in the courtroom, trying for an appearance of maligned dignity - but felt the shame like bruises on her face.

Anne's office was across town, so she had taken a hotel room a few blocks down, where they could await the verdict together. She insisted that Sadie lie down, as these things could take forever - but it really seemed that no sooner had she put her head down on the pillow and closed her eyes than the phone was ringing. Ms. Davies answered it with a tightening of her lips. Sadie sat up slowly, smoothing her dress as she waited.

"What is it?" she asked, as she watched her lawyer hang up the phone.

"The jury's back," Anne replied quietly, moving about the room to collect her things.

Sadie attempted a smile. "Wow - that was fast." Ms. Davies wasn't smiling, wasn't looking at her, and she continued uneasily, "So, what does that mean?"

Anne cleared her throat. "It means...there wasn't much they weren't in agreement on." She stopped at the mirror to sweep her hair back into a tight bun, focusing on her own reflection and not Sadie's anxious face.

"So, what does that mean, then?" Sadie repeated hesitantly. "Guilty...do you think?"

Anne's smile was fixed, reassuring, and unconcerned as she turned her head. "I never try to predict the verdict, anymore," she answered lightly. "Any time I've guessed out loud to a client, I've been wrong."

She gestured to Sadie that it was time to go, and the girl followed her out, feeling anything but reassured.

As they reentered the courtroom, Sadie deliberately kept her eyes away from Daniel and Mr. Gordon, and focused instead on the members of the jury as they marched back into their box.

He was wrong - you know he was wrong...don't you? What he did was wrong. You wouldn't - you wouldn't let him get away with that...would you? Her knees were shaking as they stood and the judge instructed the foreperson to read the verdict.

It didn't register, at first. At first, she could barely hear the person's voice...and then it seemed they were just sounds - it could have been any language. As words finally, they still didn't make sense as they were strung together. She knew, through her peaking anxiety, that she was really only listening for the last one.

Only, it was two. Not guilty.

A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she sat down hard in her chair as the courtroom buzzed with the reaction. Sadie covered her face with her hands. Not guilty. She had thought that if she could just muster the courage to face him at trial, to endure the scrutiny of her own character and her own actions, that good would prevail - that justice would be served... He hadn't even taken the stand to say it didn't happen exactly as she'd said. Everyone knew now that she'd shaved her pubic hair, and - for what? He was not guilty. He could leave the courtroom right now and go out and do it again. They knew about her panties. They believed the things Mr. Gordon had said about her. They hadn't needed to hear Daniel's side at all. They hadn't needed two hours to agree that what he'd done to her wasn't rape.

She didn't notice when she'd begun to sob, but now she couldn't stop - her face hot and wet, streaming tears under her hands. Ms. Davies put her hand on her shaking shoulder, and Sadie could hear her murmuring, "Don't, Sadie. Don't give him this, too."

She could hear footsteps after the rest of the crowd had faded out, and then his voice - his voice - speaking to her attorney. Sadie looked up in utter disbelief, her eyes red and puffy, cheeks wet and streaked from crying, and stared into his smiling face.

At his words she felt a kick of nausea that went hard at once in a lump in the pit of her stomach. She leapt out of the chair at him, feeling Anne pull her back as she shrieked, "What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you!?"

Anne was easing her back into the chair as Mr. Gordon continued to smile and turned away to walk out, and Sadie shrugged her off violently.

"So, it was all for nothing. He gets to make me feel like shit - everyone thinks I'm a whore - and Daniel walks away, knowing he can get away with rape."

Ms. Davies leaned on both hands against the table. "You can't take it personally. Jeremiah Gordon gets paid a lot of money to do exactly what he did, up there -"

"Yeah?" Turning her furious, red-rimmed glare on her attorney. "How much more should I have paid you?"

Anne stiffened and took a step back, but her voice remained calm. "Sadie. I know how you're feeling right now, but you have to understand - this case wasn't exactly cut-and-dry."

"You said you were the best!" Sadie spat angrily. "You said we would get him!"

Anne nodded, and met her client's fierce eyes evenly. "But there were details that came out in the cross-examination that I wasn't aware of."

Sadie felt herself blushing and dropped her gaze as Anne continued, "Now that I have that information, we can appeal -"

"I am never doing this again," Sadie interrupted tonelessly.

Ms. Davies sighed, closing up her briefcase with a snap and lifting it off the table.

"Go home," she said gently. "Get some sleep. Call me next week, and let's talk about it, okay?"

Sadie just shook her head. After a moment, Anne patted her shoulder and walked out.

*

She went - not home, but to a bar across the street. Sat in a dark corner in the back where she could cry her eyes out and not be bothered. Ordered a drink, and then another before she realized that she didn't want to drink herself sick - she could do that at home.

She pulled out her phone instead, and looked up an address. Left the second drink barely touched on the table and marched out. It wasn't far.

The woman behind the front desk looked up, taking in her desheveled appearance at a glance, and her pleasant expression turned cool, her voice crisp: "Yes? May I help you with something?"

Sullen and bleary-eyed, Sadie turned her head to mutter at the woman, "I'm here to see Mr. Gordon."

The receptionist's tone remained genial but very firm. "I'm sorry, but we're just closing for the day, and Mr. Gordon is - miss! Excuse me, miss!"

Hurrying around the corner of the desk as Sadie strode purposefully across the room, catching the girl's elbow in a pinching grip just as her hand reached for his closed door. Breathlessly: "You can't go in there! We are closed for the day. If you'd like to call for an appointment - "

Sadie eased her arm out of the woman's grasp and pressed her lips together, tasting tears. "You tell him it's Sadie McGinley," she said quietly, smoothing her skirt as she perched on the edge of the nearest chair. "I bet he'll see me."

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

The sun was sinking quickly, it seemed, though the rising content of alcohol in his blood may have something to do with the increased passage of time. Daniel Morris was not a rich man, but his father certainly was. Had he not been, Mr. Morris would've been a person Jeremiah passed on the front steps of the courthouse without a second thought. Instead, he was the guilty as fuck dumbass that had just dropped a significant chunk of change into Jeremiah's bank account, including a nice little, under-the-table bonus from his father. Both of them knew the idiot was guilty, but only one of them expected him to never see the inside of a jail for his crime. The man was so surprised that he had stopped by Jeremiah's office not long after the lawyer himself arrived there to hand deliver cash, and a heartfelt, if not somewhat ashamed, thanks. Whatever the man's father had planned for him, being Daniel Morris for the foreseeable future was not an enviable position.

As darkness crept over the city now, the office outside his door was growing quiet with more and more people fleeing to visit their neglected families before returning to their slave quarters for another long shift tomorrow. The fact that it was Saturday, for most of them, didn't even register. Another day, another dollar to be billed. Jeremiah, a senior partner and one of the stars of the firm, had yet to decide if he would return tomorrow. When you brought in as much as he did, no one was going to say anything if he took a day off occasionally. Each drop of liquor that passed over his tongue made the idea more and more tempting.

Tie loosened, jacket off, he sipped the amber liquid in his glass lazily and leaned back in the leather office chair. His eyes fell closed after another sip, and he let his mind wander while the alcohol swam through him. Not to the trial, no. Not to Anne Davies, either, though there had been a time or two his mind had wandered to her. Oh, the hate fuck he could give that angry little bitch. He'd make her crawl for him, beg for him... show her that he could beat her anywhere he wanted. But no. She'd keep for later. Tonight, his thoughts wandered to the woman whose day, week, month, perhaps life he'd successfully ruined tonight. Young Sadie McGinley. Still just a teenager, all freshed faced youth and red curles. But a legal one, wasn't she?

He'd wanted to press Daniel for details after he'd seen her - ask if her lips were as clumsy around his cock as he thought they would be, if she was as tight as he imagined she must be, if her tears made him harder the way the idea of them had for Jeremiah - but he didn't. Couldn't. The last thing that dumb fuck could be given was permission to fantasize about the little slut. He had to be innocent, seen as the actual victim in it all, and so that had to be drilled into his thick head, morning, noon, and night. But now, he could relax. Now he could let his mind wander.

Now... oh, Sadie.

The glass touched his lips, the cool liquid passing over them as he took another sip, but in his mind it was her lips, stretched round, her awkward and irritating attempt to suck him off amusing him more than it aroused him... but she'd learn. He'd teach her. His would not be mistaken for a gentle hand, force would not be mistaken for guidance, but when 19 turned to 20, Miss Sadie McGinley would be a good and proper little sl-

A commotion in the outer office pulled him out of his thoughts, and he scowled at the door, irritated at having been interrupted. His door was locked, it was the first thing he'd done after Daniel's father left, and so he expected no one to come bursting through it, but much like when a person stares at the radio despite the sound coming from the speakers, he stared at the door nonetheless until his intercom buzzed.

"What?" he said sharply after thumbing the button.

"Mr. Gordon, there's a, um..." the girl began, and the nerves were evident in her voice. Not for the first time, Gordon wondered if she might be out there with a gun held on her, a disgruntled lawyer that had been chewed up and spit out by the firm returned to extract his revenge in bullets and blood.

"...a girl to see you, sir."

No gunman, then, and he blinked in surprise at this, utterly confused as to why a girl's unexpected arrival would so unnerve his insufferable secretary. As if on cue, she answered his question before he could ask it.

"She said her name is Sadie McGinley, sir. I told her we were closed and-"

"Send her in, Mary. And then go home."

"Are you sure, sir, I could-"

"Goodnight, Mary."

"Yes, sir. Goodnight, Mr. Gordon."

The intercom connection was severed, and he sat back in his chair and laughed out loud. It felt nearly like he'd conjured the girl out of thin air, though he did wonder if she was carrying a gun in her purse and had come to beat the washed up assholes to it. But everyone had to die sometime, didn't they?

Rising from his chair, he moved around his desk and twisted the lock in the door, then lifted his empty glass off the desk and carried it to the small liquor cart in the corner. The twin of the glass he'd been drinking from was flipped right side up, and each was filled with a third of scotch, the drinks sloshing and swirling as he lifted he glass and turned back towards the door. A smile found his face easily, though the light in his eyes was something less than pleasant and kind, and as he heard the girl approaching his office, he moved to lean against the front of his desk. With drinks in hand, he wanted to greet the one and only Sadie McGinley.