by Monica Conti
She yanked Grace’s shorts off and spread her legs and with no preliminaries she sucked two fingers wet and pushed them into Grace’s cunt.
Grace grunted uncomfortably but her eyes shifted to the familiar look of lust that Chiara knew so well by then. Chiara pushed her fingers in and out of her pussy until it began to make the popping sound she wanted to hear. The slapping, popping, hitting sound of wetness on skin and fingers moving in and out.
Chiara became deeply aroused and Grace’s head was flung back.
“OH MY GOD. Chiara. Fuck me. Fuck me.” she yelled.
Chiara rose above her then, relentlessly continuing her long slapping strokes in and out of Grace’s pussy. She rode Grace hard with her own body and hips following each stroke, Grace came wildly, screaming
“Chiara. Chiara. Chiara. I can never get enough of you.”
Once sated and spent they both fell on the bed exhausted, lying nakedly spread across the bed. Sleep came quickly.
The next morning they laughed as they swept up the shattered ornamental butter-churn and the broken plate.
“I’m sorry I lost it last night.” Chiara apologized, “I acted like an ass.”
“So did I.” Grace admitted, “I’ve never thrown anything at someone before. Thank God I missed.”
They sat down then to enjoy a quiet breakfast together. As Chiara spread a bit of cream cheese on a bagel, she looked at Grace for a moment and paused before asking her,
“What do you think about us getting away for a bit? I have a small house down off the coast near Savannah. It’s quiet this time of year, and I think it would do us good.”
Grace brightened at this as she finished up her pineapple juice.
“Definitely, Chiara. Let’s go! I’m so tired of worrying all the time. Maybe I’ll still worry but at least I can get a tan while I do it,” she said laughingly.
“Oh Grace. You do make me smile. Yes. That’s the plan then. Go and pack a bag. I’ll get my stuff together and we’ll get the hell out of Dodge.”
Chiara felt that this was a perfect time to show Grace her little place down there. She had often fantasized about moving to Tybee Island and never coming back to Atlanta. And she was beginning to include Grace in the fantasy. The stormy days ahead in court would eventually be behind them. Win or lose they could go live down there together and find some peace in their lives. It was a beautiful thought and one that began to take root in Chiara’s mind.
They began the journey southeastward to Savannah, driving along 75 south until the exits became farther apart and the signs for roadside eateries began to fade. As they picked up highway 16 they enjoyed long stretches of highway with nothing but the sun, sky and millions of pine-trees to keep them company.
It was a lovely escape for them after spending so much time pent up in the house worrying about the case facing them.
They listened to music and rolled the windows down to enjoy the soft breeze that afternoon in late summer. It was a dreamy way to spend their time, feeling freer and lighter because of the absence of the constant din of Atlanta in the background of their lives.
Life was good that day. Chiara held Grace’s paler hand in hers and their sweat mingled together in the warmth of their palms clasped together. They spoke very little on the drive. This was a time for wordless pleasure, a time for forgetting.
The change in scenery inspired an appetite so when they chanced upon a barbeque joint called Big O’s they pulled off. The tables were oil-cloth covered and only decorated with hot sauce and tiny pepper and salt shakers. The waitress had her hair up in one of those antiquated styles almost like a beehive straight out of Mayberry days. She was smacking her gum as she asked,
“What’ll you ladies be havin’ this afternoon? Want some iced tea to start off? How about a plate of cornbread muffins for an appetizer?”
“Sure, that sounds great,” Grace said.
As they waited for their starters they both gazed at one another with love. Their hunger for food was matched by a hunger for lovemaking in such an untroubled setting. Not touching intimately, even for a few hours, was difficult for them. The passion between them had reared up in these unexpected bursts from the start. Each knowing what the other was wishing they shared a helpless glance around the little café and broke up laughing.
The iced tea was strong and sweet to sip between bites of hot cornbread. They followed it with lovely barbeque sandwiches and Brunswick stew.
The smell of the savory meat and the rich, succulent stew tantalized them as it was laid out before them on the table.
“Mmmmm,” Chiara muttered audibly as she tucked into the stew.
“This is so damned good, Grace.”
The mouthwatering combination of sweet and vinegary barbeque and the rich heady tomato based stew made them both take on that glazed-over look that one often sees on the faces of people who dine on the truest versions of southern comfort food.
After they finished, they headed back down the road to Savannah with increased anticipation.
As they approached the city the trees became covered with the thick Spanish moss common to the coastal regions of the Deep South. There are few things as captivating as the look of that moss on the trees. The brilliant webs of vine woven through wooden arms outstretched to the sky make you understand that the sea is very close by.
Grace had never been there before. She was amazed a little at its beauty. It had an old world charm akin to that of its sister city, the southern siren New Orleans. But Savannah is finer than her wilder sister in some ways. Her beauty is calmer, imbued with a kind of melancholy that reaches out on a barely discernable level toward something departed. The city attracts people who also want to capture that lost, infinitesimal, something.
“It’s so….”Grace whispered to Chiara, clasping her hand, “sooo…..beautiful.”
Chiara smiled and held her hand tighter, enjoying the girl’s appreciation of the city.
They made their way toward the island, driving slowly and soaking in the open splendor of the scenery. When they turned into number 10, Lovell Drive, Grace fell in love with the small but fine house facing the Atlantic Ocean.
The view of the sea was panoramic in scope. The gulls were calling. And all one could hear was the sound of the waves splashing against the sandy shore. They both stood quite still for a moment and then Chiara took Grace’s hand walking her out to the beach.
“We can unpack later, Grace. Let’s walk and enjoy the sea air for a bit.”
They walked arm in arm down the empty beach. The smell of the sea, the feel of the trade winds blowing, made them both feel a soft wordless pleasure.
Thus began a long and beautiful vacation in a magical place on the coast of Georgia. Feeling safe from prying eyes they relaxed into a genuine intimacy, becoming increasingly aware that they could truly be happy there, that they could be happy together away from the bustle, the competition, the outright aggression of Atlanta, the south’s harlot of a city. It was unspoken but deeply felt.
No worry was allowed to intrude. They ate fresh shrimp off the grill. They built sandcastles. They flew kites. They made love at night with the windows open as the waves crashed on the shore.
Grace made Chiara feel young, and Chiara made Grace feel safe. The combination spelled true love and true happiness.
After not ‘spending’ their vacation but rather ‘saving’ it by indulging themselves in sweet bliss each instant there, they were both recharged emotionally and physically and ready for the battle ahead. Neither of them knew how it would turn out, but the joy that they would have together once they put this mess behind them bolstered their courage.
It was as though they’d caught a glimpse of paradise and knew that if they had to go through hell to get back to it, the battle would be worth it.
Tamika Brown had been working night and day to gather witnesses within and outside of the firm. She wanted to prove a long existing pattern of exclusionary practices and preferential treatment by the good
old boys at Smith, Weinstein & Brooks. She had found at least two women who’d once worked for the firm. They had been suggestively stepped on. After complaining they were sidestepped for promotions and finally just blackballed and plain pushed out onto the street. That one was black and the other Hispanic suggested discrimination beyond gender.
This was going to be a very big case and Tamika knew that the media would lap up the facts surrounding the dismantling of a big firm like this. Atlanta, like every other city in the southeast was changing. Atlanta had grown and become a true melting pot. Now few who lived in the metropolitan area were true natives of the city.
With the bright minds and broader perspectives being imported into the city, this case really had a shot at changing minds within the south and beyond it.
On the other side of town, in their plush offices, Tamika knew they were busy rallying to defend their collective cause: maintaining the power of carte blanche. They weren’t going to let this one go down without the most serious of fights. The very idea that a lesbian, a dyke with an attitude, would sue them for wrongful termination and discrimination was anathema to them.
Lead attorney Adam Clay was no doubt gloating over a long list of witnesses willing to destroy Chiara Bianchi’s reputation. He was the type to relish ruining her. As far as he was concerned she was a lesbian bitch who had tried to run with the bulls when she didn’t have the balls to do so. He was aiming to get her to run out of town instead.
Clay and his cronies were indeed already celebrating their win before the case even went to the courtroom. They felt somehow that they were still the true representatives of the south and particularly of the Atlanta ideal of family values. Church on Sundays, barbeques in the backyard and good women in the kitchen or bedroom where they belonged. They were guarding traditions that could not die.
But Tamika was planning on painting a very different portrait of them. Anyone raised in the south was familiar enough with the Bible to know the passage from Matthew 23:27,
“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness.”
The old club was going to be shown for what it was: a sad old tombstone whose ideas were ready to be properly buried. Tamika held a shovel and if she could make it the trump spade she was ready to lay open a hole and mount a case that would, she prayed with her very soul, push them into it for good.
The camera crews from the local stations were all crowded around the front of the Fulton County Superior Court Building that Thursday morning as the principals mounted the steps. Camera shutters were clicking and the newscasters’ mouths were moving.
“A case against Smith, Weinstein & Brooks, one of Atlanta’s oldest and most prestigious law firms, goes to court today. The plaintiff is Chiara Bianchi. The prominent lawyer who defended and received an acquittal for the notorious Jack Shay. According to Tamika Brown, her attorney, Miss Bianchi, after being recently promoted to senior partner by that firm, was suddenly and wrongfully forced to leave on the basis of her sexual orientation.”
Tamika ignored the questions thrown at them as she ushered Chiara and Grace past the crush. She was not yet ready to use the press. She didn’t want a trial by media if it could be avoided.
Clay however stopped at the top of the steps to the reporter’s answer questions. He loved seeing his face on the news. It was good for business.
“Mr. Clay, do you think Atlanta is ready to give equal rights under the law to gays? Will this case usher in insurance benefits and enforceable domestic partnership agreements?”
“I really don’t think so. It’s a whole new world we’re living in now with gay people getting married and even being allowed to raise children if you can imagine such a thing. The law tolerates their difference. It even protects them but they want more. They want us to celebrate them. Isn’t that what they really want?”
Even the news reporters were a bit shocked at that last. There were some things you didn’t say. Finding the right way to spin that kind of bigoted statement was going to be tough.
But not for one instant did Adam Clay care who might think the comment went too far. He knew that any and everyone who mattered in his world agreed with him.
Inside, the partners settled at the defense table alongside their champion. They were smiling and seemingly unconcerned. Clay’s blue steel eyes narrowed in on Tamika as she took her place across from them. She smiled and nodded in his general direction. If the cold look had been meant to intimidate there was no sign that it had succeeded. The qualms Tamika had felt when Chiara had first approached her had long since vanished.
Leading up to this opening day the voir dire process during the jury selection had been drawn out, with each side using all of their exclusions. Clay had sought as conservative a panel as he could get while Tamika had looked for even the barest hint of liberality. The result had been just the kind of jury Chiara had foreseen...a very mixed panel with regard to ethnicity and gender.
Tamika hoped this case would help end the days of gay people being sectioned off into pink ghettos. Though she had initially been hesitant about representing a lesbian, she had come to see it as the same struggle all minorities faced and had allied herself with Chiara on a very personal level.
Discrimination was discrimination. And in the south, the word was loaded with connotations and images of wrongs committed over many past years. This was another discriminatory barrier that needed to be taken down and she was the woman to do it.
Tamika stood and waited for the murmur behind her to die away. She made sure she had every juror’s eye before she began to deliver her opening remarks. The room slowly grew hushed…a pause before a storm.
“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I come before you today because an injustice has been done. My clients, Chiara Bianchi and Grace Butrell are good people. Miss Butrell put herself through seven years of study and hard work to achieve the dream of a career in law. Only to have the defendants seek to deny her that dream for no reason other than their disapproval of her life style.”
Tamika paused to direct a disapproving look at the partners before resuming.
“Miss Bianchi toiled for this firm and its clients for fifteen years. During which time they not only found no fault with her performance…they made her a senior partner. Then they discovered she was gay. For this and this alone…these men…who by their very profession should have felt bound by due process and fair play, instead decided to act as judge, jury and executioner. They sought to negate her entire career.
We all know that there are some prejudiced souls in our society who still hold unfortunate ideas about what it means to be gay.”
She smiled at the jurors as if to assure them that she knew none of them could possibly be prejudiced.
“For those people such a personal choice still seems taboo. But these two women worked hard to obtain and deserve the same rewards that all of the rest of us expect from our own efforts to excel.
I ask you today to weigh all that will be presented and then ask yourselves if it is not time to send a message. In the immortal words of Frederick Douglass…It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.
We need to stand on the side of justice and uphold the law of this great nation, the promise that no one regardless of their color, creed, nationality, disability…or sexual orientation, should be discriminated against. Thank you.”
The jurors had listened and could be seen appraising Chiara and Grace. Both sat poised quietly at their table. Chiara in a lovely black Armani dress with a single strand of perfect white pearls around her neck. Her long mane of dark hair was pulled back from a face radiating a natural dignity and elegance. Grace sat beside her, lovely to look at, wearing a pale blue blouse that matched her eyes. She was a vision of innocence and her intelligent face suggested the great pro
mise that Tamika charged had been thwarted.
They made an impressive pair. It was difficult to look at them and classify them as stereotypical flaming lesbians. There were no tattoos, no piercings, no rainbow flag T-shirts. Just two beautiful, accomplished women who felt they had been wronged. The image was not lost on the jury. You could see it in their eyes as they appraised them. Tamika was satisfied that they had made a good impression.
Adam Clay rose up with a practiced air of certainty. For him it was another moment in the sun. He was accustomed to center stage and his ego was so big that he didn’t notice that a few of the jurors were already looking at him with barely veiled skepticism.
He wore his favorite ‘lucky’ tan suit with a dark navy blue shirt and striped tie. The tie was another one of his good luck charms. An amusing little private vanity. The apparent stripes were comprised of tiny repetitive text. The phrase ‘Damn I’m good’ in barely legible white chasing itself across the blue silk. He moved to the jury with a smile and, he thought, just the right amount of swagger.
If he’d had a more finely tuned inner thermometer he might have better gauged the general public’s temperature as quite chilly. Like everyone else in the nation even these southern jurors had in their minds the recent shenanigans on Wall Street. A street ruled by men in elegant suits like the one he was wearing. They were not prone to accept at face value a seemingly genteel and intelligent big shot with a fake smile. Bernie Madoff had smiled a lot of people to ruin. This was lost on him though.
Adam Clay, Esq. had won more cases of this nature than any other attorney in Atlanta and he saw this as just one more opportunity to add a feather to his well-plumed cap.
His opening was intended to sound contemptuous, almost dismissive. He was confident that it was going to be impressive. Just the look in his eyes said it.