I spent the next month in a haze of euphoria and paranoia, with one extreme tempering the other. I'd jerked myself countless times to the memory of my exploit, and the irony of my occupation only made the situation hotter. If
anyone
in my law firm knew what I'd done, it would've been game over in a heartbeat.
My coworkers were ethical, morally upstanding, and beyond reproach. They were meticulous in their approach, quick to drop a client if they caught a whiff of guilt. The office practically glistened with their squeaky-clean image, and while it initially used to disgust me, now I was oddly turned on whilst in their presence.
I, on the other hand, now self-identified as a criminal. A sexual deviant, even. While they were busy hitting the links or discussing their choice of blazers for the next city council gala, I'd been literally milking a stacked mother against her will. Doing so in her car, while her son slept next to me. The act alone made me a massive threat to the firm's sparkling reputation, not to mention the guaranteed racial overtones the local media would force into the story for sensationalism. Granted, it wasn't really necessary, as my act had been sensational enough.
True to her word, however, Prey never filed a report. I wanted to say it was my overwhelming masculinity and the threat of retaliation that had kept her mouth shut, but I knew the truth. After being ambushed and demeaned, treated as nothing more than a dairy cow for my amusement, she hadn't appeared frightened at all. Instead, she sat there and took painfully accurate shots at my pride. Somehow in a situation where she was very much the victim, she had still managed to come out winning the war of words.
Her insults still stung, their little barbs stabbing at my ego as they dug deeper into my psyche. Each day that passed only made me more self-conscious about her jabs, and try as I might, I couldn't get past the criticism. They kept me awake at night, pulled my focus from the many cases that I was working, and distracted me from my daily routine.
"
Inferior
," I muttered to myself as I stared blankly at the computer screen. Six-figure salary, peak-performance body, and junior partner status at the city's best law firm said that I was anything but inferior. I was accomplished; impressive even. I was a closer in the courtroom, pulling off acquittals that should have been open-and-shut convictions. I was a fucking winner, and the more that I considered her insults, the angrier I became.
"You okay, Kevin?" a voice called out, breaking me from my fog of silent rage. "You seem pretty spaced out today; maybe you should pack up early."
I looked up from my desk to see Carla staring down at me worriedly, and I gave her a quick smile to dispel her concern. "No, I'm fine," I lied, "Just trying to work out a few details of something in my head."
She returned the smile then walked off towards our floor's kitchen, and I took the opportunity to appraise the senior partner's body. Carla was sweet and a great lawyer, but she was also dumpy as shit. Not horrendous by any stretch, but her body was certainly matronly. She had wide, doughy hips that simply didn't translate to the ass I'd expect given their circumference. Instead, she had this odd billboard butt where well-formed cheeks could have been, and there was no pantsuit in the world that was going to make that Kansas-esque ass appealing. Her cankles resembled pale elephant legs, both of which worked together to create this entirely unattractive waddle the she employed to get about.
Carla's hair was a short, no nonsense bob of dark brown that framed a fairly forgettable face. I'd only made these observations because, of all the accomplished women with the firm, Carla was the youngest and most attractive at 42. Was she objectively attractive? No, not even on her best day. She won the firm's sad beauty pageant by default, and it was a brutal show indeed. Sure, some of the other women were more fit, some a bit more remarkable in the face, but none were unrepulsive enough for me to forget the two-plus decade age difference between myself and them. Also, Carla's tits were huge, and that counted for way more in my book.
Five or so years ago, when I was young, idealistic, and fresh out of law school, I may have felt bad about the way I looked at my coworkers. Unfortunately, the amount of time I'd spent in courtrooms dealing with rapists, kidnappers, murderers, and all-around criminal scum had taken its toll on my humanity and decency. I now wasted most of my free time at work pondering either how quickly I could kill my weaker male colleagues in a fight, or how desperate I'd need to be to fuck one of the women. The former always gave me a bit of an ego boost as I was pretty sure none of the guys would make it past one minute, but the latter? The answer was always Carla, for two reasons and two reasons only.
They weren't spectacular, her mams. They didn't sit perky or proud like Prey's, instead they just kind of bobbled about on her chest. Not in that sad, druggie, deflated beachball fashion or anything, otherwise I wouldn't have bothered even looking at her. Her tits were of the long, heavy-chested suburbanite variety. They were still fighting gravity, but if not for their sheer size, her chest would be just as forgettable as her face. They were huge, though, and fantasizing about them had gotten me through plenty of slow, clientless days.
Tits alone could usually occupy the majority of my attention, but what kept my interest in her was the notion that Carla knew what she was working with. For some of the other women in the firm it wouldn't be much of a problem to flaunt their goods a bit, but Carla had to walk a fine line due to her outwardly religious lifestyle. Her office was decorated with pictures of either her family or her savior, with little inspirational quotes scattered about on cards or the wooden carvings that she like to hang up. She always dressed conservatively and steered clear of anything close to adult conversation, but I found the style that she did so somewhat excessive. The way she'd loudly excuse herself was often just a bit too much, suggesting that she was trying too hard to convince the rest of us that she didn't want to hear our bawdy talk. There was just something about her energy that made me think that Carla was just putting on a show.
My train of thought was cut short when Carla came waddling back to my office door to peek inside. "You all cleared up?" she asked with a kind smile, and for a moment I just stared back, wondering what the fuck she was talking about.
"I suppose?" came the somewhat confused reply, and then I remembered the bullshit excuse I'd given her just a few minutes prior. "Oh, yeah, that. Yeah, I'm fine now, I think. Maybe. Maybe not; I don't really know." The last bit was more honest than I'd planned on being with her, and she seemed to take the nebulous answer seriously.
"Is everything okay, Kevin?" she asked with obvious concern. "I mean, are things alright at home? I know you've been putting in some pretty long days recently, and that can put a strain on personal life. I've seen it happen far too many times before."
I had no idea what this woman was going on about, as I hadn't hinted at anything close to what she was suggesting. All the same, I kind of wanted to see where the conversation was headed. "Well, I don't really know what to do about my problems, and the rest of you are..." I really,
really
wanted to say old as shit, but it didn't feel appropriate. "Established," I chose tactfully, earning a big grin from her.
"Old," she said for me, then she motioned for me to follow her out of my office. "Smart of you to play it carefully, but you don't have to tiptoe around the facts with us; we're lawyers, remember? You can be straight with us."
