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From: "Mark Bastable" <markb@aboy.demon.co.uk>
Subject: Alphabet Stories: K
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Disclaimer: I made it up. I mean, read it. Obviously I made it up.

Copyright: It’s mine, all mine.


     K
     --


David K was arrested at dusk, walking home from work. As he turned the
well-lit corner of Ninth and Garibaldi, two men approached him from behind,
grasped him by the elbows and bundled him into a white car. They did not
speak during the twenty-minute journey across Rochelle, despite David K’s
entreaties.

David K was held in a cell at the Centre. There was a plank bed and a
toilet. He slept fitfully. In the morning he was fed and then taken to an
interview room, where he was  left to wait alone. After an hour or so, the
door opened and a smart woman of about thirty came in and sat opposite him.

“I am Kirsten Betts,” she said smiling. “I have been assigned to your case.”

K asked what he was supposed to have done.

“Now, that attitude won’t get us anywhere,” frowned Kirsten Betts. “A little
co-operation goes a long way, I think you’ll find.” She produced a paper
that bore all the mundane details of David K’s life – address, ministry
number, parent’s names – and asked him to sign it, as a record that he
accepted her as his para-legal. “Until tomorrow, then,” she nodded,
standing. David K was taken back to his cell.

The following morning he was brought to the Trial Complex, and made to stand
in a perspex, sound-proofed dock. Through the speakers in the sides of the
booth, the panel of judges told him to confirm his identity. David K did so,
surveying the jury of eight women, and the packed public gallery. To his
left, beside the dock, sat Kirsten Betts. Across the room, the prosecutor
got to his feet. His voice came through the speaker as he called Ella
Kubekski.

David K had not thought of Ella in twenty years. As she took a seat at the
witness table, she was still as slight and nervous as she had been the night
they had lost their virginity together at Newry Camp. She didn’t look at
David K as the prosecutor asked her to relate her evidence. She merely
clasped her hands in her lap, and spoke in a low tone, leaning towards the
microphone.

“He took me out on the lake. I was seventeen. He touched me under my skirt.
Then he did it to me...”

“And this was against your will?” the prosecutor prompted.

“I was seventeen!” Ella protested. “I didn’t know what he was doing...”

David K sat open-mouthed with horror. It wasn’t true. Ella and he had been
in love. She had accepted him willingly. K jumped to his feet and pounded
with his fists on the wall of the sound-proof booth. He screamed at Ella –
it had been a beautiful thing, a wonderful night. How could she say these
things? But nobody paid attention. He could not be heard. K turned to
Kristen Betts, who looked at him with a scolding expression and motioned him
to sit down.

The prosecutor called Anne Greaves. David K didn’t recognise her when first
she stared at him, but when she told her story, he had a faint recollection
of some student adventure.

“We were all pretty tanked-up,” Anne told the prosecutor. “Seven or eight of
us out in the park. He pulled me into the bushes and made me suck him off.”

“He put his cock in your mouth,” the prosecutor elucidated. “And you had to
swallow his cum.”

Anne nodded. “I was real drunk. He definitely took advantage of that.”

David K remembered her clearly now. She’d followed him in to the bushes – he
was sure that was how it happened – and caught him peeing. She’d pushed him
onto his back as he turned to rejoin the party. She’d masturbated him and
then put her mouth on his dick as he came. At the time, he couldn’t believe
his luck.

Again K turned to Kirsten Betts, pointing frantically at the witness and
shaking his head. Kirsten raised a sceptical eyebrow and looked away.

All day the witnesses trailed in. Margie, a girlfriend in their sophomore
year, suggested that David K had coerced her into unsuitable lingerie.
Petra, some half-forgotten one-night-stand, told a graphic tale of uninvited
anal sex. Robyn – sweet, adoring, bashful Robyn – was explicit in the
extreme. “He used to straddle me and put his cock between my tits. He’d
grease them up with baby-oil and then fuck my cleavage. When he was ready to
shoot, he’d pull my panties to one side – I always had to wear black lace
panties – and ram his hot dick into my gash and pump his spunk into me. He’d
do this fifteen or twenty times a week...”

“And you were what age when this was done to you?” the prosecutor asked,
solicitously.

“Fifteen.”

Again David K leapt to his feet and hammered against the perspex. It didn’t
even make sense. The woman was obviously in her forties now – the same age
as K himself. It was all blatantly apparent nonsense.

By the end of the day, the story of David K’s lovelife had reached his late
twenties. Twelve women had attested to his unnatural and cruel habits, and
the prosecutor told the jury that, unpleasant as it may be, the following
day would see evidence that K’s thirties were a period of the most wanton
and insensitive depravity. The court was adjourned

Back at the Centre, in the interview room, Kirsten Betts looked grave. “You’
re quite the boy, aren’t you?” she said, shaking her head. “Dear me, yes.”

 Dazed and exhausted, K protested his innocence.

“No – not yet,” Kirsten told him. “You get to plead when all the evidence
has been given.” She grinned. “It’d be a pretty unlikely system of justice
where you got to proclaim your innocence before you'd heard the evidence.
But let’s look at the specifics. That woman, Holly – did you really promise
you’d marry her while you were fucking her in a Mall?”

K rubbed his temples. He probably had. But, Jesus H Christ, nobody was
responsible for promises made in the throes of lust. Nobody believed that
stuff.

“Interesting defense,” Kirsten nodded. “Diminished responsibility – you’ll
have to do better than that.” She got up and strolled up and down. “Your my
first sex case, you know. It’s fascinating. You really must have some
technique to get all those girls to do that disgusting stuff.

K lit a cigarette. He doubted he was that extraordinary. Most guys got lucky
from time to time. It’s not even like he knew it was wrong.

Kirsten leaned forward, both hands on the desk. “Wow – two more attempts at
mitigation. ‘Everybody does it’ and ‘I didn’t know it was illegal’. You’re a
classic, aren’t you?” The buttons of her blouse were loose and K could see
the rise of her tits. They were white and perfectly round.

“But, I’ll be honest,” she winked, “you make me wetter than is entirely
professional.” She straightened up. “We’ve got another three or four days
before you get your say. I’d think about the plea you want me to submit, if
I were you. It’s not looking too rosy right now.”

The next day K was accused of sadism, masochism, the use of prostitutes,
statutory rape and inventive greengrocery. Every testimony was, it seemed, a
twisted version of a mundane truth. K sat slumped in his booth, battered by
the litany of his own repulsiveness. Maybe these old flames were right.
Maybe he had been just as insensitive and cock-driven as they said. The
jury, appalled and wide-eyed, appeared to find it credible. K supposed he
must be the monster he was painted.

That evening Kirsten came into the interview room and flopped into the chair
across from K. “I am dog-tired,” she announced, flexing the muscles in her
neck. “It really takes it out of you, listening to all that filth. Christ,
you’re incorrigible, you horny sonofabitch.”

K saw the chance for a plea. Okay, maybe he had been the way all those women
said – but not anymore. For the last four years he’d been single and
celibate. He’d worked hard at the Comms and he’d hardly looked at a woman.
He’d changed.

Kirsten looked thoughtful. “Yeah, not bad. They love sinners repenting. A
show of real contrition and you might walk out with no more than a slapped
wrist.” She nodded. “Hmm. We can work with that.”

K felt an immense rush of relief. And he was truly sorry. He could see what
a bastard he’d been – he could see that. But he was different now.

“All very salutary, but a bit of pity,” Kirsten sighed, locking her hands
behind her head and pushing her breasts out. “I mean – you are undoubtedly a
pervert of the worst order – but you do appear to have a natural talent.”
She crossed her legs, and K caught a glimpse of stocking top. “Sin,
unfortunately, is what you’re good at.” She stood up and walked around the
desk, then hitched up her skirt and straddled K’s thighs. “Ooh, I’m going to
hate myself in the morning,” she breathed, as her face dipped to meet his.
“Of course, everything that passes between us is completely confidential,”
she grinned, as she reached for his belt. “You’re a client – and I’m bound
by my professional vows never to divulge what happens in this room. Wow –
size o’that..!”

On day three, the court lingered over details supplied by K’s ex-wife, who
had apparently suffered the most outrageous dignities. There was a sordid
incident with a camcorder and a pair of handcuffs. There were innumerable
incidences of  K’s predilection for seeing cum as it was splattered over
raised buttocks, or threaded like sea-foam through pubic hair. During his
divorced wife’s testimony, K sat with his head hung, regretting the
sub-human he’d once been. He glanced across at Kirsten from time to time,
but she was transfixed by the unfolding story. Her neck was flushed and she
sidled her thighs against each other.

As the session was brought to a close, the clerk announced that the
defendant’s plea would be heard the following day, and that the jury would
retire to consider a verdict.

Kirsten burst into the interview room like a cyclone, ripping her blouse
from her shoulders. “Fuck, you’re a complete animal, aren’t you?” she
panted, struggling with the zip of her skirt. “I can’t believe the stuff you
did to your wife! Christ, I thought I was going to cum right there in the
courtroom. Get your cock up me – I can’t wait...”

She took K across the table, her wet cunt pounding down on his cock. She
screamed as he tugged at her nipples, and put her hand back to finger her
own asshole. She was screeching like a tortured owl – “Give me your dick!
Oh, Christ, fucking pump my cunt full! Slap my butt! Spank me harder! Give
it to me! Let me have your disgusting cock up my snatch! Fill my fucking
hole! Oh, fuck, that’s it! Give it me – I want your hot spunk in me!
JEEEEESSSSSUS, I’M CUMMING!!!”

In court the following day, the chairman of the panel of judges asked
Kirsten for K’s plea. As agreed, she entered a plea of guilty, but asked for
his recent good behaviour to be taken in to consideration. She read,
verbatim, K’s own statement admitting his past follies, but citing his more
civilised behaviour over the last few years. The jurors were evidently
pleased with both the contrition and the modified conduct. It was obvious
that K’s statement had gone down well and the jury, although no longer
required to pass judgement, voluntarily recommended as lenient a sentence as
the law would permit.

The chairman nodded sagely, and consulted his fellow judges in a low voice.
Almost smiling, he turned to address K. “Forgiveness is the central concept
of any system of justice,” he intoned. “And your peers, the jurors, have
recommended that forgiveness is appropriate in your case. Your conduct
recently has been exemplary – and that counts for a lot. Therefore...”

At that moment, Kirsten stood up. “Your Honour, before you go on, I feel
duty bound to tell the court that the defendant, David K, fucked the ass off
me last night in the interview room at the Centre. I was powerless to resist
his evil influence, and he made me take his hot cum right up my snatch - not
once, but three times. I feel that this information is germane to the
case...”

The judge’s face darkened. The jury gasped in horror. Women swooned in the
public gallery.

In the hubbub, K, outraged, slammed himself against the door of the booth,
and it burst opens, spilling him headlong at Kirsten’s feet.

“You bitch!” he yelled up at her. “You promised me that you couldn’t tell.”

Kirsten lifted a foot, showing a glimpse of thigh as she rested her stiletto
heel on K’s chest. Leaning towards him, she tutted, and shook her head. “Oh,
come on,” she whispered, “Jesus H Christ, nobody’s responsible for promises
made in the throes of lust. Nobody believes that stuff.”




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