by Amie DeVere
“Oh, God, I’m gonna come,” I panted.
“I want to feel you squeeze my cock,” he said grabbing my shoulders and pounding into me harder and deeper. His thighs rubbed against the back of mine while his cock split me and my groin coiled tighter. My orgasm overpowering me, I couldn’t help it; I screamed, a little bit. For a moment my half scream hovered as he joined me in his release and groaned, coming with sharp thrusts. The chances no one heard me were not good. I would not want those odds in Vegas. I gave us thirty seconds, a minute tops, even in this desolate area of the library.
He pulled out of me, and I got up, fixed my bra and blouse, and arranged my skirt. I turned around to face him, looked at him and bit my lip. I was blocking him, which was a good thing because just then a librarian walked by.
“Did you hear a noise, sounded like a scream?” she asked.
“No,” he said, and I admired his control.
“Huh,” she said, “I could have sworn I heard something.”
After she walked away, he finished attending to his pants. Giggling, I put my hair back up. “Do I look okay?” I asked still flush with our exertion.
“You look radiant,” he said and kissed me, settling his hands at my waist. Do you always scream when you come?”
“I usually don’t. I don’t know what got into me.” I laughed, amused by the double entendre. “Can I have my underwear?” I asked, holding out my open palm.
Taking my hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed it. “No, I’m keeping them as evidence.” He smiled, pulling me against him, and kissed me. The moist warmth of his mouth and tongue caressed my opened lips, and heat rose from each site where our bodies touched.
“I have to get back to court,” he said with, I believe, genuine reluctance in his voice.
I stayed until I knew he had left the library then returned to my research at a table with the sun slanting through the large windows. I brought up the case that kept us apart to see if I could find a way out, an angle, an argument to end the torture, but the law was absolute. An ‘intimate companion’ of a district attorney could represent criminal defendants whom the district attorney’s office prosecuted provided the ‘intimate companion’ did not represent clients in cases in which the district attorney was involved, and the conflict was fully disclosed in writing and consented to by the client. I was fucked and not in a good way.
I walked over to Judge Brown’s courtroom wondering how long and how much fucking it takes to qualify someone as an ‘intimate companion’ and whether we had crossed that threshold. I sat in the gallery and listened to the arguments. John had on his game face. I watched him argue about pat-frisks and furtive gestures with my underwear in his pocket and the law had never seemed hotter. I sighed loud enough to make the person in front of me turn around and give me a look. I had it bad, and our clandestine quickie only served to stoke a fire already raging well out of control and engulfing me. Sitting in the courtroom, in the quiet broken only by the voices of the attorneys, clerk, and judge, I challenged my so-called brilliant mind to devise a plan.
I returned to the office after the sun went down and the library closed. The wind cut through me, and I looked forward to the train ride home. A new case waited on my desk with a sticky note stating we needed a motion to dismiss and motion to suppress statements. I took the file to read on the train. It was a murder case and reality set in. Our twenty-year-old client, Charles Johnson, in a flash of uncontrolled rage had stomped on his girlfriend’s two-year-old daughter to shut her up, thus ending her life and his own, because even though we have no death penalty in this state, life in prison without the possibility of parole adds up to the same thing.
Usually I’m okay with cases. I stay detached and focus on the issues, but I was feeling particularly vulnerable, and the circumstances were heartbreaking. When I read in the autopsy report about the partially digested bologna sandwich in the victim’s stomach my gut twisted, and I forced down the lump in my throat. I thought back to the moment when she had been eating, back when she had been alive, and death and murder were nowhere in sight. When I got to the Grand Jury minutes and read that John Hawkins was the DA on the case, I realized with certainty that I couldn’t continue with the pretense. Life had intruded. He called that night, and I didn’t answer the phone.
* * * *
The following day I was back at the courthouse to file papers when the elevator doors opened to reveal John Hawkins standing in the corner at the back. Coincidence? I think not. Life is intentionally cruel. He smiled, and I thought of waiting for another car, but walked in and stood with my back to him in the center. He didn’t know everything had changed and likely attributed my indifference to caution. More people entered, filling the car and pushing me back toward his corner until my back pressed up against him. Did I mention life is cruel? Internally I swore a blue streak that no one has ever heard pass my lips.
The elevator was warm and close, bodies shuffling against each other. The doors opened periodically signaling an exchange of people in a dance of humanity. His heat radiated toward me, enclosing me in his sphere, and his cock hardened against my back. Circling his arm around my waist, he pulled me toward him while the papers I intended to file covered his hand. My body softened, and I let him hold me, caught between my duty and my need. When I reached my floor I moved to get off, but he stopped me, and I didn’t struggle. We stayed on the elevator until the car emptied, and we were alone heading back down. Before we arrived at the next level I stepped forward and pulled the stop button.
I intended to tell him I couldn’t go on, but when I faced him, he put his arms around me and kissed me. I passed my tongue on the edge of his lips, moist and tasting salty-sweet. Opening his mouth to take in my tongue, his warm breath brushed my face. My resolve abandoned me, and I knew we didn’t have much time. My hands on his shoulders, I pushed him down until he was sitting in front of me and straddled him. He held my waist, and I looked in his eyes with such need I was astonished he could withstand the demand. Kissing him with urgency, I sat on him and ground my hips. His cock continued to harden against his trousers and my crotch. I moaned with the sudden intensity of the moment.
“You don’t frighten me,” he whispered, sliding his hands under my skirt.
I lifted myself while he unzipped his pants and brought out another condom. Taking it from his hand, I kissed him, ripped it open and sheathed his fully hard and stiff cock. Moving my panties aside, I brought his cock to my opening wet with my arousal. With the tip pressed against the entrance to my cunt, I slowly descended, his hands guiding my ass. As the head spread my lips and entered, my muscles grasped his cock in the spasms of my orgasm.
“Ah.” I exhaled softly, continued my descent and forced his swollen staff through the pulses of the muscles tightening around him until he was buried to the root. I stopped and swayed into him, my hair falling in my face, gasping against him while my body continued to throb. When my spasms subsided, I opened my eyes and looked into his. Breathing heavily and bending to kiss him, I again ground my hips feeling him within me, filling me. I tasted his lips and tongue, bucking on his cock, and he thrust his hips to meet me. Hands braced on his shoulders, I rose from my knees to lengthen his strokes.
Over and over I drew out the length of his cock to the head and then plunged the whole within me, his balls hitting against my ass with each fierce jab. I moved faster, and he dug in his heels to second me, piercing me with increased force until he lifted me, prompting another orgasm. He came, groaning and thrusting through the pulsing grip of my muscles. When the crisis passed, I relaxed and fell on him.
“I should not have done that,” I said, my eyes brimming with tears. I felt trapped by the elevator, by circumstances, by everything I could not control. He brushed my hair from my face and must have sensed I was on the verge of devolving into a horror show. Leaning his forehead against mine, he brought his hands under my hair to the nape of my neck.
“Everything will be all right,” he whispe
red.
His words, his voice calmed me. I wanted to believe him. If he had said anything else, I don’t know how I would have reacted, but I moved off him and picked up my papers. I kept my back to him, staring at the elevator buttons and waited for him to arrange his clothes.
“I’m working on the Johnson murder,” I said. “I can’t do this.”
“I didn’t realize he had switched lawyers.”
“Well, now you know.” I released the stop button, and the elevator moved. We rode in silence until the doors opened to reveal a group of people waiting to board. In the crowd I recognized Simon James, a fifty-something attorney from the firm, looking first at me and then to John. Simon had a habit of leering at me in a way that made me self-conscious. I avoided him and left without looking back. After I dropped off the pleadings, I walked back to my office and shut the door. I attempted to focus on work and replace my dilemma with a useful purpose. I tried to concentrate, but I was distraught. It seemed every step I had taken to get to this moment had been misplaced. I could not gain perspective and could not think straight. I thought I could cry myself out of it, cry until I was exhausted and then go on, continue because there would be no other option. A knock on the door interrupted my motivational reverie.
I wiped my eyes and stretched, trying to gain my composure. “Come in,” I said at the end of a deep breath. Simon entered and shut the door behind him as though he were slinking behind the curtain of the X-rated movie section at the video store. He had a cat that ate the canary look and I knew if he was the cat, I was the canary.
“What’s up with you and Hawkins?” he asked with a knowing grin.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said without, I hoped, any expression. But I’m a bad liar. I blush, fidget, avoid eye contact, and look down. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or any kind of scientist to figure out that I’m lying.
“You fucked him, didn’t you?”
It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t answer. I suppose my response should have been feigned outrage to keep up the illusion, but I didn’t have the energy, and I knew I was beaten.
“What do you want?” I kept my voice level, meeting his stare.
“I want you.”
I didn’t have to feign outrage then. It spread through me like fire, and I rose from my seat. “Get out.” I ordered and stalked to the door.
I reached for the knob. He grabbed my wrist and spun me around. “Do you think this is a game?” he hissed, his face contorted with anger and disgust.
He frightened me, and I cringed, hating how he made me cower. “Let go of me.” I tried to shake off his grasp. He pulled me to him by my wrist and brushed the side of my face with the back of his other hand. When he bent to kiss me I turned my head. Pinching my cheeks together with his hand, he made me face him.
“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll let everyone know your little secret. You’ll lose your job, and if that doesn’t matter to you, Hawkins will lose his and likely his ticket. How many cases do you think you’ve compromised?” he spat. He let go of my face and turned his back to me. I should have run, but I didn’t. I thought I could reason with him.
“You’ll damage the reputation of the firm,” I said. “I won’t see him again. I’m not going to see him again.” I swallowed my commitment to my impulsive resolution.
He turned back to me with a smirk. “You should have thought of that before you spread your legs, sweetheart.”
I knew he was being deliberately crude to shock me, to control me, to scare me. “You’re married,” was all I could muster, as though that has ever stopped a man like Simon from fucking another woman.
“Here.” He took a key from his pocket and handed it to me. “Meet me at the Estate Motel, room nine, at eight o’clock tonight.” When I didn’t take it, he took my hand and put the key in my palm where I thought it would burn a hole. I glared at him, and he smiled. “I keep a room there to take advantage of…opportunities. Be there or don’t bother coming in to work tomorrow.” He pulled me toward him again. “I’m gonna make you scream,” he whispered in my ear, running his hand down my back and groping my ass. Then he left.
Everything about Simon made me seethe. I marveled at how the thought of identical acts with different men could evoke such contrasting emotions. The confrontation left me nauseous, guilt ridden, and shaken, but it had the desired effect—my desire, not Simon’s. Purpose replaced my despair and freed my mind. Like the Grinch on the mountaintop, I got a wonderful, awful idea, but instead of my heart growing three sizes, I grew a pair.
I grabbed the Dictaphone from my desk, and when I was sure I was the last person on the premises, I walked over to the safe used to keep client confidences. I knew the combination and had opened and used the safe many times. I took out a semi-automatic handgun—Fabrique Nationale D’Armes de Guerre Herstal Belgique, .32 caliber, serial no. A86540. The gun was a murder weapon the police had never found. From my research on the case, I knew it was the same type of gun used to assassinate Archduke Ferdinand at the start of WWI and that this particular weapon dated to WWII. I had never held a gun and an electric surge coursed through me. I ran my fingers along the smooth barrel and weighed the satisfying heft. It reminded me of the first time I’d held a cock—the strength, power, the potential, excitement, and fear.
The gun along with a black pouch containing four .32 caliber rounds and a two round clip and the recorder went into my purse. I walked out into the night, knowing it would mean a one-year minimum mandatory prison sentence for carrying a firearm without a license if I was caught, and made my way to the Estate Motel toward the possibility of a far greater punishment.
I know what you’re thinking. “Now she’s lost her mind.” Again, you may be right, but at the time it all made absolute sense to me as though there was no other course, the rightness of it plain and undeniable. In my operator’s manual sexual blackmail was under the section “Do Not Attempt.”
Chapter Three
The Estate Motel was a one-level monstrosity of fourteen units sprawled into an L shape with an office at one end. What was not building was asphalt parking lot. A large neon sign on top of the office announced “E__ate Motel” and made the motel look like a giant segmented centipede with a hat. I arrived early, before Simon, going straight to the room to avoid any staff while checking around the parking lot and along the corridor of doors to confirm there were no surveillance cameras.
The air in the room was clammy, reeking of mildew and stale cigarette smoke. A garish brown and tan flowered comforter covered the double bed in the center of the room. On a small bedside table were a telephone, bible, heavy ashtray, and a fringed lamp. The objects seemed shabby and used like items found at a yard sale. I shoved the bible and ashtray in the drawer, disconnected the phone, and put the cord in my purse. Sitting in a chair beside the bed, the farthest from the door, I waited.
At ten past eight I heard a rattle at the door, and Simon entered. When he saw me, his face burst into a triumphant grin. I had half a mind to shoot him right then, but the other half stopped me. He threw off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. I turned on the Dictaphone in my purse, placed it at my feet, and stood up. “I have a proposition.”
“Oh, do you?” He leered at me.
“I thought maybe you’d like me to strip for you or do you just want to fuck?”
He licked his lips in surprise. “Wow, you don’t waste any time. You’ll strip for me?” he asked in astonishment.
“Yes, didn’t I just say I would?” I purred, or at least I tried to purr. “But,” I added, “you can’t touch me until I say you can.”
He smiled and nodded in agreement. Although I knew he believed he could touch me whenever he wanted, I also knew he would humor me as long as he enjoyed the game.
He sat at the edge of the bed facing me. “You are a little slut, aren’t you?”
Sweeping my hands under my hair, I lifted my arms into a stretch and arched my back. When I swung my arms down, my hair fell
on my shoulders framing my face, and I unbuttoned my blouse. He stared at me and took off his tie. Peeling off my blouse, I dropped it beside me, and then unzipped my skirt, letting it slip to my feet. I stepped out of my skirt and kicked it aside. As I stood in my underwear, thigh-high stockings, and heels in front of him, he sucked in a breath.
“Do you like what you see?” I asked.
“Yah,” he exhaled.
“What?” I said. “I can’t hear you.”
“Yes,” he said louder.
I unhooked my bra and pulled it off one arm at a time. After dangling the black lacy garment before him like a hypnotist, I dropped it on my blouse. My nipples hardened from the cool air, and I caressed my breasts with my hands and moaned. He moved to get up, and I took a step back.
“No touching,” I said, “not yet, but you can join me. Why don’t you take off your shirt?”
He relaxed back onto the bed and removed his shirt.
“Mmm,” I said, “I like a man with hair on his chest.”
Curling my thumbs on either side of my panties, I dragged them down my legs and stepped out of them. When I straightened, he gasped, and the arousal that comes with power consumed me. The lips of my cunt swelled, and I slid one open hand down over my stomach to my slit, brushed my clit, and dipped a finger into my wetness while I brought the other hand up to my breast and pinched my nipple.
“Jesus,” he said.
“Take off your pants. I want to see your cock,” I demanded looking at him.
I was close to losing control, and the tenuousness, the danger of my position added to my exhilaration. He rose and stood about three feet from me, and took off his pants and briefs, revealing his stiff cock jutting from between his legs.
“Do you want to fuck me?” I asked. He took a step toward me.