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"You tell that son of a bitch if he wants to go to prison, he's making all the right moves," Diane Krantz growled into the phone. The two-lane road through upstate New York was making her almost as angry as her idiot client. The road twisted and turned and there was nothing but green on both sides. For a New Yorker, this bucolic landscape was green hell.
"He thinks he was in the right to talk to the press..." Her assistant's voice answered through the Bluetooth connection.
"He's a fucking moron. He pays us to make sure he doesn't do fucking moronic things, so this is our failure as much as his. Tell him to stay the fuck home, order fucking take out, and keep his fucking mouth shut. And, if he's really lucky, I can keep him from ending up getting raped in prison."
The speaker was silent for a moment. "You really want me to say that?"
Diane rolled her eyes. "No, Elaine. You translate me. Take out the "fuck"s and the reference to "prison rape". Got it?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"I don't know, maybe I shouldn't go on vacation," Diane said.
"Diane, you haven't taken a day off in months."
Diane sighed. "I know, but can you guys handle this?"
"We will, I promise. I'll make sure all your clients lay low for the next seven days."
Diane smiled. "Thanks. Call me if..."
"I am not calling you, boss. Have some fun. Please?"
"Fine. I guess."
She pressed the button on her steering wheel to close the call.
The quiet in the Mercedes seemed thick. Almost stifling.
Diane Krantz was one of the best criminal defense attorneys in New York City. Her dance card was always full, because she got results. Ninety percent of her clients got off, and the other ten percent got much lower sentences than they deserved.
Diane saved monsters from peasant wrath, and she was paid handsomely for it.
She was very wealthy. Of course, she had no life, got no sleep, and looked forty-five instead of her real age of thirty-five, but that was the price of being the biggest shark in a big ocean.
But, even she knew she needed a rest. What good was success if you were dead from a heart attack before forty?
Running in the circles she frequented, Diane had heard whispers about "The Farm". Supposedly, it was like a combination health spa and fetish club. Very exclusive - it had no presence on the web, and admission was through invitation only. To get in, you had to know someone who had been there.
It took her months to find someone who would recommend her, and another month before she was contacted to setup her vacation.
A week on The Farm was expensive: six figures for seven days, and the cleintele read like a Who's Who of the rich and powerful. But, the testimonials from those clients, delivered in strictest confidence, included the words 'miraculous', 'unbelievable', and 'best vacation I ever had.'
Even after paying in advance, there was still a thorough, invasive background check, a physical exam, a visit with a psychologist, even a DNA sample.
It seemed overkill for a spa.
Other than being luxurious, Diane knew very little about the spa experience itself.
The one thing she did know: boobs. The boobs had been the clencher. Every woman she spoke with had the most amazing breasts after a week at The Farm. Perfect, Double D, breasts. No surgery, no pain, you just left a week later with Playboy tits.
The feminist in her was deeply embarrassed to admit it, but she had always dreamed of having breasts that would drive a man insane with lust. And, what was wrong with that? Boobs were power, and Diane loved power. She had thought about surgery for years, but hadn't been able to bring herself to do it.
The other part the women who had been to The Farm whispered about: the sex. Uninhibited, animalistic, sex. There was a hedonistic, orgy atmosphere that permeated stories about The Farm.
Diane's lover of the last five years was made out of black rubber and took AA batteries... a lot of AA batteries. She was in her prime, and the love of her life had been manufactured on an assembly line in Taiwan.
A week of hot sex followed by going into middle age with the rack of a goddess seemed like a wonderful idea.
The kinkiness of the scenario worried her. She had never been a swinger or even loose - five lovers in thirty-five years didn't exactly make her slut material. If she was honest with herself, she wasn't even sure she could go through with staying at The Farm.
But, damn it, she was growing older and she needed some fun.
Her GPS told her to turn right, and she turned onto a narrow drive through a tunnel of green.
Gravels crunched under the Mercedes' tires.
She emerged in a clearing with fenced pastures on two sides. A plain, white farmhouse sat at the end of the road along with a large white barn.
She had been instructed to park behind the barn, and rounding the corner she saw a small lot filled with luxury cars and SUVs. There was even a helicopter pad in the field beyond.
Diane parked behind a black SUV.
She turned off the engine.
The instructions had been clear: bring nothing. No clothes, no toiletries. Everything would be provided.
Now that she was here, she stared out the window at the barn and wondered if it was a good idea.
***
Bear stood up and fastened his jeans. He stared down at his junk still hanging out his fly. "I'm... you're sure I'm not bigger? I just... I don't remember ever having to stuff this much meat into my pants."
Heather laughed and got up from the operating table. She knelt in front of him and gently pushed his thick, soft cock into his jeans. "You be extra careful with all this meat. It's my favorite toy." She slowly eased the zipper up and then kissed the bulge.
He helped her up.
She winced in pain.
"You okay?"
Heather nodded. "Only hurts when I laugh. And, when I fuck." She winked at him.
He cradled her in his arms. "Well, I guess we better slow down, then?"
"Like hell!" She laughed and nuzzled against him.
He frowned. "And, you're sure I was undercover for the Church at WNYC?"
She kissed the top of his chest through the tight t-shirt. "Yes. Gwen sent you there to keep an eye on media stories about the Church."
"I just... I can't remember."
"Hey, it's okay. That bitch Rebecca sucker punched us both. You took quite a blow to your noggin," she lied. Gwen had changed his memories of the night before slightly. In the edited version, he had turned his head for a moment and Rebecca Tanner had clubbed him with a flashlight before she had beaten up Heather.
His eyes flashed with anger. "What are we going to do about that slut?"
"Well, I want you to go find her in the woods and bring her back here..."
"Goddamn right, I will."
"Hey! Gwen wants her unharmed," Heather looked up into his brown eyes and smiled mischievously. "But, you can have fun with her if you want."
"I want you," he whispered, his hands sliding down to her full buttocks.
She laughed. "Yes, and you're going to have me. But, I'm the best girlfriend in the world: you have my permission to fuck her brains out. Come on, you know that little blonde pussy makes you hard." She rubbed his cock through the left leg of his jeans.
"She makes me angry."
"Good. Channel that. She's out in the woods high as fuck on aphrodisiac. Use her. It's what I would do," she smiled as she leaned up and kissed him. "Then bring her back here and we'll both have fun."
He finally returned her smile. "Both of us, huh?"
"Baby, you know I swing both ways - every way as a matter of fact."
***
