No Controlling Legal Authority

Imogene stood in the semi-shadows, just outside the illumination of the spotlights, and felt a rush of cool air flowing over her hot, bare skin. Her loins throbbed with the insistent urgency of her desire. The music had stopped, and the den was deathly still. Archie was on the couch, motionless, laying on his back, with his feet on the floor. His arm was thrown across his face, shielding his eyes, and she thought for a moment that he might have dozed off.

"Archie?" she called out softly so as not to startle the boy.

"What?" he replied tersely, without looking up.

"Are you alright?"

"I guess."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No. Why, should I be?"

"Oh, I don't know; maybe a little."

"How come?"

"I thought you might be mad at me, cause I ran out on you like I did."

"Forget about it."

"So, you were mad?"

"It don't matter."

"It matters to me, Archie; that's why I came back."

"What'd you come back for?"

"To say I'm sorry for the way I acted, and to make it up to you."

"You can't."

"What can't I do, Archie? Apologize?"

"Naw."

"What? Make it up to you, then?"

"Yeah."

"Sure I can, if you want me to."

"It's too late."

"It's never too late to say you're sorry, Archie; to start over."

"I can't start over."

"Why not, Archie? Don't you want to?"

"Not now; it's gone."

"What's gone?" she asked apprehensively; she had gone through too much this afternoon, she reminded herself, just to be rejected by some petulant child with his nose out of joint, who couldn't find it in himself to kiss and make up.

"It," he replied matter of factly, like he was having to explain the obvious to her.

This is weird, she thought, like someone she should have noticed had left the room and everybody but her knew it. She glanced around uncertainly for a minute, but found nothing amiss.

"I'm missing something here, Archie," she admitted, "tell me what's gone, please."

"It!" he repeated impatiently, still without moving.

She studied him for another minute, keenly aware that her opportunity was in danger of slipping from her grasp. Well, she reasoned, he was about as communicative as a two year old, his mother got that part right, at least... She gasped in sudden recognition, "it," of course, "it." She stepped toward the center of the room, padding silently on bare feet till she was standing about in front of the boy. His bare legs were slightly parted, and his member, deflated now like a punctured tire but still impressive, was snoozing inertly between his thighs.

"Oh, you mean, your, ah," she groped to recall his expression, "your `meter,' don't you?"

"Yeah, that's `it.'"

She smiled, touched by his unexpected backwardness. "It's OK, Archie, I can fix it; it'll come back."

"How do you know it'll come back?"

"Cause, Archie, I know what to do. I know how to make it feel good, so it'll come back good as new."

"It won't."

"Sure it will," she cajoled patiently, "if you give me a chance."

"It don't hardly ever," he said with disappointment evident in his voice.

"What?" she replied, a little perplexed.

"It don't come back, hardly ever," he repeated.

"You mean?" She was trying to feel him out, as it were.

"When it goes away, usually it's gone for two or three days before it'll come back."

"Archie?" she began. She was becoming suspicious. Most boys his age, she remembered, didn't take days to recover; heck, she could drain Billy dry, and he'd be right back in ten minutes, begging her to do it again. "Archie, you didn't do anything while I was gone, did you? You know, like touching it to make it go away?"

"Naw," he denied flatly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. That's kid's stuff; mom made me stop doing that stuff a long time ago." He was pretty convincing, but he still hadn't looked at her.

"You do what your mama wants, don't you, Archie?" Her voice was gently soothing; she was trying to keep him calm. She had almost no practical experience in the matter, to speak of, but she, along with the rest of the universe, had heard enough from Bob Dole about "E.D.," to have a general idea about Archie's predicament.

"Yeah," he responded, brightening some.

That makes her proud of you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," he acknowledged.

"You told me that it comes back sometimes, is that right?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

"What would you say, Archie, if I told you that your mama wanted me to help you get it back, right now, so you don't have to wait two or three days."

"Really?"

"That's what she said, Archie. And, you want to know what else she said?"

"What?" he asked earnestly.

"She said, she knew you and I could do it, cause you've done it before, you know, made it come back, when you thought it was gone."

"She said that?"

"That's right, Archie. She said all you need is a little help."

"Really?"

"Yes, just a little help, and she wants me to help you, Archie. Would you like that? Will you let me help you get it back?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Justice," he responded equivocally. He remained hesitant, but he had called her by name, and she sensed a turning point of sorts had been reached.

"It would make your mama very happy, Archie, and me, too," she coaxed gently.

"I, I," he stammered indecisively.

"Archie!" she broke in insistently.

"What?"

"Look at me." Her tone was firm, but not overbearing. She took a couple of steps toward the boy and stopped under the spotlight nearest the couch.

He hadn't moved, and his arm remained over his face, covering his eyes. He resisted her, out of fear, she guessed trying to sympathize, fear of failure, fear of disappointment, but since she had never depended upon an erection of her own for satisfaction, it was nearly impossible for her to estimate the power of the boy's reluctance.

"Look at me, please, Archie." She was close enough that a whisper was sufficient.

Still, he didn't move, so she took a step closer. She reached out with her foot and touched his forefoot with her toes. He stirred a little, restlessly, and she repeated her request:

"Archie, look at me."

Finally, she thought, as the boy raised his arm and lifted his head to peer at her across his chest. She took a step back to stand in the light so he could see her better.

"I took off my clothes for you, Archie," she breathed in her sexiest, husky voice.

The boy's eyes widened appreciatively. He raised himself on his elbows for a better view, and she turned for him in a pirouette with her arms extended.

"Do you like what you see, Archie?"

"Oh, yes ma'am; you're real pretty, Mrs. Justice."

"Oh, Archie," she laughed gently, "When I'm naked, honey, I'm just Gene, OK?"

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded.

"You said I was a hottie before."

"Yeah."

"I still am, you know; I’m even hotter now than I was before."

"You don't look like you're so hot, I mean, just standing there."

"You can't always tell how hot a woman is, just by the way she moves, Archie." She smiled and winked at him seductively.

He tried to grin back, but couldn't think of a response, so she took a step toward him and bent to take his hand in hers. She pulled, tugging his arm, and said, "Come on, big boy, sit up and pay attention."

He allowed himself to be pulled upright, and she dropped his hand. She raked her fingers through his hair, and her knee brushed his leg. "Relax, honey," she said softly, "it'll be alright; we're gonna have some fun, you and me."

He watched her doubtfully, and she stepped back into the light. Her hands rose to cup her breasts, and she thumbed her taut nipples.

"You like my breasts, don't you, Archie," she said, huskily confirming the returning sparkle in his eyes. She squeezed and her flesh oozed between her fingers. Her nipples were hard, still distended as a result of her earlier experiences, and they burned with desire.

"Yeah," he said, and his eyes were fixed on her hands as they massaged her firm breasts.

She pinched her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and pulled them toward him, stretching and lifting the throbbing cones for him to see. "Oh, Archie," she gushed with auto-erotic tension, "It feels sooooo goood when they're squeezed and pulled like this. I wanted you to do it before, you know, earlier, when I was in here modeling. I wanted you to play with my tits and make me feel good then, baby. Why didn't you?"

"I couldn't," he answered, staring at her kneading fingers.

"Why, Archie, why? Didn't you like them?" She pouted and tried to sound truly disappointed.

"I ain't supposed to; it's the rules," he replied mysteriously.

"Oh," she said like she understood, and, then, she pointed with both her forefingers toward her groin and said, "What about this, Archie?" indicating the tuft of hair between her legs. Her hands fluttered on her stomach for an instant, then slid down and pulled her lips apart, exposing her hot, pink gash to the surprised boy. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she reminded herself in justification for her utterly wanton behavior. "You like my pussy, Archie? It was all hot and wet for you earlier, you know. I saw you looking at it, and I wanted you to touch me. I wanted to feel your fingers in me, Archie. I wanted you to fingerfuck my pussy, baby, but you didn't, and I was so disappointed. Was that against the rules too, baby?"

"Yeah," he groaned without taking his eyes off her exposed flesh. He squirmed uncomfortably on the couch, but she could detect no sign of arousal.

"You know what I really wanted? What I really wanted you to do?"

"What?" He leaned forward, staring, and he licked his lips involuntarily when her fingers began to move.

"I wanted you to touch my clitoris, just like this," she whispered softly, and she began stroking herself with her finger. "Just like that, baby; it feels so good," she gasped hotly and rolled her hips to accentuate the motion of her finger.

He stared, and his tongue pushed against his teeth. A tiny drop of spittle drooled off his lip, but he failed to notice, and it trickled down his chin making him appear slightly Mongoloid.

She masturbated for him, writhing in nearly pantomimed excitement, and appraised him surreptitiously for a physical reaction. She panted, and took a step closer. They were nearly touching, and he watched her dancing fingers from a foot away. She took a chance and slid her finger down her slit and pushed it into her void. "Yessss," she hissed hotly as it disappeared, and she spoke his name, "Archie!"

"Huh?" He was too preoccupied for conversation.

"What I really wanted..." she panted.

"Huh?"

"Was to feel your big cock sliding up in me just like my finger's doin’ right now."

"Ugh."

"Would you like that, Archie?" She duck-walked the final inches toward the boy, awkwardly holding herself open with one hand and fingering herself with the other. He stared transfixed at her plunging fingers. She was like a hypnotist, unable to stop swinging the watch for fear of breaking the spell and waking the patient.

"Yeah," he sputtered.

"I wanted you to do it then, Archie; I wanted you to fuck me with that big cock of yours, but you didn't." Her finger plunged in and out, and she was close enough to have wiped it on his chin if she had wanted. "You should have given it to me, Archie, I wanted it bad," she moaned.

"You wouldn't touch it," he said, grimacing at the memory of her rejection. "You got to touch it first."

"Is that your rule, Archie? The girl has to touch it first, before you fuck her with it?"

"Mama's rule," he said, licking his lips, "model's gotta touch it first, before I do anything."

"I see," she said, "now I understand."

"I can't touch the models first; it's a rule," he stated as though reciting a stanza of poetry by rote.

"I'll touch it now, Archie, if you'll let me." He remained flaccid, but she had hope; he clearly was responding to the erotic exchange.

"It's gone, Mrs..., Gene," he said miserably, reporting the obvious.

"Do you have to be hard first, Archie, before I can touch it? Is that another rule?"

"Uh, no," he replied shaking his head in confusion. It almost never happened that way; he was always hard first, and he would show himself, and they would stare at him in shock, and if they overcame their fear or scruples or whatever and touched him, then he could do what ever he wanted to with them. That was the way it worked, mostly.

"Can I touch it, Archie? Will you let me?"

"Mrs..., Gene," he sobbed. Fear clutched his gut, strangling his desire; he could neither advance nor retreat.

Carpe Cock, she paraphrased mentally, and she groped the boy as he sat in helpless paralysis on the couch.

"Unk," he grunted as her warm fingers, still wet with her juices, touched him. He squirmed uneasily, but didn't push her away.

That's a start, she thought hopefully, and her fingers curled around the boy's sleeping member and slipped cautiously under its head. She stroked it with her thumb, as she had stroked her nipple, only its texture was softer, smoother and felt silky to her touch. She lifted gently to get a sense of the heft of the thing. It was heavy, a fleshy dead weight lying limply across her palm, and he astonished her. My, my, my, she marveled as she stroked the thing, and the walls of her pussy convulsed in apprehension.

She moved between his knees and pushed his legs apart with her own. She lifted his member by the head and inspected it, much like she imagined the Crocodile Hunter might examine a captured python. She closed her hand, squeezing the head, testing for telltale resilience, but he was quiescent.

"You can touch me now, Archie," she said, and she moved to straddle one of his legs so he could do so.

"I, uh, Gene," he stammered, hesitating again.

"It's OK, honey. I'm touching you, so you can touch me, too. Don't you want to? Don't you want to see how hot and wet I am for you, baby?"

"Gene," he whispered in awe of her, but he reached out and tentatively touched her belly. His fingers barely touched her skin, tickling maddeningly, and she hungered for him. Her loins ached with her need, and she was near to fainting with desire. Here she was, holding the most magnificent cock she had ever seen, stroking and rubbing the damn thing, and she couldn't even get a finger to stroke her throbbing cunt.

"Touch meeeeeeee, Archie," she wailed earnestly, and she yanked on his limp prick to drive home the extent of her need.

"I, I," he stammered woefully. His fingers wandered aimlessly across her belly, hanging back, avoiding contact with her lush growth of hair and driving her mad with desire.

"Archie, here," she panted, "let me show you." She pushed his hand down with her own, directing him between her legs. She spread, opening herself and thrust his hand against her crotch. His fingers pressed into her curls, and she held him there, letting him feel the heat of her body. "You see? Can you feel how hot I am, baby?" she asked eagerly.

The boy fumbled with her amateurishly, his fingers flipping her exposed lips ineffectually, and she was confused, because Rufus had spoken more than once of his reputation with the girls. She held his hand against her body and waited patiently for him to react. She felt some sympathy for the boy, since she, herself, only moments before had felt lost and confused when confronted by something profoundly unfamiliar.

"You've played with a woman's pussy before, haven't you?" she asked the boy, whose ignorance was becoming more apparent with each passing moment. She sensed his fingers had failed to establish a purpose and asked him pointedly, "You do know how to do it, right?"

"Uh, I, uh, think so, Mrs..., uh, Gene," he replied with sufficient hesitation that she immediately realized he was clueless and, worse, afraid of her.

She wavered for a moment, a little uncertain herself about how best to win the boy's trust and confidence. Like a two year old with a bulldozer, his mother had said; well, she thought, even two year olds like to play at something.

"Archie, honey," she cooed at him, ignoring the nearly immobile fingers between her legs.

"Yeah, Gene."

"You've been with women, lots of times."

"Yeah."

"What do you like to do with them the most; what's your favorite thing to do?"

"Fuck `em," he said with conviction, "I like fucking." This time she could detect no hesitation.

"What do you do before you fuck, Archie? What do you do first?"

"Nuthin."

"Nothing?" she echoed incredulously. There must be a communications gap here, she thought. "Well, you've got to do something, honey, otherwise neither one of you's gonna be ready, and I expect any girl you're with is gonna want to be real ready before she takes on that thing of yours."

"Huh?"

"Oh hell, fugedabowdit," she answered a little impatiently, and she considered taking a new tack.

"You sound just like my mom."

"Oh great, Archie, that turns me on," she said sarcastically.

"Me, too," he answered earnestly.

Imogene looked at him a little funny at that remark, but she dismissed the implication. She brightened a little at the discovery that something, although she wasn't entirely sure what, excited the boy. "What else turns you on?" she asked.

"Pictures," he said with considerable enthusiasm.

"You like to look at pictures?"

"Yeah, and movies, too."

"Of what, Archie? What kind of pictures and movies do you like to look at?"

He looked at her like that was the silliest question he had ever heard: he put that one right up there with the one, you want just the cone, or do you want ice cream on it, too? He laughed and said, "fucking, of course."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, models, like you did."

She was becoming exasperated; the key to unlocking this boy was becoming harder and harder to find. "Archie," she began, "what else turns you on, honey, besides movies and pictures."

"Nuthin, much," he answered wearily; he was finding the questioning tiresome, and it was getting close to time for his favorite afternoon cartoon shows to start.

"Well, then, my friend," she began with some reluctance, "I guess you're out of luck, cause I left all my porn pictures at home this morning. `Fraid it didn't occur to me they might come in handy at my luncheon with your mama today."

Sarcasm, of course, is entirely wasted on Archie, as are most sentences of more than three or four words; he liked simple and declarative sentences, and, if you ever were to diagram one of the sentences he understands best, you better be prepared to limit yourself to one real short, straight line with nothing dangling from it.

"You got pictures at your house?"

"Right, Archie; most of them are framed, hanging on the living room wall right next to my mom and dad," she lied.

"No shit," he exclaimed with genuine excitement, "that's really cool, Gene."

"I'm so glad you're impressed," she answered flatly. It's not easy to be patronizing when someone has his hand on your pussy, even ineffectually, but I'm managing pretty well, she thought.

"We got pictures and movies and all kinds of stuff," he said with enthusiasm, as though he had discovered a common interest.

"Really?" she answered, playing along for the moment.

"Yeah," he said, and then he lowered his voice and whispered conspiratorially, "We even got a video of you modeling."

"Whaaaat?" she gasped in disbelief, but, then she remembered the bank of TV monitors in the dressing room and the obvious live feed from the cameras in the den. Oh my God, she thought recoiling in shock, Nancy, you evil bitch, you were taping me the whole time? Her head swiveled around, her eyes sweeping the room for evidence of cameras, but, of course, they were too well hidden to be detected. Her mind raced, agonizing, trying to recall her performance, how bad it was, how depraved; could she explain it, dismiss it as a prank or misunderstanding? And, and, ohmygod, if she taped that, she's probably taped this too, oh God, I was holding him, playing with him, talking to him. Shit, shit, shit.