Calculating Witness Risks Court with Her
Donna’s fingers drove into Diona’s cunt from behind the instant the blindfold cinched, two of them seating to the knuckles.
The middle finger curled hard against the anterior wall, pad grinding the ridged urethral sponge in an upward hook that lifted Diona onto the balls of her feet; the index finger stayed straighter, stretching the introitus so the slick inner labia dragged and folded around the width. Cold air from the vent hit the bare skin of her ass where the skirt had been shoved to her waist, panties yanked aside until the elastic sawed into the crease of her thigh. Beyond the unlatched stall door the restroom gave her its sounds: a hand dryer cutting off, the corridor outside filling with early-session foot traffic, a bailiff’s voice calling a docket number that was not yet theirs. In an hour Donna would take the stand and read every wire transfer into the record, and the same voice now breathed against her neck: “This cunt opens exactly right, goddess, every millimeter of grip calculated for worship.” A janitor’s cart wheel squeaked past the outer door, approaching then fading, and Diona’s weight shifted left, heel lifting, the change in leverage driving the fingers deeper until the knuckles ground against her pubic bone.
Donna’s free hand came around front and spread across her lower belly, palm pressing down to increase the internal pressure, thumb and forefinger pinching the clitoral shaft through the hood and rolling it in a slow circle that matched the curl inside. Fluid coated the inserted fingers to the second knuckle, cooling at the edges where it met vent-chilled skin, then reheating with each withdrawal and thrust. Diona’s breath hitched on the third stroke; the pubococcygeus fluttered once, a tight ring clamping the fingers before releasing. Authorizing signature, the transcript would say, and the name after it would be hers. Still the praise kept coming in that same meticulous tone: “Your inner lips swell symmetrical, perfect, the vestibule floods so the slide never sticks yet the walls suck back on every exit like they were built to hold.” A toilet flushed two stalls over. The sound vibrated through the partition into Diona’s hip where it braced the metal divider.
The angle changed. Donna withdrew until only the tips remained, then scissored the fingers apart inside the canal, stretching the side walls while the thumb of that same hand jammed upward into the top of the cleft and dug against the tailbone, a hard external anchor that gave the hook its leverage. The front hand bore down harder on the belly, the heel of the palm pinning the mons so the urethral sponge was trapped between the weight above and the curl beneath; the forefinger kept its circle on the clit. Diona’s knees softened a fraction; behind her a boot sole scraped wider on the tile. Sweat gathered at the small of her back, trickling into the cleft around the planted thumb, mixing with the slick that ran down her inner thigh in a thin warm line. “Every fold maps clean,” Donna murmured, lips brushing the blindfold’s edge, “the way this goddess cunt pulses on the downstroke, ridge after ridge greeting the pads. Fall when it takes you. The catch is set.” Footsteps passed the stall, a woman’s heels, pause, then continuation toward the sinks. Diona’s pulse beat in the stretched rim of her entrance, the ring of muscle throbbing against the base of Donna’s fingers with every systole; she pictured these hands flat on the Bible, and the remaining shares gone by the time the court recessed for lunch.
The rhythm locked into short, deep pistons. The heel of the inserting hand slammed into the upper cleft on each entry, bone meeting the base of her spine through a thin layer of sweat-wet skin; the heel of the front hand dropped from the belly and ground the clitoral glans directly, each impact sending a jolt up the shaft that made Diona’s hips jerk forward then settle back onto the invading length. The bunched panties bit harder; the stall’s cheap paint stuck to her forearm where she braced. Temperature contrast sharpened: Donna’s wrist hot, the air on her exposed ass cold, the inside of the cunt several degrees warmer than the fingers that worked it, the walls squeezing in involuntary waves. “Contractions start at the entrance and roll inward, goddess, perfect sequence, the muscle ring tightening exactly on the curl so the sponge swells against my finger.” If the stall ever surfaced in discovery the liability would be shared, Diona thought, and that was its own cost; her breath broke into shallow pants. Another cart rolled past. The unlatched door creaked on its hinge, a short arc of sound, and stopped.
Donna added a third finger on the next insertion, the ring finger sliding alongside the others, stretching the introitus until the rim burned and then yielded, the three digits now massaging the anterior wall in a unified upward rake while the front hand shifted back from the heel to the thumb, circling the swollen glans with unrelenting pressure. Diona’s thighs trembled; the shift of weight became a constant micro-adjustment, left foot sliding on a damp spot of tile, right knee locking then unlocking. Sweat ran from under the blindfold down her temple. “The physics hold,” Donna said, voice low, “your cunt milks in three-second cycles, goddess, each clamp pulling the fingers deeper by its own leverage. I have the angle. Let the collapse come.” A radio crackled faintly in the corridor. Diona felt the orgasm gathering as a tightening low in the pelvis, the levator plate drawing up, the muscles preparing their rhythmic crush, and she knew the words would still be spoken from the stand within the hour, the months behind a fence still a number someone would propose, this public risk only another line neither of them could afford.
The front hand left her clit. Nothing replaced it. The contractions hit in hard, successive rings. The vaginal walls clamped the three fingers in a rolling sequence that started at the entrance and squeezed inward, forcing fluid out around the knuckles in audible wet pulses, the glans jumping against air. Diona’s knees unlocked completely. Her weight dropped backward into black, spine arching, no hand on her, no surface under her, and then a forearm struck across her ribs beneath the breasts, hard enough to drive the air from her, and the drop stopped. Her ass met Donna’s hips. Nothing reached the tile. The fingers stayed seated, curling harder through the spasms, milking each clench as Diona’s body jerked and the orgasm wrung itself out in counted waves—six distinct clamps, then a fluttering after-series that coated Donna’s wrist. Praise never stopped: “Perfect release, goddess, the catch holds exactly as arranged, every tremor accounted.” Outside, the heels returned, paused near the sinks, water running.
Donna backed one step and sat on the closed toilet lid, the barred forearm hauling Diona down with her until Diona landed across her thighs, back against her chest, legs sprawled toward the stall door. The fingers withdrew in a single slow drag that pulled one last hard contraction out of the oversensitive walls, the ring of the entrance closing on nothing with an audible wet click. Then both hands took Diona’s hips and turned her, bodily, the way a thing is repositioned on a bench: her legs lifted and swung, one knee finding the edge of the lid, the other scraping the partition, until she knelt astride Donna’s lap with her shins jammed against the metal on either side and her weight sunk onto Donna’s thighs, face to face. The blindfold was tugged up and off. Both of Donna’s hands came to Diona’s face, the right one still wet, the slick cooling as it smeared along the jaw with the sweat; palms cupped the hinge of the jaw, thumbs stroking from cheekbone to the corners of the mouth in slow repeated passes that left the skin tacky. Diona’s eyes opened into the fluorescent glare and found Donna a hand’s width away, looking straight at her, gaze moving over brow, mouth, the pulse still visible in her throat, holding at each point as if the features had never been catalogued before. The thumbs kept wiping. No words followed the praise. In the corridor the heels clicked away. Diona registered the thumbs, the heat of the palms through the drying slick, the eye contact that did not break, and she read it as a woman seeing the person she was about to destroy for the first time, and too late; the oath would still be sworn within the hour, the testimony already typed, and nothing in those eyes would change a single line of what the morning would cost them both.
