The Jury
"Twelve women. One defendant. The deliberation room is soundproof, and the jury foreperson has unconventional methods for reaching a unanimous verdict. He'll need to convince every single one of them."
The jury was all women.
My lawyer said it was a statistical anomaly. Twelve jurors selected at random, and every single one happened to be female. It happens, he assured me. Not often, but it happens.
Looking at their faces during closing arguments, I wasn't reassured.
The charge was securities fraud.
Complex enough that most jurors' eyes glazed over during testimony. My lawyer made technical arguments about materiality and disclosure requirements. The prosecutor talked about greed and deception.
I watched the jury.
Twelve women ranging from their thirties to their sixties. Most of them heavyset—some significantly so. The foreperson in particular caught my attention: a massive woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and eyes that never left me.
Her name was Gertrude Walsh.
Three hundred and twenty pounds.
And she was studying me like I was something to be consumed.
"The jury will now deliberate."
The judge's words sent ice through my veins. I watched them file out—twelve women who held my future in their hands.
My lawyer patted my shoulder. "We presented a strong case."
I barely heard him.
All I could think about was Gertrude Walsh's smile as she left the courtroom.
The deliberation room was on the fourth floor.
Soundproofed. Secure. The bailiff locked the door behind the twelve women, and I was left to wait.
Hours passed.
Then a note came from the jury room: "The jury requests that the defendant join us for questioning."
My lawyer nearly had a stroke. "That's completely irregular—"
The judge frowned but allowed it. Something about clarifying testimony.
Two bailiffs escorted me to the fourth floor.
They didn't come inside.
The room was warm.
Twelve women seated around a long table. Gertrude at the head, papers spread before her, reading glasses perched on her massive nose.
"Mr. Patterson." She gestured to a chair at the opposite end. "Thank you for joining us."
"I don't think this is appropriate—"
"Probably not." She smiled. "But here we are. Sit."
I sat.
"Let me explain the situation."
Gertrude removed her glasses. Set them aside. "We've taken eleven votes. Eleven of us are ready to acquit. But one juror remains unconvinced." She indicated a younger woman to her left—maybe thirty-five, two hundred and fifty pounds of skepticism. "Juror number four believes you're guilty."
"I'm not—"
"We know." Gertrude waved dismissively. "The evidence doesn't support conviction. But a unanimous verdict is required."
"What does that have to do with me being here?"
"We'd like you to convince her." Gertrude's smile widened. "Personally."
"This is insane."
"Is it?" Gertrude stood. Walked toward me. "You're facing fifteen years if convicted. Juror four is the only thing standing between you and freedom." She stopped behind my chair. Her hands found my shoulders. "Are you really going to refuse on principle?"
"You're asking me to—"
"I'm asking you to be persuasive." Her hands squeezed. "Very, very persuasive."
I looked at Juror Four. She was staring back, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"What exactly do you want?"
"I want to see if you're worth saving," Juror Four said.
Her name was Christine. Securities analyst. Single.
"Worth saving?"
"You're accused of screwing over investors. Taking advantage of people who trusted you." She stood. Approached. "I want to know what kind of man you really are."
"And how do you propose to find out?"
She grabbed my tie. Pulled me to my feet.
"By seeing how you treat women when there's something on the line."
She kissed me first.
Hard, demanding, her tongue forcing its way into my mouth. Her body pressed against mine—two hundred and fifty pounds of anger and arousal.
"You're going to satisfy me," she breathed against my lips. "Right here. In front of everyone. And if you're good enough—generous enough—maybe I'll believe you're not the selfish bastard the prosecutor described."
"And if I'm not good enough?"
"Then I vote guilty." She started unbuckling my belt. "Better be convincing."
I'd never performed for an audience.
Eleven women watched as Christine pushed me to my knees. As she hiked up her skirt to reveal thick thighs and damp cotton underwear.
"Prove you know how to give," she commanded. "Not just take."
I pulled her underwear aside. Buried my face between her legs.
I ate her like my freedom depended on it.
Because it did.
I licked in long strokes, circled her clit, slid my tongue inside her while she gripped my hair. The other jurors murmured approval, shifting in their seats.
"Fuck—" Christine's thighs clamped around my head. "He's—he's actually good at this—"
"Continue," Gertrude commanded from somewhere behind me. "The jury requires thorough deliberation."
I made Christine come in seven minutes.
She screamed loud enough to rattle the windows.
"Juror Four," Gertrude intoned, "how do you vote?"
Christine was still shaking, still holding my head against her. "I... I'm not convinced yet."
"Then the defendant will continue."
I looked up at Christine. She smiled down at me.
"On your back," she ordered. "I want to ride your face until I can't think straight."
She rode me for thirty minutes.
Came four more times. By the end, my jaw ached and my face was soaked and I couldn't feel my tongue.
"Now," she gasped, climbing off, "I want to feel you inside me."
"The jury approves," Gertrude announced. "Proceed."
I fucked Christine on the deliberation table.
Papers scattered. Evidence photos knocked to the floor. Her massive body spread across the mahogany while I thrust into her, her legs locked around my waist.
"Is this what you wanted?" I demanded between strokes. "To see if I could satisfy you?"
"I wanted to see if you'd try," she gasped. "If you'd care about my pleasure—ah—more than your own."
"And?"
"And you're—fuck—you're surprisingly—God—unselfish—"
She came again. Clenched around me so hard I had to stop moving.
"Verdict?" Gertrude called out.
"Not—not yet—" Christine was gasping. "The other jurors should—should get a turn—"
What followed was the most thorough "deliberation" in legal history.
One by one, the other jurors took their turn with me. Some wanted oral. Some wanted penetration. Some wanted both.
I serviced Harriet—sixty-three, two hundred and ninety pounds—until she declared me "the most attentive young man she'd ever met."
I satisfied the twins—Maria and Louisa, forty-five, three hundred pounds each—simultaneously, one on my cock and one on my tongue.
I gave Gertrude herself a private audience in the corner, on my knees for twenty minutes while she made notes about my technique.
"Thorough," she declared when I finally made her come. "Very thorough."
By midnight, I had satisfied all twelve.
We lay scattered around the deliberation room—sweaty, exhausted, various states of undress.
"Shall we vote?" Gertrude asked.
Eleven hands went up for acquittal.
Everyone looked at Christine.
She was sprawled across the table, still catching her breath from our third round.
"Not guilty," she whispered. "Definitely... not guilty."
The verdict came in at 12:47 AM.
The judge seemed annoyed at the late hour. My lawyer seemed relieved. I seemed... changed.
"Not guilty on all counts."
The courtroom emptied. The case was closed.
But as I walked out, Gertrude pressed a card into my hand.
"The jury meets monthly," she murmured. "For dinner. And... dessert."
"I wasn't aware juries did that."
"This one does." She squeezed my arm. "See you next month, Mr. Patterson."
Six months later
I'm a free man.
Also a very busy one.
The "jury" has expanded. Former jurors inviting friends. The monthly dinners have become weekly. The desserts have become legendary.
"Order in the court," Gertrude calls out as I enter the private dining room.
Twelve women. Sometimes fifteen. Occasionally twenty.
All of them large. All of them hungry.
All of them waiting for me to serve.
It's not a sentence.
It's a privilege.