📄 This post has 5 saved versions. Showing the most recent.
Teresa Carson belongs to @AskAromatic428! Check out their recent story since it has some ties into this one! Been a while since I’ve done a Ravenwood story so I hope Ya’ll love Beth’s mom even though she’s not an infamous goth with steel toes XD
Additional Tags: Verbal Ballbusting, Unsympathetic Ballbusting Karen, Big Breast in a Sundress, Ballbusting story being “recapped”, Ballstomping, milfy ballbusters
— - —
Barton & Associates – Second Floor of the Old Livery Building.
“—I barely squeezed that cocky asshole’s little balls! This is so fucking ridiculous.”
The small cramped corner office with the nametag: Barton, on the wooden door, smells like flavored water packets, legal papers, and complete hopelessness.
“Oh yeah? You really think so?”
Five-seven of milfy badass and fanciful charm, Barbra Barton leans back in her worn leather chair and the springs groan in protest beneath her bubbly ass and wide hips. Her large round wire glasses slide down her small pouty nose as she adjusts her navy blue long sleeve that’s tight over her plump C Cup breast.
She doesn’t bother to push her glasses back up. She’s too exhausted, listening to the rambling of an insane woman. Karen Garcia…her current unsympathetic, ballbreaking client.
“Using the word “barely”is an understatement Ms. Garcia. Cole’s doctor said you almost shredded his testicles’ epididymis into swiss cheese. That’s the softest part on a man’s body but I’m guessing you already knew that. Right?”
Her curly ginger-orange hair is pulled into a messy bun that had been elegant at 8 AM but has since declared it’s own independence. Curly strands hang over green eyes that roll around the office, fixing to the ceiling tiles and counting water stains instead of listening to the voice on the phone.
"—Yeah and? I don’t care about his fucking nuts, Barton! I told him that! Hell, I even tried to be nice when I had told him I ordered the chicken marsala, but numb nuts wouldn’t listen to me! He was leering over me and trying to intimidate me.”
Karen had decided to put a poor manager’s innocent testicles through the worst day of their lives all because of a dish of chicken.
“You know how these young men are treating us women nowadays. Acting like I’m a crazy bitch who said the wrong thing and wanted grilled salmon. Me? Heh, could you imagine? Who do I look like? One of these dumb broad foodies who can’t tell the difference between real meat and slimey, disgusting, ocean trash?”
“…Karen, you’re aware you went to a sushi restaurant, right? The owner is Chinese. Of course they’re going to be serving seafood. That’s like, 90% of their menu.”
Barbra unwraps two purple grape gumballs from the crystal bowl on her desk. She tosses both into her mouth and swirls them along her tongue to keep her from speaking her mind too loosely.
“Okay, well to be fair they do serve good chicken. I’ve had it there before so It’s not like they don’t make American food too—”
I hate fake blondes…they’re so entitled. Especially when they have those dumb huge boobs.
"Karen…" Barbra groans, suddenly thinking of her husband Barry as the candy fills her mouth. She sits up and looks at her work phone’s glowing screen.
They've been talking for almost an hour and still somehow have gone over the story at least six different times.
"—Yeahhh well, what really pisses me off though is that THEN that weak ass manager’s little bitch girlfriend had the nerve to threaten me with the police! Which is completely unreasonable because I was a paying customer and defenseless against this young brute YELLING at me!!! I HAD to go for his stupid balls. He was being pushy so I got pushy back! He needed to learn his place…ughh! I just didn't pay the entire amount because the service was substandard, and—"
"Karen...she was an employee. That had all rights—"
"—and now they're saying I 'fled the scene' when I was simply relocating to a more peaceful environment, and—"
"Karen!"
A pause. The sound of someone breathing heavily through their nose.
"Yes?"
“…You strangled a man’s manhood. You almost neutered him. Over a miscommunication."
"I wasn’t even using my full strength,” she scoffs like she’s paying attention to something more important. “He still has both, doesn’t he?”
"Yes but you didn’t have to go for his precious jewels. But you did. Unmotivated. With your new, classy, designer nails that can be classified as weapons, by the way."
“…He had a thick pair of nuts. He’s lucky none of them broke—”
“His nuts or your nails? Quick, tell me which one you’re upset about and, I don’t know, act like you actually care?”
Karen keeps going though, ignoring her annoyed lawyer, “—and I could see his gross dick through his pants, okay?! That should be illegal or something, right? Showing off those troublesome bulges."
"That’s his everyday work uniform. Oh my god,”
Barbra takes off her glasses and sucks on the gumballs, filling one side of her cheek with them both. The purple grape flavor is aggressively artificial. Exactly the way she likes it. She has a bowl of them on her desk for exactly these calls. Each candy orb was a tiny hit of dopamine.
A miniature vacation from the absurdity of small-town defense law.
"Ms. Garcia, listen to me very carefully."
Barbra rubs her nose, her voice dropping into the register she used for juries. The one that said I am the smartest person in this room, and you will regret making me prove it.
"You are being charged with assault and battery, and fleeing the scene of an unlawful nut crushing crime. The restaurant manager has two bruised baby makers that won’t be making babies anytime soon and a second opinion from his mother who’s a TTU doctor. You know what that means? It means even a testicle expert, who wants to be a grandmother one day, is against you now.”
Karen scuffs but doesn’t say anything.
Barbra continues, “The police also have dashcam footage of you running a red light three blocks from the restaurant. And the cherry on top? You left your purse at your table. With your driver's license inside."
“…That was, uhhh, strategic."
"It was evidence on a silver platter babe."
Silence. Barbra can hear Karen's brain trying to find a way out, like a hamster on a wheel that had already broken.
"So...you're saying I should plead guilty?"
"I'm saying you should plead temporary insanity and hope the judge likes old dumb slashers with stubborn blondes with monster tits."
“Haw haw, you really are funny Barton.” Karen dryly chuckles, treating this like everyday gossip instead of a life changing phone call.
That’s Ravenwood for you. Everyone thinks they’re above someone else…
Barbra reaches for another purple ball, then stops herself. She’s already at eight. Any more and she'd be bouncing off the walls.
"I'll file a motion to suppress the dashcam footage on technical grounds. It buys us a week. In that week, you will find a therapist who specializes in anger management. You will attend at least three sessions. Then, you will bring me three signed attendance slips. Do you understand?"
"Hmph. I understand."
"And Karen?"
"Yes?"
"Don't call me again unless you're bleeding or on fire."
Barbra hangs up before Karen can respond.
“Crazy ballbusting bitch,” Barbra breathes heavily through her nose that leads to her rubbing her face.
Sitting in silence, Barbra chews her candy balls and stares at the framed diploma on the wall. University of Colorado Law School, Juris Doctor, 2007. Seventeen years. Seventeen years of Karens, of small-time crooks, of Ravenwood's finest idiots walking through her door with the same stupid look on their faces.
I love this job, she thinks. I hate this job. Both things are true. After all, she’s a lawyer that criminals hire…
Her phone buzzes. A text from her best friend and emotional recharger, the beautiful black mama, Teresa.
Mixed Chocolate: "I'm outside. Don't keep me waiting or I'll eat your lunch! ;)"
Barbra smiles. First genuine smile of the day.
— - —
Teresa is a force of nature in a mustard-yellow sundress.
She stands on the sidewalk outside the Old Livery Building with her arms crossed beneath her massive boobs, showing off her deep cleavage that’s decorated with vitiligo patches that glow in the afternoon light. Men glance at her thick curves and big natural curly afro with awe as they walk by, taking time to gawk at the five-foot-six sexy woman who’s got a bubbly personality compared to Barbra.
"Hey there sugar! You look like death," Teresa says as Barbra emerges with a white smile.
"Oh yeah? You look like a ray of sunshine who's about to get punched by death."
"That's the spirit." Teresa loops her arm through Barbra's and starts walking. "I'm starving and I KNOW you ain’t eat anything since this morning.”
“You don’t know that—”
“Barb, whatever you have squirreled away under your desk doesn't count as real food,” she pinches the side of Barbra’s smaller boobs and makes her yip and playfully slap her hand away.
“Ow! Okay okay, you’re right. You’ve caught me red handed. I’m running on an empty tank. Yeesh.”
Barbra rolls her eyes but smiles hard as the squishy woman at her side scolds her.
“Mmhm, I know you better than you think,” Teresa smiles back as her boobs jiggle and move side to side like waterbeds.
“There's that new place on Main Street I haven’t been to yet. They do pressed sandwiches and something called a 'lavender latte' that sounds disgusting but I need to try it."
"You're a stay-at-home mom. Shouldn't you be, I don't know, staying at home?"
"Ty and Jess are at the mall. Jim is at work. The oven is off. The laundry is folded. I have exactly two hours of freedom before I turn back into a pumpkin." Teresa squeezes Barbra's arm.
"And I want to spend them with my favorite disaster."
Barbra snorts, "I'm not a disaster. I'm a situational crisis."
"Same thing, but with more billable hours."
They walk down Main Street, past the hardware store, past the diner, past the comic shop where Owen Hopper was taping a “CLOSED FOR LUNCH" sign to the door. He waves and Barbra waves back, getting familiar with her daughter's best friend’s new boyfriend.
I hope Kim doesn’t do anything reckless and almost crush his balls too. I can’t handle another angry lawsuit, Barbra’s work brain rambles as she recalls Kimberly Jackson’s infamous reputation.
Beth Barton may be a ballbusting goth but it’s her tomboy best friend who really goes in for that sickening nut crunch some don’t walk away from…
Teresa gives the chubby geek a teasing wink for no reason and he blushes, slowing his wave as his eyes watch their asses as they walk on.
"You're incorrigible," Barbra says.
"Thank you."
"I didn't mean it as a compliment."
"I'm choosing to take it as one."
The sandwich place, The Dallas Press, is a narrow storefront with exposed brick and a chalkboard menu that changes every day. They grab a corner table by the window, order two pressed sandwiches and two lavender lattes (Teresa's idea, Barbra's reluctant agreement), and settle in.
"So," Teresa slowly raises an eyebrow while leaning forward on her elbows so her mommy milkers can slosh onto the table. "Tell me about the blonde strangler."
"Huh? How did you—"
"Beth called me. She said you sounded 'homicidal' after a phone call this morning, and that I should check on you." Teresa's eyes twinkle. "Your daughter is a treasure."
"She's a menace who wears steel-toe boots to all of our family dinners."
"She gets it from you."
Barbra takes a sip of the lavender latte. It’s... actually not terrible. Floral, but with enough espresso to cut through.
"The crazy strangler is a woman named Karen. She's an ‘online influencer' who thinks almond milk lattes should be tax deductible and that men's nuts are her personal stress relievers."
Teresa gasps softly, her thick fingers wrapping around her own cup. "Girl, please tell me she didn't…"
Barbra leans in, lowering her voice as if Karen might overhear from across town.
"She ordered the chicken marsala, which, by the way, isn't even that great, and when the manager politely explained they could remake her dish since they made her grilled salmon, she reached under him like a goddamn praying mantis and grabbed the poor guy by his family jewels. Said his 'smug little smirk' deserved it."
Teresa's cup hovers halfway to her lips as her eyebrows climb into her hairline.
"She palmed his balls? In public?"
“And almost turned them into peanut butter from the sounds of things. She’s insane,” Barbra groans and leans back, realizing how this case is going to add another lose to her streak if she can’t find a loophole for Karen.
The wobbly sandwich shop chair creaks under her ass as she stares at the ceiling, mentally tallying her last five cases.
Two DUIs settled with community service (win), a public indecency charge that got downgraded to a fine all thanks to the ex feeling satisfied that she got to smash one of her clients nuts the night the charge was filed (win), and then the three disasters: the "yoga instructor" who kneed officer Hood in the groin during a wellness check (loss), the bakery owner who allegedly poisoned her ex with laxative-laced cupcakes (pending appeal), and now this…this testicular terrorist.
Barbra rubs her temples, "I swear to God, T, if I lose this one, I’m changing my practice to bird law. At least pigeons don’t sue you for emotional distress after getting pecked."
Teresa snorts into her latte, leaving a frothy lavender mustache on her upper lip, "Mmhm, and miss out on all this excitement? Please. You’d be bored out of your mind within a week."
She shakes a hand and the hoops in her ears catches light from their window as she lowers her voice conspiratorially.
"Besides, you’ve got this. You’re the queen of finding loopholes. Remember when you got Mrs. Henderson’s Chihuahua classified as a ‘service animal’ because it ‘detected her anxiety’ by biting strangers?"
Barbra chokes on a laugh, remembering Henderson’s little golden demon. A chihuahua named Ms. Pickles who’d launch herself at men’s nutsacks like they were piñatas stuffed with dog treats.
"That dog had better aim than most prosecutors," she says, tapping her fingers against her drink. "Old Mrs. Henderson would just shrug and say, ‘Oh, she’s working, dear,’ while some poor newspaper guy rolled on the ground clutching his future children."
Teresa’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, her ample chest bouncing under the sun dresses thin fabric.
"See? That’s why you’re the best. You could convince a jury that gravity’s optional if the case called for it."
She raises an eybrow and gives Barbra an adventurous look. One that knew just how good Barbra really is at getting out of a pinch.
"So what’s the real play with Karen? Because I know you’ve got one."
Barbra swirls her straw and watches the foam cling to the sides of the cup like a bad alibi.
"The real play?" She clicks her tongue, "I’m going to argue she’s bipolar and recently diagnosed. The jury eats that shit up. Especially when I tell them she’s got no family support besides her even crazier twin sister and her last therapist dropped her for ‘excessive ball talk.’"
Teresa looks at her best friend dumbly, her cleavage practically spilling out of the dress and distracting the bus boy who was walking by after cleaning off a table.
"Barbra…that’s never going to work."
"Look, it’s a good strategy," the redhead says, her voice dropping into that smooth, jury-swaying register.
"When you need allies, sympathy is currency in court. And Karen’s got two things going for her: a soon-to-be fresh bipolar diagnosis that I can get scribbled on a napkin by some overworked psychiatrist, and a pair of perfectly functional balls still swinging between that manager’s legs."
She pauses and swirls her latte. "No permanent damage means no permanent grudge. The jury just needs to believe she’s more pitiable than punishable."
Teresa arches a skeptical eyebrow, her ample bosom shifting as she crosses her arms in doubt.
"Huh, you really think they’re gonna buy that? Even after she turned that man’s dough rolls into mushy paste?"
“I just said there wasn’t permanent damage, didn’t I? He came in to work that day with two and still walk out with two. No foul, no problem, case closed.”
“Wow, already celebrating before the court date even comes out? You’ve always been bold Barbra.” A smooth voice calls from behind and Barbra’s shoulders slump.
“Shit…it’s Nick.”
Nick Washburn’s custom Italian loafers click against the hardwood floor like a prosecutor’s closing argument. All slow. Completely deliberate. He’s designed his entire presence to make everyone uncomfortable. He likes the control.
He slides into the seat next to Barbra without asking, his tailored red-and-black suit jacket straining slightly over linebacker shoulders. The scent of his cologne, something aggressively masculine with a name like Midnight Verdict, invades Barbra’s personal space like a subpoena.
"Barton," he says, flashing teeth so white they should come with a warning label. "Still defending Ravenwood’s trash, I see."
Washburn's smirk was the kind that made Barbra want to punch him in the throat. Just hard enough to hear his vocal cords click like a broken stapler. His tailored suit probably costs more than her monthly rent and he wears it like armor. The crimson fabric stretches taut over shoulders built for crushing public defenders in court.
His gaze slithers over Teresa’s cleavage, lingering just long enough to be a violation.
"Names Washburn," he adds, flashing Teresa a grin that belonged on a used car salesman.
"But you can call me Nick, beautiful. It’s always a pleasure."
His blond hair is buzzed short enough to see scalp, the kind of cut that screams, I don’t need to look approachable.
Teresa’s arms crossed over her chest like a fortress gate slamming shut, her doughy brown and pale cleavage vanishing beneath the defensive maneuver.
Nick’s smirk twitches and his blue eyes dart to the subtle jiggle her movement caused before flicking back up. But he’s too late. Teresa’s glare could’ve curdled milk.
Barbra puts her head in her palm again and rolls her green judging eyes.
"Nick," she huffs, voice sweet as arsenic. "What brings your shiny loafers to our quaint little hellhole? Slumming it with the peasants before your next big win?"
Nick’s fingers drum against the tabletop like a judge impatient for closing arguments.
"Oh, just meeting a hot date tonight," he says hungrily as Teresa notices his expensive cufflinks.
"Thought I’d acclimate to the local flavor before securing another big win."
He lets his gaze slide pointedly towards Teresa’s chest again as she’s distracted. "Though I must say, the scenery’s better this time around."
Barbra’s nails dig into her palm under the table.
Of course he’s not here for the chicken marsala nutcracker case. Washburn only takes cases that guaranteed front-page headlines or defendants with deep pockets. Which means whatever brought him to Ravenwood is either catastrophically stupid or catastrophically lucrative. Or, knowing Nick, it’s both.
Barbra’s fingers twitch toward her butter knife. Not to stab him, but to flip it casually in her hand like she was considering it.
"Yeah well," she said, voice dripping with the same faux sweetness she reserved for judges who ask if she really went to law school, "this is a girls-only lunch break. So scram before I file a restraining order for existing too loudly."
Nick’s charming smirk widens, his drop dead gorgeous teeth gleaming like an advertisement.
"Hold your horses, Barbra," he waves her off, leaning back in his chair with the relaxed arrogance of a man who’d never been punched in the mouth hard enough.
Or anywhere sensitive that desperately needed it…
"Where are your manners? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your...devilishly gorgeous friend?" His blue eyes center to Teresa’s rack and he bites his lower lip like a horn dog.
Teresa’s plump lips curl into a smile so saccharine it could rot teeth. "Oh, how rude of me," she purrs, leaning forward just enough to make Nick’s pupils dilate.
"I’m Teresa Carson. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Washburn." Her hand extends, fingers limp like she expected him to kiss them instead of shake.
Nick turns feral as he grips her hand, too tight, always too bloody tight, but Teresa doesn’t flinch. Instead, under the table, her left smooth foot slides forward silently. The sole of her carmel brown sandal scrapes against the wooden floor and aims for the soft spot between the man’s thick thighs.
Barbra catches the shift in Teresa’s hips from the side and notices her thigh tensing. She barely suppresses her smile.
Oh, this’ll be good.
“Charmed,” Nick says warmly before his eyes go wide and there’s a sickening crunchhhh that drives nauseating testicular pain up his stomach.
“Uuuhh?!”
“And that’s my heel against your weak balls.” Teresa continues, making Barbra cover her mouth from bursting out in joy as Nick’s voice splinters into a pathetic wheeze.
“Teresa! Dude, yes!”
“Awwwhhh! Myyy Balllls!?”
The sharp point of Teresa sandal buries itself into the softest part of Nick’s male anatomy with ballbreaking precision. His grip on her hand spasms, not a squeeze anymore, but a desperate, white-knuckled plea for mercy.
“Yup, your balls. Hmm, looks like I got both of them too from what I can tell.”
His other hand slams onto the table, rattling the silverware as she shifts her heel to pin his huge testicles against his own seat. Flattening them out of shape.
Barbra sips her latte, watching Nick’s face cycle from shock to horror to a shade of green usually reserved for green beans.
“Something wrong, Nick?” she asks innocently. “You look a little winded.”
Nick's mouth opens and no sound came out, just a wet gasp, like a fish flopping onto hot pavement. His knuckles turn white around Teresa's limp fingers as his other hand claws at the tablecloth like he was trying to tear through reality itself.
"P-please Barbra!" He finally stutters, sweat beading along his hairline, "T-Tell your friend t-to Pleeease!!!" His voice cracks into a register Barbra hadn’t heard since college.
“Tell her, please what? I don’t understand.”
"To PLEASE STOP CRUSHING MY BALLS!!!” He chokes out like a man who knows he can’t escape death’s clutches.
“Ohh, is that what she’s doing? She’s crushing your doofus balls?”
“Yesss!!!”
Nick’s blue eyes fill with regretful tears as Barbra tilts her head and stirs her lavender latte slowly. She catches Teresa's eye over the rim of her cup, those big brown irises sparkling with growing mischief that lets loose whenever they’re together, and arches one eyebrow.
A silent conversation passes between them, honed over shared lunches and bad bar nights.
Push harder.
Teresa's lips twitch and she nods. Her sandal shifts minutely over his smaller left testicle juuuust enough to make Nick's entire body jerk like he's been electrocuted.
“Gaaah!”
Nick's forehead hits the table with a dull thud, his carefully styled blond hair now pressed against the sticky sandwich shop wood. A thin strand of drool escapes his trembling lips as his entire body trembles.
"My Nuts," he whimpers, the words vibrating through the table, "My nutttts! Please don't...don't pop them!"
His voice cracks into another high-pitched squeak when Teresa’s foot goes clockwise, her toes flexing inside her strappy sandal like a pianist playing a delicate piece.
“Hmm," Barbra muses, “Funny how quickly the mighty fall when someone taps their assets, isn't it? Right hun?"
Teresa, whose expression has settled into something between predatory delight and maternal disappointment, like a panther watching a particularly stupid gazelle trip over its own legs, hums in agreement and rolls the fragile eggs back and forth.
Teresa cleavage spills forward like an avalanche of warm chocolate as Nick's watery eyes instinctively flicked up to her.
Teresa’s voice drop to a honeyed purr, thick with the kind of menace that only a woman who’s raised two young adults could muster.
“Nick, baby,” she coos, her foot still applying ballstomping, educational, pressure, “I don’t think you understand the rules of this establishment.”
Nick whimpers as his flattening gonads shrivel in pain. His forehead feels glued to the table. Sweat drips from his temple onto the wood, mixing with a stray crumb from someone else’s sandwich.
“R-Rules?” he squeaks.
Barbra sipped loudly, savoring the moment.
“Mmhm. Rule one: eyes up here.” She tapped her temple with one manicured finger. “Not down there.”
She points vaguely toward Teresa’s chest, then smirked as Nick’s gaze instinctively flicked downward again, only for Teresa’s heel to twist slightly, drawing another choked gasp from him.
“Rule two” Teresa continues, her voice still syrup-sweet, “if I ever catch those beady little eyes of yours wandering rudely again…”
She leans in until her lips brush the shell of Nick’s red ear, her breath warm against his clammy skin. “I promise I won’t just stop at crushing these sad little nuts of yours.”
Her foot pulses for emphasis, and Nick’s entire body convulses.
“…I’ll pop them like grape tomatoes and serve ‘em to you on a salad. Understood?”
“Yesss! I do I do!”
Nick's head bob up and down like a buoy in a storm, his chin smacking against the table with each frantic nod.
“Good. Then you can have your balls back,”
Teresa eases her foot off with the grace of a ballerina removing a stiletto from fresh dough. The second the ball flattening pressure lifts, Nick crumples to the side and dry heaves. His shaky hands instinctively cradle his throbbing manhood and his breaths come in short, whistling gasps.
The kind usually reserved for men who'd just been kicked by their horses.
Barbra and Teresa lock eyes across the table, their lips twitching in unison before bursting into laughter so loud it startled the elderly couple sitting nearby.
Teresa's hand shoots up mid-guffaw, palm outstretched. Barbra doesn’t hesitate and their girly high-five cracks through the sandwich place like a gunshot.
“Nice one!”
“What can I say?”
Teresa sheepishly smiles and shrugs her shoulders as the once powerful prosecutor from Barbra’s past dry heaves next to their table.