Rich Bitches Sentenced to Being Sex Slaves
Kristen goes to court.
She wants to branch out in her depraved fantasies that she has no way of realizing are coming true. She has been consumed by the diary. Bit by bit, it steals her soul away. Will it swallow her up one day? Destroy her?
She does not care.
She hardly sleeps.
Hardly eats.
Drinks.
She masturbates and writes, drifting in a haze of pure creation, corrupting the world for the amusement of those who read the diary. P and those the entity shares her stories with. She has no idea her existence is for beings beyond her comprehension's pleasure.
She doesn't care.
She is living out her desires. She burns to tell more and more stories, hoping each one will leave her fulfilled.
So she enters one of the courts and sits in the back. A woman was on the stand. She had plump lips and bleached-blonde hair. She wore an expensive dress that hugged her body. Her tits were big, obviously fake. A rich woman crying on the stand.
Only no tears ruined her heavy mascara.
"And that's when... he stopped suddenly..." the "sobbing" woman said. "I was so scared. It happened so fast. I tried to stop, I did... But... Why did he do that? There was no reason to stop. The light was green. I'm so scared all the time. I have panic attacks."
The guy at the other table shook his head. His lawyer put a calming hand down on him.
"But you rear-ended him," another lawyer said.
"Why did he stop?" She looked to the judge. The woman had deep cleavage. "I don't get it. Why did he stop?"
"Miss Brentwood, you have to answer the question," the judge said.
"I was just so frightened," the woman said.
"Your honor," says the lawyer at the other table. She wore a tight-fitting pencil skirt that hugged her rump. Just plump enough to give her curves. She had on a silk blouse, her breasts equally as large and equally as augmented by surgery. "My client needs a break. She's very emotional. This has been tragic."
"So tragic, Aunt Estella," the girl whimpers, pretending to wipe at her tears.
"Ms. Brentwood, your client's a big girl," said the judge. "She can answer the question. Did you rear-end the plaintiff?"
"Yes," the rich bitch mutters.
"And in your statement to police, you said, 'I was singing my fav Swift song with my sis. Just jammin' out. Then the, you know, idiot before us stopped. The light was fucking green.' Do you remember saying that?"
The rich girl on the stand looked at the young woman by the lawyer-aunt. "I mean... it's a killer tune. We're both Swifties, but... I was paying attention."
"Yes or no?"
Kristen watches the trial. The fake tears from the rich bitch on the stand, then from her sister. They're Anastasia and Champagne. Their aunt, Ms. Estella Brentwood, thinks she's a top-shit lawyer. A real bitch.
When she questions the plaintiff, Gerald Smith, on the stand, Kristen's blood boils.
"Isn't it true that you smoke pot?" Ms. Brentwood says on her cross after Gerald spoke of neck pains from the accident.
"I guess," he mutters.
"Were you high when you randomly stopped at a green light, giving no warning to my clients?"
"There was a dog running out into traffic!" he gasped. "I was supposed to hit a dog?"
"An alleged dog," the lawyer says with a sneer. "Let the record show the plaintiff has not proven the existence of this dog. Were you high that day?"
"No!"
"But you regularly drive high on pot."
"Never!"
"And drunk, too. Your fraternity is famous for your Friday keggers."
"It was Sunday! And I wasn't drunk."
"We don't know because the police failed to do a field sobriety test."
"I wasn't drunk."
"Because you were high? Studies show that habitual pot use causes poor judgment and situational awareness. Was that why you just stopped? Or did you hope my poor clients would rear-end you for the insurance money?"
Kristen finds her story. She pens the first sentence.
* * *
The punishment must fit the crime.
* * *
Anastasia Brentwood
I sat at the table with my aunt and little sister. I sneered at the defendant. That disgusting pleb ruined my Ferrari. That model was a limited edition. It was irreplaceable. I wanted to shout that on the stand, but Auntie Estella said it would be a bad idea.
"I have reached my decisions," the judge said. We went with a bench trial on Auntie Estella's advice.
"We're probably going to lose,"
she said.
"But at least with a judge, the damages won't be too severe. Jury's can be... punitive."
I didn't know what punitive meant, but it sounded bad.
"Rise," the judge said.
Auntie Estella rose. I glanced at Champagne. She shrugged. It was her fault, too, I wrecked my car. She wanted to sing to that dumb new Taylor Swift song. Fuck, it was Taylor Swift's fault for putting out such a banger. She should pay for my new car! Why did everyone hate me? I was so pretty.
I rose and smiled at the judge, subtly adjusting my cleavage. I knew he enjoyed staring at my rack as I testified. I'd fuck him for sure if it got me a new Ferrari. Daddy wasn't happy with me at all. Claimed I cost him money.
I was his favorite daughter. I was supposed to cost him money. That accident was the worst day of my life. My new Gucci purse was torn, too. That disgusting frat boy should have to pay for that, too. The judge should throw the book at him.
