Chapter 1

Caution: This Suspense Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, Blackmail, Coercion, Consensual, BiSexual, Fiction, Crime, Humiliation, Rough, Spanking, Group Sex, Interracial, Black Male, White Female, Anal Sex, Analingus, Cream Pie, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Petting, Safe Sex, Sex Toys, Voyeurism, Doctor/Nurse, Foot Fetish, Public Sex, Small Breasts, Violent,

Desc: Suspense Sex Story: Chapter 1 - I was charged without reason. I was arrested and jailed without explanation. I was denied bail because I was a supposed "flight risk" and now my defense team wants me to plea bargain for a shorter term for something I didn't do and nobody believes a word I say. What's a poor girl to do?

The first time that Meg heard the term “Malicious Intent”, she was sitting at the defendant’s table concentrating on looking innocent for the jury in a way that looked sincere and not fake like some Hollywood actress going for a screen test. Her handsome hunk of a defense counsel had forcefully stressed with his strong arm wrapped deliciously around her shoulders that it was probably the most important thing she could possibly do in the face of all the forensic evidence they had accumulated against her.

Meg was never really overly concerned about the outcome of her trial because she was totally innocent of all charges and she had absolute faith in the American jurisprudence system.

Her father had been a judge and she knew that judges were always in the corner of innocent people everywhere. It was a cornerstone of her private personal beliefs and she didn’t really see the need to hiring and paying these legal people so much money when no jury with any common sense at all could possibly consider her guilty of such a devious and mean-spirited crime. This judge happened to be a female and she looked like she was a thousand years old with a hair style that went out of style shortly after the end of the last Great War. Meg had never actually seen her smile or shown any sense of humor at some of the ridiculous fabrications the attorneys floated about like trial balloons to persuade the jury into their way of looking at the evidence.

She wanted to ask the third chair, the humorless Charlie exactly what the hell, “Malicious Intent” meant because it sounded so terrible that she wished the judge and the prosecutor were not looking straight at her when they uttered those ominous words. It seemed particularly unfair because she was arguably the least malicious person to ever graduate from Saint Bernadette’s Academy for Young Women. She never said anything mean about any other girl no matter how silly or ignorant their actions. Her grandmother had cautioned her when she was still in that period before her periods that if she couldn’t say anything nice, just to keep her mouth shut and listen without making any comments.

Meg would be the first to admit that she had smoked the funny cigarettes with her new friends at the actor’s studio but it seemed all normal and ordinary to her in the spirit of the times. The simple fact was that all of her friends and most of the people she was acquainted with for one reason or another did it almost without thinking about it, like it was a matter of second nature and quite acceptable in decent society.

In fact, she hadn’t heard a single student ever voice any objection to the secondary smoke situation despite the fact that she constantly heard most of the young people’s adamant procrastinations about the evils of tobacco smoking. Regular cigarettes were absolutely forbidden on government property and recently most buildings even discouraged outside smoking areas in the off chance that someone might walk within inhaling distance of a lighted cigarette. In retrospect, she had to admit the contradiction of total war against smoking cigarettes or any kind of legal tobacco set against the placid acceptance of smoking “dope” was an out and out conundrum for which she had no words of wisdom to offer an explanation.

Sometimes, Meg filled her supposed “fix” with regular tobacco from her grandmother’s stash of Marlboro lights and pretended she was getting in a good mood from the fine “weed” of choice. She just had to be sure not to share with anyone because they would discover her addiction to the dirty habit of smoking cigarettes. She didn’t miss the formerly illegal drugs now used by most of the general public for “medicinal” purposes because they made her far too compliant in allowing undeserving boys to get into her pants and dulled her senses when it came time to experience the “tingle” she loved so very much at the conclusion of physical intercourse.

She knew that the “entered into evidence” butts found at the crime scene with her DNA and special brand of lipstick all over them were an absolute illegal plant but she couldn’t explain that convincingly to her defense counsel without confessing her terrible secret of filthy cigarette smoking against all norms of accepted behavior. The person that had planted the evidence must have not been one of her close friends because he or she didn’t know her weakness for Marlboro Lights vs ordinary weed of choice.

Meg considered passing this revelation on to Charlie, the previously mentioned third chair, but decided against it because sometimes the truth might work to set you free but it could also work against her to reveal the depth of her deceptive nature. She felt that her protestations of innocence would fall on deaf ears if she showed her feet were made of clay just like every other sinful human being.


(Six months earlier) Meg and her “best friend forever” Heather with the hazel eyes were sunning their recently-turned-twenty bikini-clad bodies on the gleaming super-clean white decks of her Uncle Tony’s over-sized sailboat hoping the watchers on the shoreline were getting a thrill from seeing their bare curves stretched out in artistic splendor as close to being truly naked as the day they were born. In all honesty, Meg had to agree that Heather had the sexier body because she was a true natural “double D” young lady with a bonus posterior package exposed by her skimpy bikini that would inspire any male within viewing distance to absolute stiffened resolve for even the remotest possibility of carnal relations. Meg would be the first to admit that her less impressive petite budding breasts were a bit boyish unless she assumed an “on all fours” position and the sheer force of gravity helped shape her offerings into a satisfactory handful for male sensory pleasure.

Of course, Meg seldom took up that most exciting of positions except in those instances when she was driven to a state of submission totally alien to her persona. Generally it was due to the animal magnetism of her male partner or her shamelessly sensuous appetite when whetted by some aphrodisiac of an unknown nature. She had encountered a few such compounds that robbed her of her normal reluctance to engage in such foolishness and turned her into a slab of incoherent meat ready for serious pounding and complete loss of feminine dignity. For that reason, she never drank any suspicious drink unless she was the one that removed the cap personally and she never took any tidbit offered but selected one randomly without any guidance.

In retrospect, she realized that her caution was probably the reason why she was the one being tried for murder instead of Heather, her BFF. Of course, that would mean it was her resting on the metal table in the coroner’s office and not her closest friend in the whole wide world.

Heather was notoriously loose in matters of nocturnal fun and games, but that was not considered a negative feature in today’s hedonistic world of carnal bliss. Meg knew her friend had scored a considerable higher number of attractive males on her list of satisfactory “happy endings”, but she was not in the least bit envious because she prided her self-enforced ability to be selectively assured of high standards for her mating game of horizontal pleasures when the time was ripe for a nice tumble behind a closed door.

The pair of them had attended Julian Winters gallery exhibition wearing the very latest of European fashions and in Meg’s case, she dressed in “commando” style underneath to eliminate any panty-line to detract from the gown’s perfect fit. Heather had giggled at her adventurous attitude and she ran her finger all over her backside to see if her best friend would flinch at the touch.

The exhibition was a huge success for the bearded Julian.

Meg was happy for him and she remembered him in happier days when his beard had tickled the insides of her quivering legs as he licked her into joyful acceptance of everything that was sure to follow as night studiously follows day with casual certainty. She was not particularly fond of Julian for either lengthy conversation or discussions that required minimal intelligence, but she liked the feel of his beard under her skirts and the fact that he was gentle even when he tested her anal ability to stretch magically for his explorations. It was nice to have a real gentleman putting her through her paces and she did her best to meet his expectations of feminine submission like some silly schoolgirl in awe of his creative abilities. In fact, she even managed to come before he did and that was a first for her even if she was at the beginning chapters of her sexual life and still had a lot to learn about the needs and desires of the opposite sex.

Sometime later that evening, long after she shed the clinging artist from her side, Meg lost track of Heather and got involved with a pair of village types that left her guessing about their actual gender biologically assigned by higher authority. She did discover the truth of those facts much later than she would have liked because she was placed in a position that left her no avenue of exit from an unusual situation probably more humorous than disconcerting all things considered.

Both of the village types turned out to be female and quite lesbian in attitude and she had no cock to keep her zeroed in on matters at hand. Still, they were enthusiastic and Meg gave the performance of her life in responding to their efforts to placate her disappointment at their gender. In fact, the tall one with the long legs and soft hands later became a good friend because she was willing to literally bend over backwards to give Meg the “tingle” she needed at just the right moment after midnight. Her name was Julie and she was a unique female because she appeared so masculine in her well-tailored suits and deep voice that it never ceased to send shivers up Meg’s spine whenever she spoke to the she who was a he. When the moment of truth arrived and “push came to shove” left her less than satisfied, she suffered the lack of cock-itus as gracefully as possible in private silence to spare Julie any hurt feelings.

Meg broke her cardinal rule of only allowing men to actually “sleep-over” and she took the gender confused Julie under her wing hoping that the illusion of maleness would overcome her natural tendency to push women away from close personal contact. Julie doted on Meg and she did those things that only a devotee would undertake in complete submission to Meg’s control. Eventually, they became good friends and each benefited in their own way from their horizontal proximity.

Now that she was in a jail cell and had plenty of time to think about the choices she had made, Meg was struck by the fact she was far too trusting of a person when it came to her close personal friends. There had been so many hints or clues about Heather’s changing attitudes that should have forewarned her about the encircling danger. She remembered how her BFF had bragged to her about her little blackmail operation that she ran on some of the older married men that fell headlong into her web of deceit and honey-laden trap of feminine favors. It had surprised Meg that their mutual “ass-hole buddy” Frank had been the photographer, producer and organizer of her little candid, sordid videos of the older men’s peccadilloes. Apparently, it had been a lucrative affair and she expanded her data base of blackmail paying fornicators as she added to her wardrobe and expensive shoe collection. Meg was certain Frank didn’t do it for the money, but for Heather’s oral efforts to reduce his nervous tension and guilty conscience. The overly intelligent ex-Marine with a weakness for any female with an inclination to get on her knees without much persuasion was always a source of amusement to Meg. He had convinced Meg it was not really true sex in a strange twist of logic and she had fallen for his little gambit several times when she had drunk too much wine.

Now, Heather was on a slab down in the coroner’s office, Meg was in the hoosegow with a slew of lawyers lined up to protest her innocence and Frank was keeping a low profile because he knew if the blackmail project was brought out into the open he would likely spend a lot of time pressing new license plates at the State Correctional Facility a long way from Broadway and Forty Second Street.

Meg knew from the grapevine that he had been interviewed by the police with the result that he was eliminated as a suspect because of a supposed solid alibi. She also knew the alibi was most certainly one that was bought and paid for because the female he was supposedly shacked up in bed with all night was a closet lesbian exposed to the inner circle of the “in-crowd” and she would never let a macho guy like Frank get close to her with her undies pulled down. It was just another of the “truths” that Meg hesitated to bring out into the open because she was fairly certain Frank had nothing to do with the incident and his unmasking would turn out to be completely unnecessary. Besides, it would cause no end of embarrassment for the thirty something blonde that gave perfectly divine massages to both males and females without bias in either direction. She couldn’t remember her name but it was not important because it was probably an alias to give cover to her mundane life under her real name.

That brought her to the most interesting development of the entire line of investigation from Meg’s point of view.

Meg was far more interested in no less than three happy humping Heather fornicators who she liked to think of as Larry, Moe and Curly.

“Larry” was actually Lawrence Hildemann III with his air of royal presence in any scenario where his lack of self-confidence needed to be protected at all costs. She remembered how he had practically begged her to just allow him to kiss and lick her feet when they first met and she had laughed him off like he was making a joke at her expense. She knew he was serious as a heart attack and she did not want to get involved with his fetish-laced fantasies that would eventually have her regretting her urge to submit to his silly games. It had surprised her that Heather had fallen under his spell or at least it seemed like she had given into his demands with very little resistance. It was only later after Heather was already taken off the board by a cord of silk tightened around her neck that she understood the motivation for Heather to submit to his silly demands of fetish-related games. Now, the fact that the beautiful Heather was no more, and she could breathe no longer, her final exit was without benefit of dignity or logical explanation.

“Mo” was Mike Monahan, a rough sort of gentleman connected in some underhanded way to the union that ran the lower west side docks. He had a daughter that imagined herself as a sort of social celebrity due to her father’s connections and she was reputed to spread her legs for any man capable of reciting poetry on the spur of the moment. She was also a pushover for any man that spoke Italian in those special moments of private coupling behind closed doors. Mike knew his daughter’s weaknesses, but he opined everyone had their right to their own little quirks and he looked the other way providing she took the proper precautions to avoid an embarrassing situation requiring some sort of physical interruption to correct without complete loss of reputation. Added to his burden in life was the fact that his wife was a long term alcoholic with the common sense to keep it all under wraps and she seldom left the house unless it was required by the fire department or a trip to the hospital for an emergency operation on her failing liver.

“Curly” was James Justice, a superior court judge with lots of connections down at city hall. He was happily married to the Mayor’s oldest daughter. The younger Janice had replaced his saintly wife who had expired with a rosary in her hand and happy thoughts on her cancer-ridden mind about the greater glory of God and a family that supported her fight against the dread disease. Judge Justice was a tool of organized crime and he did his best to keep his shameful use of poor Heather’s pounded backside a secret from his wife and his real employers who would take a dim view of such poor planning in procuring pretty and petite pounding partners.

Meg had absolutely no doubt that one of the three blackmailed fornicators was the murderer of her BFF Heather and she was determined to pin the tail on the donkey in a way that would release her from the grasp of the law. All she really wanted was to have her life back again and not stolen forever by some unseen force with no name and with motivations still hidden from her ability to deduce the truth.

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