Rihanna’s pink rubber stockings squeaked against the leather seats of the court bench. Her skin chafed, she needed to pee, and worst of all, that asshole LaChapelle had just come into the courtroom.
Goddamit, why had he wanted to have the case tried in England? There were benefits, sure; the paparazzi had already shot enough pictures of her to cover Big Ben in Rihanna postage stamps, but it was cold, the toilets were dirty and the court usher smelled of stewed cabbage. She was sure she had seen a green strand hanging between his brown teeth.
She shivered, wishing she had worn something more than her pink rubber dress and examined LaChappelle. He looked like he was wearing a naughty Santa outfit — a red cloak, lined with fur, covering what looked like a matching red dress, a strange white bow around his neck and the most ridiculous wig she had ever seen. He caught her looking at him and scowled.
“All rise.” The lawyers, journalists, shorthand writers and clerks all stood up as the judge shuffled into the room. He was wearing another naughty Santa outfit, with an equally hilarious wig. Rihanna smoothed her hair, unconsciously. She had gone for the straightened look and the sight of all those curls made her nervous of a uncontrollable frizz attack.
The lawyers were boring, jumping up and down from their seats and using words like ‘circumlocution’ and ‘abut’. The judge peered at them over his glasses and then waved a wrinkled hand.
“Enough. I would like to see the plaintiff and the defendant in my chambers, now.” The who and the what?
Rihanna’s lawyer nudged her. “Just go through that door,” she whispered. The pop star creaked her way across the courtroom and tottered into the chamber.
The judge was fixing three drinks and motioned to them to sit in two enormous Edwardian easy chairs. He handed whiskies to both of them. He grabbed a chair, turned it round, then sat down with his legs astride the seat, leaning on the back. Rihanna couldn’t help noticing that he had bare, hairy legs underneath his gown and was wearing socks with suspender belts at his knee. She gulped at her drink, spilling some of it down her chin, and cursed her clumsiness.
“I have no doubt that this situation is what one would describe as an ‘open and shut’ case.” The judge sounded a little shrill. He cleared his throat. “My only question is what level of compensation to set. But I sense that a pecuniary penalty would not address the core issue here, that Miss Fenty is clearly a saucy little minx who is need of a damned good thrashing.”
Rihanna choked at the words and accidentally gulped down the last of her whisky, provoking a coughing fit. The judge offered no sympathy.
“It is all very well, Miss Fenty, to make a shamelessly derivative pop video with the clumsy use of sadomasochistic props in an effort to — what is the word? — out-Gaga the competition. That in itself is not an offence. If it were then Kylie Minogue would be sitting in my chamber.” The judge paused for a moment, and adjusted his robes. “Ah, yes, where was I? The fact is, Miss Fenty, that I do not believe for a moment that you have ever bitten on a ball gag, or engaged in pup-play, or ever felt the pleasure of a properly constructed hog-tie.”
The judge adjusted his robes again, taking a little more time to do so. He turned his attention to David LaChapelle.
“However, Mr LaChapelle, I am not convinced either that this is a case that can be viewed entirely in black and white — although that is not a world view you are overly familiar with, I would venture.” Rihanna enjoyed watching the photographer squirm. “I cannot bring myself to reward a man who has made his reputation by photographing badly made-up women wearing appalling clothes strike awkward poses in front of the Croydon branch of Tesco.”
LaChapelle grunted.
“So I have a solution which I feel will mean justice is served. Stand up, Miss Fenty.” Rihanna rose. “Now turn around and place your palms flat on the desk.” Her skin gripped the wood. “Bend down so that your elbows touch the surface.” Her bottom stuck out like beacon. “Now, Mr LaChapelle, take this.” She could hear something rustling. “So, Miss Fenty, I would like you to count.”
Rihanna felt a sharp blow to her bottom. It stung, and she turned her head to look. “Face straight ahead,” the judge said. Rihanna looked at the desk. Another blow, harder this time, pushing her against the desk. The fire was still burning when another whack hit her. By fifteen, tears were beginning to well in her eyes; at twenty-two, she was couldn’t help but lift her leg to try to cope with each blow. At thirty-seven, she lost control over her bladder. When the count finally stopped, at fifty, Rihanna was in a haze.
The judge was adjusting his robes, furiously. Rihanna looked at him, her face twisted in anguish at the waves of aftershocks from her beating, and he gave a strangled cry, his own face wrenched in pleasure.
“Ahhh… Miss, um…, yes… Miss Fenty,” he said finally, breathing heavily. “Yes, well, luckily for you, Mr LaChapelle is not entirely blameless and his motivation for plagiarising my costume is at yet unclear. A thorough spanking is required I believe. Your turn, Miss Fenty.”
Rihanna stood upright, gingerly, rubbing her bottom, and felt herself tingle at the sight of LaChapelle with his ass in position. She looked at the judge.
“You may need this, Miss Fenty,” he said, and passed her the umbrella.
Mehry Inett 
Leave a comment