A curious thing about the offices of every major law firm is that somehow, whatever the décor, the same hush prevails in almost every one. Noise is absorbed and deadened, leaving only the barely perceptible whirring of a machine of people, trained professionals generating billable hours. She had remarked on that still soundscape when she'd first arrived for her initial in-office interview almost 20 years ago; she was reminded of it again today as she nimbly hopped up the staircase from the in-office barista on the 27th.
Physically the two decades had been more than kind to her. She made no noise as she purposefully strode the corridor in her habitual Ferragamo toe pumps. Emerging from her shoes were long and toned legs that rose into a tailored, forest green cashmere dress, belted with a darker green crocodile belt. The dress was discreet, and yet it was tight and indiscreet enough to draw attention to an athletically toned body (a testament to genetics and a disciplined regime of exercise) and high, C-cup breasts. These high and rounded breasts were contained in a lacy bra that provided some support, but not so much as to stop all sway. She was tall, and with heels was not far off 5'10". She was lean, with a tight abdomen and slim but well-defined muscles in her arms. Her hair was structured into a carefully, if naturally, waved mane of blonde hair. She disliked her bum (athletic but not the taut, slim model's bum she wished she had), but many men seemed to like its graceful curve, and so she accepted it and wore thongs to ensure a smooth line of her dress. Her face was aristocratic, high-cheek-boned, even somewhat stern (some might say haughty) unless softened by her dazzling and engaging smile.
She was a successful, rain-making partner, feeding and watering a dozen junior partners and associates with a steady flow of corporate work in the media sector. She had equally successfully mentored several cohorts of female lawyers, some of whom were on partner track. It was in relation to this that she was frowning as she reflected on the meeting that had taken place in an internal meeting room behind the coffee lounge.
The young lawyers had to bill impossibly high numbers of hours. The days were long, bleeding into late nights and weekends. Paid hundreds of thousands of dollars, but with limited outside opportunity to flirt and find sex, they frequently coupled and decoupled in the office. The post-Covid return to the office had (if anything) made this even more frantic. She and her husband (promoted again to run another division of a global bank) had discussed this at one of the infrequent times they were in New York together. Employee manuals had all sorts of rules about this, but human nature was more powerful.
A young lawyer had come to see her. A graduate of one of the smaller Ivy law schools, Laura used the woke expressions of her generation, but it was clear this younger lawyer had enough pragmatism to not risk her career in the inferno of a cause. This young lawyer was habitually assigned to the practice group of a corporate partner nicknamed Surinam who drew almost all his business from a crony/friendship with a partner at a private equity firm. (The head of the private equity firm had just emerged, heavily fined but otherwise unscathed, from a major tax dispute with the SEC). Surinam had an ambiguous relationship: the firm appreciated his billings, but he was not widely liked.
She'd had two scratch-ups with Surinam, both over which client the firm would represent. The choice had been relatively straightforward -- her large corporate client being picked both times -- but bad blood between them remained. Surinam had a reputation as someone who had used attractive, coffee-complexioned good looks and a great appetite for office politics to advance his position.
The young woman lawyer on Surinam's team had come to see her for two reasons: she was a woman and Surinam was not really trusted by his team. She had gone to talk to Surinam, and then backed out half-way into the conversation, choosing to talk to her instead.
The young woman had been the subject of a clumsy pass from a slightly more senior associate: a fumbled kiss and a groped ass at a bar. Listening to it she imagined the scene, dim light, cocktails flowing, two heads together in a circle of intimacy, hands straying, and a clumsy kiss attempt by the young man. Implicit consent but not explicit consent. A differential in the power dynamic, but not massively so. The young lawyer was filled with ideas that she should be outraged, but she wasn't. The situation had been managed: a firm no given. A firm no accepted.. The young woman wanted reassurance that she wasn't doing something wrong by not reporting it (and destroying her colleague's career). As clear as anything, she'd wanted to hear that the drunken pass was not worth a scene or a scandal or destroying his career or hers. That advice had been given, and both women seemed relieved by the outcome.
That done, the Blonder partner had left the conference room, fetched a coffee and walked up the flight of expensively architectural stairs.
She and Surinam worked on the same floor. As she turned the corner she saw that he was in loitering in his office door, waiting for and studying her progress down the hall to her office. His arms were crossed, giving off the faint air of a coach surveying his team as he confronted third and long.
She had to pass him to reach her corner office (a perk of her being a much bigger producer than him). His jealousy was palpable and could have been called chauvinist if that instinct wasn't secondary to his greed for money, to his thirst for position and to his undying hatred of anyone doing better than he. Surinam also had a recurring habit of staring at her tits. It was not even remotely clear if he hated her more than he wanted to fuck her, or vice versa. He fancied himself a ladies' man and tried to play up a tall frame (6'2"") and a solid (if not thin) athlete's build. His coffee complexion set off a much-brightened smile, but that smile was shallow and insincere. The annoying thing was they had both gone to the same university.
As she approached he momentarily gawked at her tits and then said, "Were you meeting with Laura?", naming the young female lawyer. His eyes were no longer fixed on her chest, and he was observing her with an intent look.
She nodded, trying to discern his primary motivations in asking.
"What about?". He tried to keep an impassive face, but his eyes gleamed with an indecipherable excitement.
"Career development."
He kept staring as she walked by. Leered, you might call it. His gaze swept her ass as she walked by. She kept a steady pace. She was aware he studied the slight sway of her tits and ass. She was aware he was probably plotting something. What was it?
This distracted her. She did not sit, but instead stood by angle of the windows that faced north and east. A Midtown streetscape sparkled below, crisp autumn sun shining off the acres of glass canyons and sprinkling the distant glimpses of river with flashes of light. A wedge of Central Park lay in her line of sight, bucolic and inviting.
She decided to clear her head with some exercise. She wavered about where to go. She'd find better facilities at her large and quite formal club facing the tumble of rock and trees on Central Park South, but she elected to work out at her university's club, which stood proudly sstreetside near Grand Central behind a façade of stone and arched windows. The gym and the pool were smaller, but the crowd would be much smaller too, particularly as it was a Friday.
The club's substantial doors stood sentinel-like under a blue awning; the doorman opened them for her and she paced to the changing rooms. She undressed to swim. Her conceit was to wear a bikini, which often caused staring. Dark blue, it cupped her breasts and the bikini bottom rose to just above where the line of where her pubic hair would be (if she wasn't completely waxed). The triangle over her ass was small, and accentuated a taut ass. The bathing suit teased the viewer with a sense that she was really bare-down-there. She had a very well-proportioned body: conventionally fit, not the bulging muscles of pro swimmers. From the day she had arrived in the US from Holland she marvelled at how many American women wanted to have a demure "modest one piece bathing suit" image, even if they were fantastic sluts. She'd worn a super-tight racing suit on the swim team at her Ivy university, and in some ways it was more revealing. And, she thought, it wouldn't be forever that she could get away with a bikini, so why not wear it?
She popped on a bathing cap. It was easy to slink into the pool. She swam a steady pace of laps, one flowing into another. Her racing turns at the end of each lap highlighted her taut ass off at each lap. She wasn't really clocking the one watcher, who sat immobile in a poolside chair. The two other women in the pool finished their swims and left the pool.
She continued for another 20 minutes. The club would be empty now. She could shower in peace and quiet.
She paused at the pool ladder and looked around. Her watcher was Surinam. He belonged to the club too (same university, after all), but this disconcerted her. It was borderline stalking. Being leered at in the pool by strangers was fine, but by him and at this today/now moment made her feel quite uncomfortable.
She climbed from the pool, dripping. The bare chill in the air perked her nipples to stiffness under the tight swimming suit. The water coursed over the bare skin of her belly and arms and legs, tracing and then plunging below the small waistband gap. She was conscious of his eyes on her as she walked, taut muscled and sinuous to pick up a fluffy, virginal white towel. She dried and then wrapped herself. Surinam (clad in a pool robe) stared at her, but said nothing. She nodded at him with what she hoped was a combination of contempt and strength.
