Remy reads the demand letter from her ex’s lawyer saying she owes more money, and she’s fuming. Then she hears an ad on the radio: “Screwed by the legal profession? Does the legal profession owe you one? If the answer is yes, you may qualify for a new and free legal service.” Later that day, the young beauty is strapped to a chair, nude and ready for a bizarre and erotic examination by 5 lawyers, a demented, over-endowed dwarf, and an audience of law students. Remy’s ex is claiming she’s frigid. This nude deposition will prove she’s not. [MF, well-hung dwarf, public sex, lawyer sex]
“She’s climbing,” Professor Slutz said, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Approaching seven hundred Kinseys.”
“Let me know the moment she stabilizes,” Professor Balzac said as he churned his dick inside Remy. One hand gripped Remy’s hip, while the thumb of his other hand gently massaged her c**t.
“Six-eighty-five, six-ninety, six-ninety, six-ninety….”
“Dammit, woman, I said tell me …”
“She’s steady at six-ninety-five. What next?”
“We don’t have a case unless she climbs to seven fifty,” Professor Balzac muttered. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he f****d Remy at a quickening pace. Remy was grunting with each thrust, her legs flailing, her hands fondling her breasts. “Let’s go into full deposition mode.”
After a nod from Professor Slutz, the interns jabbed buttons and threw switches. The lights came up, and the large conference table lowered into the floor. The ceiling panels drew back, revealing a sea of faces in a circular balcony surrounding the room.
The conference room had transformed into a large, high-tech surgical theater filled with students peering down at Remy, strapped into her chair, and Professor Balzac thrusting into her maniacally. Below, nearly a dozen interns, lawyers and technicians milled about the operating theater.
“Numbers! I need numbers!” Professor Balzac shouted as he pounded away.
“Still holding at six-ninety-five,” Professor Slutz responded. “What do you think? Should we call…?”
Professor Balzac pulled out of Remy, his glistening cock bobbing up and down. He spun around and looked up at fifty law students and professors in the gallery above. Hands on hips, he closed his eyes and threw his head back.
“Mah dwarf! Gimme mah dwarf!” Professor Balzac bellowed. “Get me mah little f****r!”
At the top tier of the balcony, the 3L All-Male Glee Club sprang into action. Forming a conga line, eight toga-clad third-year law students chanted and kick-stepped in unison as they chanted: “Balzac wants his dwarf—now. Balzac wants his dwarf—now. Balzac wants his dwarf—now…”
Other students in the gallery jumped to their feet and joined in. Professor Balzac reached across the computer console and slammed his palm on the red button—twice.
The robotic voice filled the theater as a klaxon horn blasted at two-second intervals: “Professor Langerschlanger to the deposition theater. Red alert. Professor Langerschlanger to the deposition theater. Red alert. Professor Langerschlanger to the deposition theater. Red alert….”
The double doors burst open. A hush fell on the room. The glee club stopped in mid-chant, their eyes focused on the door.
Professor Hector Langerschlanger stood in the doorway. Dozens of heads craned and peered to see the entrance of the diminutive legend of psychosexual legal theory—and the only person Professor Balzac had ever been known to call upon in a crisis.