Trophy Wives Of Moccasin Pond Ch 02

Kramer Johnson III endured the long weekend., but by Monday morning he was tired and haggard. The raid by the Georgia Bureau of Inverstigation of his hotel room and his house drained him of his bravado and left him with two choices: He could ask for time to regain is composure, (not to mention the boxes of evidence that had gone missing) or he could put on a face of false confidence and plow ahead.

He went with the latter.

The day began with a meeting in the judge's chambers as both the prosecution and the defense discussed the loss of all the discovery evidence. The defense, led by charismatic attorney Turlington Stone III, was more than ready for trial, especially with no physical evidence.

The tired and disheveled assistant DA was not ready for such a decision, but after discussing it for two days with his boss, he convinced the county to go to trial.

"I still have all my notes and have a record of all the paper work," he said. "It was always going to come down to his word against the women, and we really can't lose."

So with that over-confidence and under-prepared case file, the trial of the short century got off to a wild start.

TV cameras rolled, showing the fiery defense lawyer taunting those charging his client with multiple rapes and two murders in the opening statement.

"The crux of this trial is that they have no evidence, no proof of anything other than word of mouth," Stone said. "The dead can't testify. There are no witnesses, and you'll hear about a bungling of ALL the paperwork for this trial disappearing over the weekend."

"OBJECTION!"

"Sustained, said the judge. "That has no relevence at this point. The jury will disregard."

Stone took a deep breath and faced the jury.

"We're the ones with all the proof," he said. "My client, as you will hear from the women themselves, is innocent."

The murmuring in the courtroom forced the judge to call order several times before she called counsel to the bench.

"What the fuck was that. Stone?" she whispered, covering her microphone. "The women will say what?"

"Your honor, the prosecution refused to look at what we have. Their case is based entirely on whatever was in those lost boxes. We have taped interviews we plan to introduce. And yes, we will bring the women to the stand."

She huffed and began leafing through the papers before her. Turning to asst. DA Johnson, she hissed.

"My God, Kramer. You didn't want to see this?"

Then turning to defense lawyer Stone.

"These women have been through hell! You'd actually make them recount under oath, on television... God man. You turn this into some kind of prurient sex show and I'll have your license!"

Judge Melissa Jo Carter was a tough cookie. Educated at Duke where she left with a law degree, she clerked for Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer before a blur of law firms and lower court appointments landed her in a position to take over for a retiring district judge at the age of 29. She eventually ran for Superior Court judge and won in a landslide, her making the youngest judge to ever try federal cases in the state of Georgia.

Still only 36, she wielded more power than any other judge in the state. Judge Carter was a no-nonsense jurist who demanded attention and decorum in her courtroom. That was made easier by the fact that she was pretty.

Privately, those in crime and justice considered to be "hot." No one dared say that in her presence.

She was married but dedicated to her career. She was rarely seen in public, outside of the very private Moccosin Pond Golf & Country Club. But one look at her on the bench and you knew you were looking at a powerful, yet sexy woman whose blonde hair fell over her black robe, which hid the body of a college girl.

She looked good on TV. She looked incredible up close. When her gavel hit the block however, it echoed through the courtroom and everyone in her presence froze like marble statues.

The television cameras mostly stayed on her. Thousands of people watched in rapt attention. They included people at home or at work, people in television stores, in college dorms and student centers, retirement homes, barber shops and beauty parlors and even beach houses where vacationing families stayed out of the sun to watch Judge Carter and the scandalous trial she presided over.

Those included one Tessa Johnson of Tybee Island, Ga., along with two people inside a house on Moccasin Pond, where the new acquaintances were not paying attention at all.

"FUCK ME HARDER!"

Stacey Bradshaw, the presumed widow of a missing man, was on all fours, sweating like a pig, her tongue wagging as a man dove his long cock all the way into her ass.

"Gaaaahhdd yes, J.D.! Fuck me like a FUCKING ANIMAL!"

The television was on as J.D. "Big Dick" Morrison impaled his sexy little pig slut, laughing and grunting as the trial was getting off to a rocky start. A couple of feet away, nine boxes were stacked against a wall, all marked CONFIDENTIAL.

Five hours away, Tessa sat on her parent's old couch, sipping coffee and watching her laptop screen where a dark figure loomed over a screaming woman, fucking her violently as she begged for more.

The video had come in an anonymous email. It was grainy and filmed in night vision, so the couple's eyes shone green. But one thing was obvious. The man's cock was as long as a baseball bat, and Tessa knew exactly where she'd seen it.

She was on her knees as she watched, one hand slapping her wet pussy over and over, harder and harder, making a mess under her as cum ran down her legs.

In her other hand was a business card.

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J.D. and Stacey had become a thing after the strange disappearance of her lawyer husband. Not that she cared. The married couple had grown apart in recent months, and their sex life had disappeared long before he did.

The night of the assault traumatized the young trophy wife, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it was the most incredible sex she could ever imagine. Though she was in another world that night, the result of too much vokda and maybe an Ambien or two, she had awakened the next morning with cum spilling out of her pussy and ass, a soreness that somehow felt good in a bad sort of way and the sense of something terrible in the air.

And she loved it. Craved it. The terrible air had an aroma. Cum and sweat and something she couldn't quite identify. All she knew was she was on fire. She wanted to be fucked by a someone or something depraved.

The open back door was an invitation for trouble, and she couldn't wait for it.

Stacey had walked in a trance most of the week. She didn't eat. She slept when the Ambien kicked in and woke up feeling tired, used and primal. She hadn't showered. Her pussy smelled like it had been fucked by a tribe of Apaches. By Saturday morning, she had slipped into a state of crazed reality.

That was when she started drinking vodka again. That was when she found the cocaine she'd hidden in her nightstand. That was when it hit her that her husband was gone.

And it was when she heard a car pull up in the driveway.

Startled, she ran to the window instead of the unlocked door. A man was hauling box after box of something and dropping them hard onto her back deck. One box after another until he closed the doors and the rear hatch of his car.

And then there he was.

Standing well over six feet and chiseled from granite, he stood looking into Stacey's eyes, no expression,, just a cold, dead stare. He was sweating profusely, wearing no shirt. He wore a pair of jeans that seemed to be alive, his heavy breathing and heartbeat seemed to be a part of his body.

Stacey felt light-headed then fainted onto her hardwood kitchen floor.

Morrison had had a busy weekend, entering the federal building through the garage on Friday night, slipping past guards who were changing shifts, then winding through the familiar halls until he found a storage room on the third floor.

He stayed up all night, rummaging through old boxes of old trial notes from court reporters, papers from judges dating back 25 years and old personal papers from everyone from criminals and politicians to present-day judges.

One box caught his attention. It was stamped CONFIDENTIAL and was under the heading Superior Court candidate Miles Danforth.

"Hmmmm," Morrison said to himself. "What have we here?"

There were two reasons it piqued his interest. One, it was the lower-court judge who was rumored to have dated Melissa Jo Carter at Duke, and two, it was the man Morrison had killed two years earlier. Again, the body was never found. Mrs. Miles Danforth, of Morrison Pond, never said a word. He was reported missing, and after a month or so, the judge was officially declared a missing person and the trail went deaad.

Morrison and Widow Danforth still ran into each other from time to time. She had his card.

J.D. spent all of Friday night and early Saturday morning going through boxes, periodically going back to look through the Danforth box that had some very interesting items in it. But he was there for something else and eventually, he located a pile of boxes wrapped in red tape with a white paper in a bag marked "Trail of Evidence. Do Not Open."

"Holy fucking shit," he whispered to no one.

He hoped he would find something, anything that would give him some sort of clue as to what the trail of evidence might contain. Instead, the found the entire mother lode.

An hour before sunrise, he drove out of the courthouse garage in a UPS truck wearing a brown company suit. He handed a slip of paper to the federal security guard, who stamped it and nodded as he exited one of the best-protected buildings in the United States.

J.D. checked his cellphone and saw two missed calls, both from Moccasin Pond. The voicemail from the first was short and sweet.

"JD honey, I'll be out of town for a few days, but don't hesitate to call or stop by the house if you need anything. I need something from you. I need some panties. You've torn all mine up. Kidding. I need that fucking foot and a half cow prod up my cunt ASAP. Call you when I get back. Try to behave."

The second was labled POSSIBLE SPAM. It consisted of someone breathing heavily, nervously, But it ended with no one saying a word. Morrison smiled as he headed to his junkyard behind his "business."

Roy Agnew's Body Shop and Wrecker Service

Driving through the labyrinth rows and rows of wrecked cars stacked three and four high, he found the open spot he was looking for and backed the UPS truck between two stacks of Oldsmobiles covered in kudzu. Five minutes later, he was in a 1993 Buick Roadmaster Wagon with a load of boxes in the back, shirtless and wearing a pair of weathered old jeans.

He drove straight to Moccasin Pond, driving to the cul de sac where the Danforth estate sat behind an eight-foot wall, typed in the security code to open the large iron gate then drove down the long driveway just as Saturday morning dawned.

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Judge Carter had slept well Saturday night. Her husband, the former Superior Court Judge Chambers Carter had cooked a nice meal, and they enjoyed a glass of wine before he went to bed.

Judge Chambers, as they used to call him, was in bed by 9. He was 68-years-old and was starting to show his age, His trophy wife kissed him on the forehead and pulled the covers up to his neck.

"Big day on Monday, babe," the old judge said wistfully.

He'd heard all the big cases in his day, but when his new wife was elected four years prior, he decided to retire gracefully.

"I know," she said, matter-of-factly. "And I'm not neccessarily looking forward to it. I have a bad feeling about it."

Her feeling of dread would get worse.

At around 10:30, her phone rang. It had an ominous tone. She looked at the caller, and it said Georgia Bureau of Investigation. After listening for a few seconds, she sighed.

"Dear God. What in the hell happened?"

The explanation was no better than the shocking news of the missing boxes. It sounded like something out of a bad crime novel.

"Is my office door locked?" she asked.

"I don't know, Melissa" the GBI director said. "I don't think anyone thought to check."

"Fuck me," the judge said under her breath.

The director heard it and smiled.

"That won't be necessary," he said.

"Not funny George," she said. "Any other good news?"

They'd known each other since before she was elected. In fact, he was part of her election committee and even hosted an important fund-raising dinner at his house in Moccasin Pond.

A divorcee, George Hall was a handsome man, tall and tanned with graying hair and a physique kept thin by running daily and playing golf every Saturday at the club.

"I guess this screwed up golf yesterday," she said, kidding him.

"No I played nine before the sun went down," Hall said. "I played by myself."

"I'm trying to imagine that," she said, continuing to flirt mildly with the most powerful law enforecement official in the South.

They were both silent for a few seconds. It was Judge Carter who finally broke the silence.

"I had a good time last week," she said.

"I did, too, Melissa," Hall said quietly. "I hope we can do it again."

Judge Carter felt a warm sensation below, thinking back to the after party at his house after all the other guests had left.

"Let's just not be so loud," she said. "Seriously, George. Where did you learn that?"

Hall chortled.

"I learned in college, same place you learned to be such a slut."

"George Hall! Why I swear. Where did you ever hear such a thing?"

She was coy, a side of her no one ever saw. At least not recently. The truth is, Judge Melissa Jo Carter indeed had a past that would shock anyone who knew her or knew of her. It was something she'd kept hidden for years, secrets that would be hard to explain and would almost certainly ruin her career.

But she loved having a secret past. It made her feel young. It made her feel she really did have a life once, away from her marriage to an aging impotent, away from dressing in all black every day for work.

Sometimes, she would wear nothing under her robe. When trials became procedural and boring, she'd been known to slide a hand under her robe and rub a finger over her clit behind the bench.

No one could see her except the bailiff, who indeed watched her one day as the judge smiled and winked at him and stared as the large black man's pants began to bulge. Judge Melissa Jo Carter had a very interesting past.

Some 25 miles away, J.D. "Big Dick" Morrison was going through her past. It was quite a box, filled with letters and a few photos of her in the arms of other men. Most were from college and were harmless. But in the bottom of the box was an vanilla envelope filled with what felt like photographs. Morrison opened the folder slowly and pulled one out.

It was in black and white. And very recent.

Judge Melissa Jo Carter was leaning back behind her desk, her robe was wide open. She was naked, her bare feet were on her desk and her hands were pulling her pussy lips apart. She had a shit-eating grin on her face.

On the photo, in handwriting, was a message.

"Merry Christmas, Bascombe. You're my favorite bailiff!"

The photo was obviously a copy. Somebody other than Bascome the bailiff had seen the photo.

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It was a short ride from the Danforth house to Stacey Bradshaw's. In fact, it was a short ride to Tessa Johnson's and Judge Carter's. Moccasin Pond was a sprawling neighborhood wrapped completely around the 25-acre lake and surrounding countryside. It was mostly wooded, though there was a large meadow atop one of the hills, the highest point in that part of Fulton County.

It was only accessible by four-wheel drive, and even then the road to the top was impossibly bumpy with trenches and holes and rocks the size of jeeps all along the route. The meadow was a popular place for young lovers to hike up to, though the hike was more difficult than most hikers are capable of scaling.

J.D. had spent a lot of time up on that bald meadow. It gave him the perfect vantage point to see most of what the locals called "the pond," and it was where he'd begun to plot the plan he'd been devising since prison.

He'd kept a list of most everyone who'd ever done him wrong. Granted, he deserved most of the things done to him in his life. But he was also the victim of a justice system that was designed to do away with people like him, a system that incarcerated entire generations of men, young and old, black, brown and white, Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings, Aryan Nationals, bank robbers, kidnappers, rapists and murderers.

Thrown all together behind fences and barbed wire and surrounded by angry guards armed with assault rifles, it was a recipe for disaster. Morrison knew how too play the factions, how to rile them up if he needed to and how to calm them down. He had the respect of every man in No Assylum Federal Prison.

That included the female guards, those who came and visited him and even the daughter of the warden.

Part of it came from his street smarts. Part from his no-nonsense personality. Mostly though, it was because he had the biggest dick in the yard. And every man and woman in the Georgia justice system knew it.

Even Judge Melissa Jo Carter.

She'd never seen it, never even met J.D. He was an urban legend talked about in hushed reverence by those who'd experienced the massive cock and those who could only imagine.

The criminal justice system was also a mixture of people with different backgrounds, different roles, different positions in what is known as the "funnel of justice," an organized series of levels going from arrest to prison. Cops turn cases over to district attorneys who turned felons over to prison officials. And scattered throughout the funnel are bail bondsmen, lawyers, legal support specialists, psychologists, prison relation specialists and guards.

And the dirty little secret is the men are, almost to a man, skirt-chasing sex fiends and the women, almost across the board, are horny as hell. Everybody's fucking everbody, either literally or figuratively. This is the basic power of J.D. Morrison and his big dick.

Not only is he aware of the entire framework of justice, he knows how to work it. And he has something on most everbody. His cock opens a lot of doors.

After walking through the unlocked back door of Stacey Bradshaw's, he watched her faint in from of him. Without trying to help, he just stepped over her prone body carrying box after box of evidence. The last thing he brought in was the manilla envelope of lurid photos of the most powerful judge in the state of Georgia.

He made himself a drink and looked around the kitchen, which looked like nothing had been touched, and the den, which looked like a campsite.

There were blankets strewn all over, cushions in the floor, pillows without pillow cases, empty plastic water bottles, empty vodka bottles, pills scattered about, and on the coffee table was a bag of white powdery susbtance with lines and piles of it mixed in with a razor blade and a loose-rolled 100-dollar bill.

Morrison knew his way around the house. He walked upstairs and into the master bedroom, which hadn't been touched since the last time he was in it. slipped out of his jeans and into the shower.

When he walked out, he dried off with a dead man's towel, walked straight downstairs and lifted Stacey Bradshaw from the floor. Taking her upstairs, she began to mumble incoherently, oblivious to her surroundings. Morrison walked back into the shower and sat her on the floor, turning the shower on again and stepping, letting the hot water washing a week of sweat and tears.

Morrison left her in the shower before walking downstairs and picking up the envelope and a couple of boxes of trial evidence.