Witness for the Prosecution

“You first encountered the defendant where, Mr. Philips?”

“At my gym. We were members of the same gym.”

I did not want to be here, in this courtroom. But the DA had intimidated me. He had said that they might delve deeper into why I was in Baltimore—why I had left San Diego. I really didn’t want them to do that. I had just fallen into it in San Diego. I didn’t know they were illegal immigrants. I was just working in a worker-placement office. Sure, I was dumb and nonobservant. But is that a crime? California thought it might be, it seems. But I hadn’t waited around to find out, and they hadn’t come after me. And the issue hadn’t come up again until the DA was looking for witnesses to help put Dr. Martin away.

“And did Dr. Martin make untoward advances to you in your gym, Mr. Philips? In the gym’s sauna?”

“I don’t understand.”

The prosecutor turned and looked at me over his glasses with his head tilted down—the “Oh really?” look. Done for the jury, I was sure. “You understand what this trial is about, don’t you, Mr. Philips? Dr. Martin stands accused of entrapment, holding his victims in captivity, and rape. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered. I knew what the prosecutor wanted. I knew what might happen if I didn’t give it to him. But it would be skating on thin ice here. I tried to tell him how it really was, but he didn’t want to hear it. He told me to keep my answers short and right to the point of the questions he asked. But already he was making it difficult for me to give him the answers he wanted and not perjure myself—and even more important to me, not reveal what I didn’t want to face.

“Then I ask you again, Mr. Philips. Did Dr. Martin make untoward advances to you in the gym sauna room?”

“Yes . . . I guess so.”

“You guess so, Mr. Philips? It seems a straightforward question. Either he did or he didn’t.”

“Yes, yes, he did. But I hesitated in my first response, because I didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t know it was a sexual approach. I was so naïve and it happened so indirectly. I’m embarrassed to testify to how dumb I was at that time. And there was that medical element—that confused and numbed me to what was happening, I think.”

“We’ll get to the medical aspect in a moment. Let’s take this step by step. You’d never had sex with a man before, had you, Mr. Philips?”

“No. Never before. Never before Dr. Martin.”

“And you didn’t ask him to take advantage of you, did you, Mr. Philips? You didn’t ask him to perform sex on you in the sauna or ask to go back to his office and be restrained and taken again, more fully—be penetrated in a sex act? You didn’t initiate any of that with Dr. Martin, did you?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

I could see now why I was told to keep my answers short and to the point. I’d almost drifted off in an unwanted direction. But the prosecutor had brought me back. And his questions were now leading me to short, specific response that would help me stay clear of the shoals while he phrased the questions to elicit the answers he wanted—the short, specific answers he was leading me to, and nothing more.

But, although I was answering his questions truthfully, this was misleading. This isn’t exactly how it transpired. I wasn’t the raped innocent. I had denied—was still denying—so much to myself. But I couldn’t pretend on that point—not any longer.

It had started months before, and I wasn’t blameless in getting it started. I had thought about it when I was younger, but I had put it out of my head. I’d been told it was a choice, and I made the choice not to do it. I went to college and kept away from it, even though it was rampant on the sports teams I was on. And I got married right out of school and got a job just like any regular guy. The marriage hadn’t worked out, but I thought at the time that it was just something that wasn’t meant to be, that we were too young. It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me that it just wasn’t satisfying—not in that way. That it was me, not her.

I probably would never have thought about it at all if I hadn’t stopped to take a leak at that rest stop south of Washington, D.C., on I-95 on my way to a business meeting in Richmond. And even then I walked away from it, immediately, in total shock, without any thought of doing anything. While I was at the urinal, a guy came in and stood beside me at the other urinal. I was petrified when I felt him touch me on my penis and turned around to see that he was flashing me and making a circle with his mouth, obviously offering me something.

I was in shock. I didn’t say anything or try to hit him or anything. I just wet myself down the inseam of my trousers and turned and stumbled out of the facility. I went back to my car and got in and just sat there, shaking, my eyes glued to the men’s room door. I saw another young guy go in—with the other guy still in there. And he didn’t come out. Neither of them came out while I sat there. I knew what they were doing in there; I knew that it could have been me, if I had stayed. I felt guilty about how my mind was playing with that. My hands were still shaking several minutes later when I started the car up and pulled out of the rest stop.

I hadn’t done anything. Nothing happened. But in the ensuing weeks, I thought about it—increasingly. And I started fantasizing about it. I began to think of the what ifs. And it turned on my curiosity, and I went to the Internet and sought out the sites I didn’t even know had existed before.

A few weeks later I changed gyms. I didn’t need to change my gym. And I guess if I was pressed to tell all in this courtroom, I’d say that this was the beginning of my undoing—the first action beyond just thinking about it down that slippery slope. And that, no, Dr. Martin might have been the vehicle—and he may be as evil and criminal as they are making him out to be—but he isn’t guilty of everything the prosecution is implying—at least not in my case. Maybe the other witnesses can justify their case. Truth be told, though, I don’t think I could go that far in my own case.

In my own case, I was embarrassingly naïve, yes, but I guess I really wanted it. His wasn’t the first approach at the gym, and I invited the earlier one, even though I was just being a tease, I thought. I’d seen sex in the sauna before—if I was to fully disclose what happened, I’d have to admit that I changed to this gym because I heard about it. I’d heard what happened there—and, specifically, in the sauna there.

I told myself that the tease and the what iffing and the voyeurism were enough. That’s what I told myself initially when I changed gyms.

A week or so before Dr. Martin took me, I’d been laying on one of the benches, covered with a towel, when one of the guys I’d seen have sex in the sauna before came in there when I was in there alone. When I’d seen him before, I’d come into the sauna when he was sitting close to another guy—both young and well-built—and I got the strong impression that they’d had their hands on each other before I came in. They stopped and leaned away from each other when I came in, though. I sat there for a few minutes, looking at them. But they didn’t do anything. I really wanted them to do something, something I could watch without doing it myself. I’d been looking at it in videos on the computer, but this would be live; this would be a step up. And I thought this would be enough. Then I could go off by myself and take care of myself while thinking about what I’d seen actually happen, in live action, in front of me.

The three of us just sat there. They obviously were waiting for me to leave. So, I did. And I went for a cold shower and waited for them to come out—they’d gone in before me, so they should be coming out to cool off in the shower themselves. But they didn’t. So, I went back in. Now they were too far along to just pull away from each other, though. They both had their towels off and one guy was leaning over the other one and working the other guy’s cock with his mouth, while he beat his own. And this time, they just continued as if I wasn’t even there.

So, I sort of dallied in my exercises a couple of days later when I saw the guy who’d given the blow job doing his. And a short time before I figured he was finishing his routine, I went to the showers and then to the sauna. I laid down on a bench, with my towel around my midsection, knotted at my waist. Sure enough, the guy came into the sauna and sat further down the bench from me, below my legs. I was nervous and trembling, but it was something I was building up to, something I wanted. I was wrong when I thought that I’d be content with just seeing it live and that this would be enough to fuel my masturbation dreams. After seeing it, I wanted to experience it to.

I spread my legs, pulling the towel tight, leaving a wide gap at the bottom between my wide-stanced legs so that he could see all the way up my legs under the towel—just for the thrill of that much of a connection, I thought. Another guy had come into the sauna and was sitting across from us. I didn’t know before, but I know now that it was Dr. Martin. The first guy didn’t seem put off by Dr. Martin being there, and I began to hyperventilate—but in a good way. Being aroused that some other guy would watch us. I was getting hard—some guy the first one was comfortable having watch.

The blow job guy moved closer to me. I moaned at the very thought of what we were moving toward, probably loud enough for both of them to hear, when he put a hand on my ankle. I did nothing, and the hand went up onto my calf. My mind flipped ahead to feeling the hand on my thigh, under the towel, and then higher. And I knew I’d be hard by that time.

I had a vision of his hand reaching and encasing my cock, and beating me off slowly, as my eyes went from his to the rise and fall of the towel still encasing my midsection and then to those of the other guy in the sauna, watching us.

But then a couple of other guys came into the sauna and he stopped, his hand pulling away from my ankle. And, scared suddenly, I got up and escaped out to the showers—and masturbated under the flowing water at the image of what hadn’t happened.

So, I was ripe for it, I know. I could say that I hadn’t verbally asked for any of it. But I couldn’t truthfully say that I didn’t want any of it—and that I hadn’t sent out signals that I did. Or that I didn’t know I’d go through with it, given the opportunity.

“And in the sauna, Mr. Philips. When you had your first sexual encounter with Dr. Martin, did you know that this was what was happening? Did you ask Dr. Martin to touch and fondle you?”

“No, I had no idea. I thought that it was me, that I was misinterpreting what was happening. And that any sexual connotation in it was mine—and it embarrassed me.”

“How could that be, Mr. Philips? Did you purposely expose yourself to Dr. Martin to initiate a sex act? Did you ask him to handle your genitals and cause you to ejaculate?”

“No, I didn’t. And I thought I was the only one who had any such ideas about it as being a sexual encounter. I mean he was a doctor—and was so clinical. He said he’d seen something that he questioned medically, and he seemed to just be trying to help me, to give me medical advice. And I was nervous—and thought my reaction was just because I’d never had that happen before and the circumstances were so . . . strange, unusual.”

“Let us be clear about another point while we are in this line of questioning, Mr. Philips. Did you at any time touch Dr. Martin in this sauna encounter? Specifically, did you handle Dr. Martin’s genitals?”

“No, no, I did not.” I was emphatic about that answer—because on that point, at least, I could clearly answer. I had not touched him in any way. He had seemed to want me to at one point, but I wasn’t at all ready for that in the sauna on that occasion. I knew why the prosecutor had asked this question. He sensed that my feelings of guilt had me on the edge of saying more than I had—more than he wanted me to say. He was leading me—and the jury—back to safer ground.

“Thank you, Mr. Philips. Strange and unusual circumstances you said in response to the previous question. So, you didn’t go into that sauna to have sex with Dr. Martin, did you, Mr. Philips?”

“No.” Skating on thin ice here, but he’d prepared me on this point. I hadn’t seen the guy giving blow jobs in the gym that evening. When I’d gone in the sauna, I wasn’t thinking of having sex there with anyone, let alone Dr. Martin, who I didn’t even know. But my general idea of going into the sauna was someday to have sex with another man in there, so this was a circumstance for me to listen very carefully to how the prosecutor worded his questions and to answer them just as I thought he wanted them answered.

“Did Dr. Martin . . . in the sauna on the evening in question, did Dr. Martin identify himself to you as a doctor, Mr. Philips?”


“And did he or did he not indicate that he observed some possible medical problem with you while the two of you were in the sauna alone?”


“And what was the nature of that medical problem?”

“I’m not sure, really. Even now. He used medical terms and indicated that there might be some abnormality in my . . . in my . . .”

“With your genitals?”

“Yes. With my genitals. He started asking me some medical questions, and I became concerned that there was something wrong with me, and he seemed to be giving me free advice.”

“And why would he even see your genitals, Mr. Philips? Were you accustomed to exposing yourself in the gym.”

“No, no, of course not. But it was a sauna and an all-men’s gym. It was customary for some of the men to go in there uncovered—with a towel but not using it to cover themselves. Using it in the sauna to cushion them from the hot wood of the benches. Nobody seemed to worry about that. I didn’t walk around nude, but plenty of the other men did, and nothing was made of it. It was a men’s gym. I had undone my towel to wipe my face off and just hadn’t covered myself with it again. Lots of the men just walked around the locker room and sat in the sauna in the nude. It was just a guy thing.”

I looked up to see that the prosecutor was holding his hand up. I knew I had rambled, but beforehand he’d told me that wasn’t a real problem. That if I showed to the jury that I was nervous about any of that, it would actually help his case.

“And so, although you were embarrassed by the situation, Dr. Martin had made you concerned about possibly having a medical problem—maybe a serious medical problem—and in your mind he was doing a cursory examination to advise on whether you should be worried about it or not?”


“And his attitude. Was he clinical in his approach, or did he make it clear that he was soliciting you for sex.”

“He was clinical.”

“You never suspected he had any motives other than to give you medical advice on what possibly was a serious condition?”

“No. As I said, nothing like this had happened to me before. I knew it seemed a compromising position—to me, at least. But I thought it was all something I was imagining. And I didn’t want to be impolite or to cause an incident.”

“And in the course of his, as you considered it, examination, his fondling, he brought you to ejaculation?”


“Did this happen quickly, or was it over a prolonged period?”

“Quickly. I was nervous and embarrassed and confused about the situation.”

“And what did you do then? Did you enjoy it and ask him to do it again?”

“I apologized.”

“You apologized?” The prosecutor’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled. Then he turned to the jury and shock his head before looking back at me for my response. I waited until he was facing me before answering. I needed the time to steady my voice.

“Yes, I thought he would get the wrong idea. I was embarrassed.”

“Yes, of course. But then he did it again, didn’t he? This time for a longer duration in time.”


“And you let him. Still unaware of any motivations on his part that weren’t medical. Still believing that you weren’t having sex?”

“For me, it was sex—and I was confused and embarrassed by that, not knowing how I had gotten to that point. But I just thought that I was the only one who realized that—that he was just giving free medical advice, trying to help me. It made a difference to me—at the time—that it seemed only me who took it as sex. Somehow, if it wasn’t him too, it wasn’t really . . . a sex act.”

It sounded really lame to me, but the prosecutor was still smiling, so I guess I was doing OK for his purposes. I plunged ahead. “He said that ejaculating when I was soft, as I did the first time, might be a symptom of a serious problem—that I should be hard when I ejaculated.”

“And so he brought you to ejaculation again, with you going hard, and you let him?”

“Yes. I know it sounds stupid now. But I was embarrassed and concerned. I thought I might have a serious medical problem and this was not a good place—on my body, you know—to be having a medical problem. And he was explaining that what he was doing was necessary to check the problem out.”

“And then afterward, what did he say?”

“That I really needed more medical tests, and soon. And that his medical office was nearby and he’d be happy to check me out a bit more—just so I would know if there really was a problem, in which case he’d be happy to refer me to a specialist.”

“And none of this was suspicious to you?”

“No, not at the time. I was grateful. If there was something seriously wrong, I felt relieved and grateful that help was at hand.”

“And you went to his medical office with him that night?”


All true, but, at the same time all misleading. It’s true I was seduced by the medical line he fed me. But it was nearly as implausible then as it sounded like it was when I was testifying here. On the surface I believed everything just as my carefully tailored testimony revealed—but under the surface—and not too far under the surface—it was less a seduction than a fulfillment of desires.

I was attracted to Dr. Martin from the beginning—from the moment I saw him entering the sauna when the other guy was making a move on me. From that moment, I wanted to have sex with him—and had done so a couple of times in my mind already. He was middle aged, maybe fifteen years older than I was, but he was in great shape and quite handsome. We were alone in the sauna throughout the seduction encounter. I’d gone in before him. We’d both been exercising in the gym, and he’d come by and said a few things to me—just pleasantries and a bit of encouragement when I was trying to struggle out those last five reps of a routine.

We’d been on the floor at the same time on previous occasions and he’d said nothing to me. But that was before the evening when he’d come into the sauna and seen the blow job guy make advances to me without me resisting. Now it was evident that he wanted me to notice him. And shortly before I left the floor, he asked me if he’d see me in the sauna and gave me a “special” smile.

So I wasn’t all that surprised by anything that happened afterward.

I was waiting for him in the sauna. And I didn’t bother to cover myself with the towel as I sat on the top level of the benches. He came in and sat close to me on the bench below mine and nearly into my leg—and he started talking to me, looking up into my face. Of course he could see the goods; he was almost at eye level with them. I remember thinking I really should cover myself, but that it might be too obvious that I was uncomfortable if I did—but knowing that, in these thoughts, I was kidding myself. That was just the surface me. I was glad I was uncovered.

He had his towel open too, giving me a good view of his cock. His cock wasn’t thick, but it was one of the longest ones I’d ever seen. I was sitting the same way, full frontal, on the higher bench. Then he started by noticing something he thought might be wrong with my genitals. He said he was a doctor, and I remember being uncomfortable but not wanting to make a scene and believing that he really was being clinical—almost disappointed that he was. He certainly was taking his time, making me feel that maybe this wasn’t what I thought it was. The blow job guy seemed to get right down to business when and how he was able.

At that point I was thinking more about how much longer I should be in the sauna than about him. It was all so ludicrous, but he was a doctor, and he had me embarrassed about even thinking he shouldn’t be touching me there. He was being clinical and using words I couldn’t understand and he was probably making up. I went semihard and was embarrassed about that, and then I came almost immediately, He tut tutted and said that was fine, and actually indicated I might not have a problem, but that he’d have to do it again to be sure—that I’d need to be hard, and I wasn’t fully hard the first time. I was being dopey, and he thought I probably was being coy—neither really, I was still just struggling with myself and being confused. He did ask me if I had enjoyed it—that there might be a problem if I’d had pain rather than pleasure.

He asked me if I had any trouble performing sex and whether I was hetero or gay. I told him I was hetero and that I was embarrassed that I had come when he touched me. He told me again there was no reason to be embarrassed and said it was quite healthy to have both hetero and gay sex. He was even then giving me a second slow hand job, though, and I just sat there and let him jack me off again—taking much longer this time, but me getting much harder too. I sat back against the wall, and widened my leg stance and closed my eyes, telling the world I just wasn’t there—had no idea anything was happening—but concentrating every fiber of my senses on what was happening between my legs, engraving it all in my memory so I could play it all back to myself later—and maybe make even more out of it than it was already was.

He complimented me on the good shape I was in and touched and prodded me in a couple of other places on my body, like he was giving me a muscle tone exam of some sort.

He asked me again if I’d ever been with a man before, and I said no. He told me then that either I might have a problem or not—he didn’t think so, but if I did, it was something I needed to take care of immediately or it would get far worse quickly. He said it could quickly lead to impotency if not corrected. Then he said it wouldn’t take much to determine whether it should be followed up but that the procedures that needed to be done should be done in a doctor’s office. Almost as an afterthought, he asked me if I was busy that evening—that his medical office was nearby and he could do the testing himself. If that was OK with me. It would save me the worry of trying to get an immediate appointment with my regular doctor.

“And when you went to his medical office that evening, Mr. Philips, is it not true that he restrained you and drugged you and engaged in penetration sex on you?”


“No further questions then. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is what, in legal terms, we call entrapment, holding victims in captivity, and raping them—criminal offenses against the state, not to mention against innocent victims. In this case perpetrated by a medical doctor, entrusted by the community to save lives, not to prey upon the young. Thank you for being so forthcoming in an embarrassing position, Mr. Philips.”

Then the prosecutor turned to the judge and said, “I am finished with this witness now. The prosecution now rests, your honor.” He looked very pleased with himself as he sauntered back to his chair.

And well he should, because although I had been able to answer all of his questions truthfully, a more detailed version of the story wouldn’t be anywhere close to being as incriminating as he made it out to be.

Yes, I had gone to the doctor’s medical office that evening, each of us driving separately, so that he wouldn’t have to bring me back to the gym. But I couldn’t directly testify that I didn’t know what would happen in that medical office. And I had thoroughly responded to that second hand job in the sauna, and I knew it was sex. I knew by then that the medical jargon and explanation was just a cover.

And the prosecutor didn’t ask me what the doctor was doing with his other hand while “testing” my ejaculation reflexes that second time. He was using his other hand to “test” his own reflexes, and I was enjoying watching him doing it, even though when he signaled he would prefer me doing it for him, I wasn’t ready to go that far. And I watched him ejaculate as well. And if he’d asked me to do it for him again at that point, I would have been ready to do so.

In the examination room, the doctor left to change into his surgical coat after telling me to strip down and climb up on the vinyl-covered table with a strip of white paper down the center. When he returned, he asked me to lie down on my back on the table and he secured my legs in stirrups that held them spread out and elevated. That was the restraint the prosecutor had referred to. It’s true my legs were secured in a stirrup device, but I could probably have escaped the table if I had wanted to.

The doctor was wearing a white medical coat, and he had surgical gloves on and was carrying a jar of salve.

“The first test is one where I milk you,” he said. “Do you understand what that entails?”


“Do you know that you have a prostate? Sort of a men’s G-spot, in your ass channel. And that if that’s stimulated, it will cause you to harden and ejaculate?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that.”

“I can stimulate it with my finger. You will feel pleasure and the need to ejaculate, which is exactly what you should do. And there is no need to be embarrassed. It’s a normal medical procedure. I thereby can tell if your testacies are working as they should. You are young and in excellent condition. If everything is working, this will help determine that is so. Are you ready for that?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

He slathered up the fingers on the glove of his right hand and placed his left hand on my belly. I moaned and grabbed hold of two handles on the side of the table. I tried initially to suppress my moaning, but the doctor said that this was natural and that we were alone and I could just let it go.

He then encased my engorging cock with his left hand, the glove on that hand now slick with the salve, and between sliding his hand up and down on my cock and the finger up in my channel rubbing back and forth on my prostate, I began to roll my hips and moan deeply and moved to a prodigious ejaculation.

“There, that’s fine. You did splendidly,” he said brightly. “All of that seems to be in perfect working order.”

I watched as he stripped off the gloves and tossed them in a nearby trash bin. And then I watched with more interest as he unbuttoned his medical coat and pulled it aside to reveal that he was naked—and had a raging hard on.

“The next procedure is that I fuck you,” he said, using a matter-of-fact tone, giving no dramatic signal that we were moving from the self-delusional over into full reality. He stood there, looking into my eyes with his, challenging me to try to maintain this charade of ours.

This would be the point at which I could have objected and accused him of what he was being criminally charged with and made every effort to leave the room. But I just lay there, naked on my back, with my legs spread and lifted in metal stirrups, and all of my senses tuned up to high.

Assured that I had not reacted negatively to his stripping away of pretenses, the doctor continued, in that clinical of his, “Now, you say you are a virgin, that this will be your first time. For full pleasure for your first experience, I would suggest a mild sedative. Are you allergic to anything?” He was being so matter-of-fact, so clinical and soothing even in this circumstance that I just dumbly lay there, assuring him that I had no allergies and just watched as he came up with a needle and turned my arm over, patted me in the crook of my arm until a vein rose to the surface, and inserted the needle.

I felt a warm sensation. I was at peace with the universe. No cares in the world. No concern, as I watched him crown his cock with a condom. Just the feeling of tightness as his bulb pushed against and then into my opening. And then a long sigh in stereo—both his and mine—as he slid up into me, slowly. And then the faraway sounds of grunts and moans and groans—which at some point I realized were coming from me—as he began to pump my ass in long, deep strokes, his hands grabbing my waist and pulling me in hard on his cock as he thrust inside me—at first slowly, deliberately, and then, as he lost control, with a frenzy of taking—until we were both drained.

“I have just a few questions for you before you step down, Mr. Philips.” The defense attorney was standing in front of me, rocking a bit back and forth on his feet. His expression suggesting that he had swallowed the canary.

“How many times did Dr. Martin engage in penetration sex that evening?”

I thought hard on that. The prosecutor hadn’t told me how to slide away from that one. “Once. No, twice, I think.”

“Twice?” the defense attorney said. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I think so. I’m not really sure. I was sedated.” I was, in fact, sure. It was three times. This was my first lie. And I didn’t like having to lie.

“And was your movement restricted each time Dr. Martin formed sex on you, Mr. Philips?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t really a lie. I was almost immobile from the drugs and Martin was a powerful man. He held me tightly with or without the stirrups. And that last time, it wasn’t the doctor performing sex on me.

“I mean, were you physically restrained by the equipment after the first time?”

There was a long pause, but I wasn’t going to flatly lie again. “No.”

“And after the first time, where did the second act of sexual penetration occur?”

Another long pause.

“Please answer the question, Mr. Philips.” This admonishment came down from the judge’s bench.

“On the couch in his office . . . and then on his bed in his adjoining residence.”

“And when did you leave the residence?”

A slight pause until I sensed the judge was about to speak up again. “The next morning.”

“Before or after another act of sexual penetration?”


“While bound, or just on his bed?”

“On his bed.”

“And did Dr. Martin try to prevent your departure any time during the night. Did he not sleep during the night?”

“No he didn’t have me bound all night. Yes, he did sleep.”

Waking to find him stretched beside me, an arm on my chest, his palm covering my nipple. Laying there, watching him in repose. Thinking of what he’d done to me. Grateful I had been freed of the wonder and worry of it, but guilty at having gone beyond that beaded curtain, knowing I couldn’t go back—not after having experienced it. Guilty at having enjoyed it, wanting more of it.

I moved my hand to his penis and lifted it from his body. A chill ran up my spine at the heft of it, even in repose—at the knowledge of where it had been, how monstrous and filling it had been—that I had managed all of that. The closeness of that—man in man, a merging connection. That he had wanted me, wanted to be inside me. Feeling wanted, needed, possessed. Had schemed to have me. My hand tingled at the new-found power. I moved my hand on the shaft, shuddering and enjoying the thrill of feeling it grow, harden at my caress.

A snort and a sigh and a movement in his legs, turning his body toward me, a slight undulation in his hips as he added movement, moving his hard cock back and forth inside my cupped-hand embrace.

I felt his hand at the back of my head, gently pushing it down, toward the center of him. A tentative taste and a feeling of pleasure, a feeling transferring from him as he moaned when my lips moved down over the glans of his cock. Stretching my lips, widening my jaw, making my mouth cavity as voluminous as possible to accommodate the invading flesh and hard muscle.

A frenzy of moment, a gagging and a groaning, but ever so brief, as my need, my own want overcame me. And I was straddling his hips with my thighs, panting and whimpering and sighing as, slowly, relentlessly, only slightly painfully, we became joined once again, him deep inside me, and I began to move my channel on the sheathed sword, trying to feel every touch of him against every square inch inside of me. Swaying and moving in waves, bucking and crying out. Him not fucking me. Me fucking myself on a mighty, throbbing mast.

“And did you ever visit the doctor’s office or house again—for repeated acts of sexual penetration?”

“Yes.” It was a whisper, but I’m sure everyone in the court heard it.

“And on what occasions, Mr. Philips?”

“Whenever he asked me to come.”

“And have you had sex in the sauna at your gym with other men, Mr. Philips? Since your encounters with Dr. Martin.”

I just lowered my head. There was no half-truth, side-stepping way to respond to that question.

The defense lawyer’s voice dripped with victory. “Judge, may counsel approach the bench?”


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