She began her career as a prosecutor, and though many laughed at her at first, she maintained a condescending scowl throughout all of her proceedings; it soon became apparent that young Franziska von Karma, the youngest prosecuting attorney to ever practice in Germany, and perhaps anywhere, was no joke. She went undefeated for years, winning case after case, continuing her studies into law and pornography until she was an unrivaled expert of both. She upgraded her riding crop for a leather whip, one which she used just as often to beat the truth out of witnesses as she did to spur her subs to eat her out with more vigor. Throughout the next five years, she slept with all manner of prosecutors, witnesses, rival defense attorneys, and even murderers.
One day, though, when she was 18, she learned that her father's perfect record was no longer perfect. Shocked, she flung open the newspaper and buried her eyes in the article.
Ah.
An American defense attorney had managed to discover the truth about what happened to Gregory Edgeworth.
A tear welled in her eye. Miles had told her once about his recurring nightmare, of that day in the elevator, of throwing the gun and hearing a chilling scream. She had also heard from her papa that he had been in the court records room that day when the power went out. With that knowledge, she always had a theory of what really happened, but was simultaneously too terrified to ask her father and too unsure of her theory to tell Miles. It turned out what she had peiced together was not far from the truth; on the day of the courthouse earthquake, the day of DL-6, Manfred von Karma had killed Gregory Edgeworth in cold blood.
Even though she had always sort of known it, it was still deeply saddening to learn that it was true. She stared at the words "death sentence" so intensely that she could see the individual drops of ink that made them up.
But wait. Buried at the very end of the article was a short sentence about Miles Edgeworth. Apparently, the same American defense attorney who had shattered her father's name had also defeated Miles in court, breaking his perfect record as well. Miles Edgeworth, who had disappeared, left behind only the words, "Miles Edgeworth chooses death."
It fell entirely on her, then, to uphold the perfection of the von Karma bloodline. It was already pressure enough to live up to her father, but now she had to single-handedly uphold the perfection of her lineage. The pressure was simply unbearable, pushing down on her from all sides. She folded the paper and slid it across the table, slumping into her seat. Just then, for the first time in her life, Franziska von Karma burst into tears.
She decided that the best way to prove just how perfect she was would be to crush this American, this Phoenix Wright, beneath her heel. If this man would bow to her in court, she would finally have surpassed Miles. She would be the best for once, instead of him. She flew to America and took up the first case she could find with Phoenix Wright behind the defense's bench.
A spirit medium had killed a doctor during a channeling. It was a simple enough case; there were only two of them in the room during the murder. And channeling spirits? She didn't even believe in such foolishly foolish drivel anyway. A fat lot of good that had done to find Gregory Edgeworth's killer. It would be a breeze.
During her investigation of the case, she took it upon herself to peek in on one of the defendant's sessions with her lawyer in detention. She licked her lips; the defendant was a short, slender girl, about her age, who appeared as meek and submissive as they come. She watched for a while and imagined forcing herself on the girl, when, to her great surprise, the meek young medium transformed in a flash into a completely different person. She blinked a few times, rubbing her eyes to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.
Nope. Sitting in the cell, wearing the defendant's clothes and the defendant's hairstyle, was a tall, buxom woman with a small mole on her cheek. She was stunning, and her sultry voice and half-lidded eyes sent shivers down Franziska's spine. The spiky-haired lawyer didn't seem to be fazed. What on earth just happened? Was this really a spirit being channeled? It couldn't be. Could it? She fumbled through her purse and snapped a quick photo with her cameraphone, thinking it might come in handy in more ways than one.
Next, she had to question a crucial witness who had snapped a photo of the scene of the crime. For some time now Franziska had been in the habit of covertly disconnecting the security cameras as she interrogated witnesses. There were a few reasons for this, the first of which being that her methods could be considered a bit... extreme. She had a bit of a penchant for whipping the truth out of people that had repeatedly landed her in some mild trouble with her superiors. But also, she was never sure when she would find a particularly attractive witness that she might want to fool around with. As she stepped into the dimly lit interrogation room to meet the witness for the first time, she had no idea what she was in for. Lotta Hart was a talkative southern belle with a bright orange afro and a terrible attitude. This woman was able to turn every question that left Franziska's mouth into some sort of personal attack on her heritage or intelligence. What's more, after only five minutes of questioning, Franziska knew far, far too much about this woman's life and far, far too little about the case itself. She had asked about the day of the murder and got the name of the college Ms. Hart had attended. She asked about the condition of the scene as she entered it and got the last four jobs Ms. Hart had held. It was quickly getting old. She needed a way to shut her up, and took the first option that came to mind.
Unfortunately, Lotta didn't quiet down a bit as Franziska's tongue invaded her mouth; her raving and ranting was only replaced by high-pitched mumbling as she tried to push Ms. von Karma away. Franziska, of course, loved when they resisted, and pushed herself onto Ms. Hart with that much more vigor. She pushed so hard, in fact, that the wooden chair the woman had been sitting on toppled to the metal floor with a clang. Lotta writhed and kicked beneath her, but there wasn't much she could do in this position. Franziska had already kicked off her panties and straddled Lotta's face, pressing her shaved cunny right into the witness's mouth. A crack of the whip and a few violent tugs at Ms. Hart's curly red afro was all it took to get her to comply.
She was actually quite good at it. Franziska suspected she had done this before, perhaps as a drunken experiment at "Country U." She couldn't help but giggle to herself. Perhaps the name of this university was not spelled with an "o."
Franziska tilted her head back, cooing with delight as Lotta's nimble tongue diligently tended to her needs. She slipped both of her hands into the woman's red curls, twisting them around her fingers. As Lotta lovingly began painting her clitoris with saliva, Franziska decided that she had absolutely done this before. Probably with great frequency. There was a fire in her belly, and Lotta was fueling it, stroking it, building the flames higher and higher until unadulterated bliss cascaded out of her.
After Fran's shuddering orgasm left her, Lotta tried once more to crawl out from beneath this woman, but she would not allow it. Another crack of the whip and Franziska's incessant grinding told Lotta to continue. She rolled her eyes and obeyed, lapping fervently at Franziska's folds until a second wave of release escaped her.
How Franziska wished it would have ended there. But the fiery southern belle just wouldn't let her hear the end of it, ranting and raving about how she deserved to be brought to orgasm as well, about how Franziska was acting just like a man by being so careless as to not finish her off (which, frankly, explained a lot), and about how the only other woman to have ever treated her so coldly was oh my God this woman never shut up. Franziska gave her a hard crack of the whip, praying it would silence her incessant prattle. When even that failed, she rolled her eyes, kissed Lotta's lips tightly, and hastily undid the buttons of her capri pants, yanking them down around her ankles. At the core of the puzzle, behind the pink granny panties and wild, curly thicket of bright orange pubic hair, was a hungry vagina that, in spite of herself, Franziska had trouble resisting. She shoved Lotta to the floor and crawled on top of her; even as the wretched chatterbox kicked and screamed and writhed beneath her, she was able to use her whip to tie Ms. Lotta Hart's hands to the back of the chair they had toppled over.
As she straddled Ms. Hart and lifted her green sweater over her freckled breasts, she forced three of her fingers into the woman's entrance. That had shut her up. Three fingers soon became four, and as they craned deep inside of the warm, pink maw, Franziska dipped her thumb under Lotta's hood and traced circles around her red clitoris. She planted a series of kisses along Lotta's blushing chest and lifted her boring, yellowed bra to free her nipples.
The silence was delicious, and for minutes Franziska was content to simply service Lotta and revel in her speechless state. Unfortunately, all too quickly Lotta's quiet breathing and mild, contented moans began to make her horny, and she arrived at a point where she could no longer sit back and enjoy the silence.
Lotta briefly resumed her ranting and raving when Franziska swung around and plopped her bare cunny on Lotta's chin, but she quited down soon enough when Franziska's tongue entered her. They drank out of each other, digging their fingernails into the other's thighs, until they shared an orgasm. Leave it to Lotta to loudly announce her climax with enough hooting and hollering to wake the dead.
In the end, Franziska didn't manage to extract much information from the witness, but she was so high from Lotta's masterful cunnilingus that she simply shrugged it off, confident that what she had managed to pull out of her would be enough.