Lavender Blue Panties Ch. 06

"Are you saying that even though they framed her for a triple bang murder and sent her away for 25 years they still failed to accomplish their purpose?" I asked as Lisa peeled off her panties in preparation for a brilliant lesson in confidence building.

"Steelemon and those sharks are staying to close to her," Lisa hissed, her face twisted in a studious frown as constantly observed and analyzed.

Their anxieties were too visible to sustain their pose, their claim that they were simply commiserating with a jailed partner and friend. Lisa noted every familiar name that appeared in the media as those who convicted her now were her most ardent defenders. Something big was in the making, Lisa would whisper rhetorically when she wasn't prodding me to pay attention.

"Steve! I feel it in my vital organs!" she would whisper ominously. "They need Julia free for some reason and there's probably millions as risk."

I didn't have a clue and wasn't all that interested. At least that was my the vital image I wanted to project.

"Well! As I enter your vital organ, I'll think about my wife's hidden riches."

"You idiot!" she would shrill. "That loot their fretting over is probably Julia's and under community property half is yours."

At times her fury actually radiated such heat that it rearranged the atoms in the atmospheric dust.

But! In the interim Lisa unaccountably had decided to claim me as her lover and companion in the fallout. Of course, she engineered our becoming lovers. Why? I'll never know.

Undisputed master of all vaginal arts, Lisa Gomez must claim credentials as the most indefatigable sex machine in the universe. Of some nerve rattling concern, however, she has subtly imparted inclinations to be my exclusive lover, faithful and magically empowered , perhaps forever and ever.

To my credit and a great boost to my self esteem, Lisa recorded eight orgasms during that three hours. We attempted an encore with mixed results.

Then, in the aftermath, we emerged showered and perfumed and steeled our resources to resume the resistance, fend off the mendacities and tolerate the mundane inconsistencies of a mortal existence.

I was standing by the door ogling Lisa. We were ending that day's seminar session.

And Lisa had paused to straighten her thigh highs.

That's when her cell phone played the slave's march from Aida.

Lisa's eyes bulged and she glared at her phone as she read the text from Helena, my youngest daughter and most potent antagonist.

"Tell daddy to turn on his cell," Helena texted cryptically. "The Ninth Circuit has leaked that it might be considering mother's appeal."

PLANNING ANOTHER RAPE OF DR. JULIA HARVEY'S ASSETS

Yesterday at 5:10 p.m. we approached the Gothic entrance to the towering post modern building owned and occupied by the formidable law firm, "Lilly, Cannon, Face and Steelemon." My wife's lover-lawyer, "Toby or "Bob" Steele, already was closeted up on the 12th floor with my daughters, Helena and Julie, and the old sidewinder best friend, Jenks Jenkins.

We, Lisa and I, had decided to crash the party after weighing the implications of Helena's text. For reasons known only to my daughter, who had been hostile and indifferent since being enriched by her mother, she had alerted me that her mother could be released from prison at any time.

At the entrance to Steelemon's citadel, we were barred by the massive muscle of a 7-foot tall black man dressed in a black suit and starched white shirt garnished by a perfectly knotted blue tie. I was prepared to shrug and cross the street to the mixer bar and watch the pre pairing for the night's orgies and swinger parties.

But Lisa made a pivotal decision under combat conditions, confronted the giant sans sling shot and predictably we were soon on the express elevator soaring toward the executive suite. Of course, as Lisa had perceived, we were expected and unctuously ushered into the devil's den.

Steelemon's office immediately assumed the fashion of a sultan's solace grotto. Acres of stuffed chairs and couches and finely sculpted tables furnished his place of commerce and worship of carnal knowledge.

All of the expected suspects were there and comfortably seated with juice and spirits in visible supply. We seated ourselves but refused Steelemon's hospitality.

Everyone seemed to accept our presence without question. And Steelemon began his program. Theatrically adjusting his half lensed reading glasses on his nose, my wife's tall rather thin orgasm grinder got right to it. And I was once more in shock as he talked.

"I thank all of you for coming," he intoned in studied ambivalence. "The first order of business calls for the signatures of Helena and Julie on articles of proprietorship transferring to them ownership of four brothels in Nevada."

Whoremasters! My girls are gong to be choirmasters for a bunch of fucking losers? Not so long as I have breath in...

Then suddenly all of the air gushed out of me.

I did not realize that I was screaming. I had risen and Lisa, fearful that I was about to charge Steelemon, had tripped me; and as I lay on my stomach kicking and flailing my arms, she pinned me with a knee between my shoulder blades. Now I had once again proved the Julia and her friends were justified in depicting me as stupid and clownish. Here, in steelemon's office, as Steelemon himself was about to reveal how much my wife was worth and how he, my daughters and Jenks Jenkins were planning to rob her, I had involuntarily attempted to be the loving father and husband.

How stupid! Fortunately, Lisa, she who always feathers her nest, was there to save my day.

"Get your head outa your 20th Century asshole and stop this nonsense about owing your life to these whores you call wife and daughters," she snarled. "What has Christian fidelity earned you?"

"May we proceed?" Steelemon asked peering over his desk, obviously enjoying the spectacle of a sexy woman sitting astride the back of a humiliated man whose face was jammed into the $200-a square-foot custom made Iranian carpet.

"Okay counselor! Proceed!" Lisa wheezed breathlessly. "But I have only one question."

Steelemon sighed, relieved that I lay helplessly on the floor and could not renew my attack.

"Of course, Lisa!" Steelemon said unctuously. "And may I say that I am pleased to see you here and that you are more radiant and lovely than ever."

"How much?" Lisa's voice was gritty as she exerted all her 100 pounds of energy to hold me down.

"How much what?" Steelemon asked almost primly.

"How much are the Harvey girl's paying to own these nice recreation centers their mother built?" Lisa demanded. "Or maybe they're stealing these cash cow pussy palaces from their mother on your behalf?"

Lisa was making sense under the most trying conditions and all Steeleman and I could manage were absurd mesmerized stares at her naked legs as her miniskirt rode high on her stretched thighs. So captivated was I by her beauty that I had lost interest in the proceedings until I heard Steelemon's unctuous voice responding to Lisa's demand. (Unctuous means "rich in organic matter.")

"Good question, my dear!" Steelemon answered smiling and wiping his sweaty hands with a monogrammed handkerchief. "The sale price is $1 for each establishment and that includes all real property and the sex worker's contracts."

"What law school gave you a degree?" Lisa snorted. "No judge in the 21st Century would accept $1 as 'consideration'."

I had always suspected Lisa was a lawyer. If so, however, why was she playing me? Obviously, the answer lay in my potential for becoming enriched in the community property settlement.

Steelemon, obviously a demonic genius, was enjoying the essence of abject absurdity the scene produced.

"You know that their father owns 50 per cent of their mother's fortune as community property," she screamed, yanking the slick lawyer back to objectivity. "How about a printout of all the whore's assets sand liabilities including accounts receivable and accounts payable?"

Lisa huffed and strained to intimidate the bemused lawyer while continuing to drive her sexy knee through my upper body.

"As you wish," Steelemon answered unperturbed. "It's right here in my stack."

"Give me a ball park of how much the four whore houses and their mother's other enterprises banked cumulatively last year," Lisa demanded.

I had ceased my effort to throw her off my back, realizing that such a violent effort would undoubtedly create deep bruises and could even break some bones. In any event her exchange with the feces brain of a crooked lawyer was enlightening.

"All in due time, Lisa," Steelemon answered, now showing irritation. "All in due time."

Did he detect an attitude of doubt and lack of trust, he asked rhetorically with mock concern. He shook his head slowly in comedic sadness as if her questions had hurt his feelings.

As Steelemon smiled toxically, his giant mayhem artist pushed the massive double doors open and strode into the room followed by half a dozen men and three women wearing the khaki uniforms emblazoned with the insignia of Steelemon's private police.

Lisa sprang to her feet, seized a folding chair with which she spontaneously smashed the giant's face. Though I realized that Steelemon's security team would very likely disembowel me and eat Lisa for breakfast, I scrambled to my feet frantically surveying the room for an impromptu weapon.

Suddenly all participating in the riotous tableau froze in place as two mind shattering cracking sounds followed by the unmistakable acrid pollution created by the discharge of gun powder filled the room. As I followed the gaze of the giant security thug, my conscious registered the sight of my daughter, Helena, standing behind Steelemon's desk chair, the muzzle of an impressive pistol resting against the left temple of the now visibly terrified lawyer.

Incredibly within the tick-tock of one nanosecond our lives--Helena's, Lisa's and mine--were forever crystallized as fugitives from justice.

As Steelemon sat rigidly aware of his jeopardy, Helena warned her sister and Jenks to remain seated and unresponsive to her gambit. She concentrated her gaze upon the giant security thug and his six uniformed enablers.

Again insanity and absurdity ruled as the giant ignored Helena's warning and her obvious advantage in fulfilling her threat. He seemed to rise another foot in height and inflate in mass as he strode forward pulling a pistol from a leather sheath attached to his belt. His droopy jowls worked mechanically as he seemed to effect a sinister grin.

"Samir!" Steelemon shouted. "Put away that gun and let them leave."

Though Samir obviously would have preferred to exchange bullets with Helena, he slowly brought his repulsive bulk to a halt and returned the gun to the holster.

Helen's beauty seemed strangely enhanced as the flush of anxiety radiated from her widened eyes. Perhaps a violent vision of you mortal end game

Today at 2:10 p.m. I sent my wife six pairs of Lavender Blue Panties by United Parcel Service.

It's her birthday.

My wife has unhappily embarked upon an involuntary 25-year sabbatical in the central California desert. And she is not vacationing in Palm Springs.

Prosecutors for the state of California sent Julia into enforced exile, alleging that she blew the heads off her three coconspirators in a $300 million swindle. They said she shot them dead and stood in a pool of their blood holding the smoking gun when a state trooper walked into the murder scene, the living room of a farm house south of town.

No motive ever oozed from the bizarre prosecutor's "case in chief." And paraffin tests on Julia's hands failed to find the required tell tale residue that would have resulted from her pulling the trigger nine times.

But it was the novelty of all novelties that nailed her. Never have prosecutors presented pictures of a shooter clutching a weapon while standing in blood surrounded by headless twitching bodies lying at her feet.

Snickering with morbid satisfaction as my wife got her butt kicked by Providence speaks volumes about me. This display of dispirited chill most assuredly marked me as perverse, a deviant from all American civilized norms. Without a doubt that's reprehensible. But it felt so good.

Without a doubt, my wife had been sagacious all those years in telling everyone, "I keep him around but he isn't of much value to me." Now we have a meeting of the minds. I am pleased that my wife and I finally agree on something!

There I stood, nevertheless, subliminally cheering that day the correction department's bus hauled my brilliant and professionally celebrated psychology professor wife out of San Francisco, across The Bay Bridge and roared away toward her 12 by 12 cell in the central desert.

Oh, yes! Dr. Julia Harvey got her recreationally practiced anus metaphorically reamed that fated night she and her conniving friends went to that farm house. And she got it without benefit of KY or her delusionally erotic anal pretensions.

If I ever permitted exculpatory thoughts, those rationalizations during which I should both wish and believe my wife to be innocent of nine-shot murder and mayhem, I would pose four questions for the state's attorneys.

Consider these hanging fire gaps in the state's "case in chief."

Listen! Who else was in the farm house that night?

What happened to the limo and all the cars that were in the muddy front yard at the time I heard gunfire noise and still there when the cops arrived?

Why were the e-mails and diaries of the hospital district's officials and status leaders not entered into evidence?

How did a dozen persons leave the farm house as the shootings occurred and simply cease to exist?

During the trial, though, no meaningful bonding in the prima facie evidence ever materialized. There was simply no carefully preserved linkage in the time sensitive events. Nothing in that trial ever rang true.

It seems, if inferential guessing is effective, that Julia and the hospital administrators went out there to the farm house thinking they finally were going to meet their enigmatic globe jetting enablers in organized malfeasance; and, believed Julia's terrible trio, becoming intimate with these admirable, bigger-than-life partners would enhance their lives immeasurably.

I don't know much about the CEO and CFO of the hospital district or the details of the swindle involving the hospital's construction master plan. But my wife, Dr. Julia Harvey, a member of the hospital district's board, held one of the three votes required for final approval of contracts and the dispersing of several hundred millions in funding.

Of course, only I and Julia's supra sociable orgiasts knew that my esteemed wife was San Francisco's most accomplished marathon sex object and racketeer in the Green Test Tennis Club and Tiny Tim's Golf and Sky Jumper's Buffet.

Oh yeah! My relishing her getting her butt kicked by Providence makes me a despicable creature devoid of gentlemanly instincts. And I love it.

Time passed rationally. I worked at my fragmented tax lawyering.

Our daughters visit her twice a month. At first they cursed and screamed at me for refusing to accompany them on the long drive from San Francisco. But recently they're cooling on the visitation grind.

And ironies of all ironies, it is also the first anniversary of her arrival at California Correction Unit 926698. If it has a name, no one has told me.

This penal colony is so far out in the rattlesnake empire that the postal service can't give it a zip code.

For the past year, Julia has occupied a 12 by 12 cell in a maximum security lock up, I am told. The facility has no pool, no snooker room, no boutique, not even a hot tub.

It doesn't even have a saw dust biker bar that serves greasy burgers and fries let alone Julia's customary five-star establishments with gourmet fit only for gourmets.

Of all the indignities fomented by her ordeal, the absence of her five-star hotel bed and loss of her lover of the day adduced the most galling effect. Any hope of bruising Julia's image of exalted self lay in knowing the dynamics of her carnal neurons.

Let it suffice to know that she will miss her gym lizards and their phallic freak shows. Their three-hour poundings of her pubic bone each afternoon had attained ritual status.

Oh yes! I'm getting my daily exercise belly laughing. Each day her lover lawyer, Robert "Bobby" Steelemon, continues to fail in all his boasts and promises. Just yesterday, his most recent appeal failed in the Ninth Circuit.

No. Unfortunately, the court did not deny the petition. But they did ask him to resubmit his documentation in complete sentences using commas and periods.

During the months before the trial "Bobby" had promised to get her off or at least exercise his incredible influence in having her sent to a fenceless "minimum security" tennis and golf club.

Of course, I must discount my own reliability in evaluating "Bobby." When all has been said and done, I will still be making about $75,000 as a not too successful tax lawyer with a two-room office and part-time secretary. And "Bobby" will still bank his $750,000 without bonuses as a senior partner with Larson, Cannon, Face and Steele, who own and occupy their own 12 or 14 story Sultan's lair in downtown Baghdad by the Bay.

After the trial and Julia had been sentenced to 25 years without parole, "Bobby" sent me a "partial" bill demanding $289,456. Since I was still Julia's husband, he stated, I stood liable and could be sued for payment.

My response: " 'Bobby,' I will expect your certified check by the end of the work day in the amount of $555,001. Itemizing the services and product delivered by Julia to you, I have determined your bill from the hotel and motel bills and out of town weekends, duly recorded in resort and airline ledgers cumulatively over a time frame of nine years. That totals 555 fucks, blow jobs and anal penetrations.

"Since in one of your e-mails you placed a value of $1000 each on her orgasms, I am permitting you to set your price. Also, we won't haggle over the number of orgasms in each fuck session. I'll calculate on the reasonable assumption of at least one at each meet. Please pay promptly and transmit by armed messenger. Attorney Steve Harmon Harvey.

My wife, Dr. Julia Harvey, while celebrating her 44th is also getting fat, our daughters tell me. It seems that the prison cuisine, while filling also tends to weigh heavily with starches and fats. I emphatically deny the girls permission to discuss their mother, but they tell the air I breathe anyway and I seem to be second hand breather.

It's 2:10 p.m. three weeks later. Once again Lisa Gomez has completed her pre coitus check list, spread her beautiful bare legs and wiggled her fingers, a gesture telling me to take carnal flight. All seems ready for action.

I am incredibly ready, Lisa Gomez is incredibly ready and the stars are perfectly aligned for me to demonstrate my mastery of Lisa's patented direct thrust, all in one penetration to the cervix.

As I was ready to release the brakes and roll, my cell phone played "Georgia on My Mind."

Lisa cannot fail to respond to business. She squirmed, shoved and rolled from under me onto the carpet and fished my cell out of my coat pocket. I hate to tell, but my perfectly executed all-in-one thrust almost ripped the hotel's mattress and, not of the least consequence, almost ruined my expertly reappraised rapier.

Lisa flipped the cell open and put it to her ear. Her eyes bulged and her nostrils flared. Her face darkened and she seemed to choke. Then burst forth a flow of invective and profanity the likes of which I never deemed possible.