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Honestly, I should add. My attorney frowned some more. ++++++ Three weeks later, my wife had me served with divorce papers, she moved in with her parents. My house was vandalized. I was officially dismissed from my job as a teacher. I was twenty-seven, I’d lost everything, and was about to be convicted of a crime that could imprison me, given my health, for seventy years. My life was out of control. ++++++ My trial was fast approaching: three days to go, six months since the allegations were made. My divorce was final, my wife had washed her hands of me, completely. Not even a claim on the house. My attorney was parsing every word in the case file. “Can you add anything?” he asked. I shook my head. His look told me it was futile. ++++++ The trial had begun. The first three days were over, the “victim” had told her story, and it had been corroborated by a friend of hers, a little cunt named Sherry. I was walking around my living room, my left knee giving me hell. I’d been injured. He wasn’t moving it around or anything. He was just letting his hands rest on my pussy. I waited for him to start moving his fingers. Nothing. Maybe he was afraid to. I knew how to fix that. I took a hold of his hand and moved it up to the top of my panties. When I knew his fingers were above my panties, I pressed his hand against my body and slowly slid his fingers between my panties and bare skin. I kept moving his hand down until I could feel his finger tips just barely touch the top of my pussy lips. I pushed his hand down further. I couldn’t get his hand all the way between my legs under my panties so he could feel my pussy. My panties were too tight for both of our hands. Finally I felt him try to move his hand further down so he could find my entrance. When I took my hand out from under my panties, my son left his hand on my pussy. I rose up my hips, hooked my thumbs on each side of my panties and pulled them down to my knees. As soon as I did this I felt Mike move his hand so.
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