In the Family Business

DISCLAIMER: The following story may contain elements of incest, cuckoldry, light femdom, women who like to fuck, and lawyers. If these are not to your particular taste, the management suggests you stop reading immediately; any and all complaints that this story has not been written to your particular tastes will be roundly ignored. The management advises you to find something else to read, and offers abject apologies to any members of the legal profession in the audience.

"In the Family Business"

by

g00db0i

--for my muse--

*****

"This is not going to be an easy clerkship for you," Margaret said, checking her makeup in the rear view mirror for the second time since they'd gotten in the car. "I am not going to be soft on you just because you're my son."

Ben laughed that easy laugh of his, grinning. "Mom, Dad said-"

"Benjamin John Fletcher, I do not care a single iota of a jot what your father said." She fixed him with a hard glare, green eyes flashing. "It may be his last name above the door, but he doesn't deign to come into the office more than a couple of times a month; for all intents and purposes this is my practice and my livelihood and I will not risk my professional reputation just because your father thought you could use an easy ride. Is that understood?"

Her son just nodded, wide-eyed. He'd seen his mother angry, before, of course, but he'd never seen her like this before: she seemed like a seething volcano of rage, moments away from going off altogether. The knuckles of long, elegant fingers were white with tension as they gripped the steering wheel; her face was flushed beneath the impeccably professional makeup; and her eyes flashed with anger as she turned them back to the road. He was flung against his seatbelt as she dropped the clutch and tore out of the stop.

"Mom, look-"

"And that's another thing," she said, pulling their big BMW SUV sharply to the left. "That is the last time you call me that today. So long as you're clerking for me, I expect you to behave exactly as any other clerk. That means from now on, you will address me as 'Mrs. Fletcher' or 'ma'am,' understand?"

"Yes Mo- ma'am, I mean ma'am." Ben felt like he was somehow five years old again instead of a twenty five year old law school graduate who was this close to taking the bar. He didn't know how the old man had fucked up this time, but it seemed to be pretty badly.

"Furthermore, if you're going to be working for me, I expect you to dress the part," Margaret said, shooting him a baleful look. "What on earth are you wearing that godawful suit for?"

He tried to sink into the warm leather of the seats, feeling his jacket sag around him. When it had been his only suit, for funerals and weddings, it had been just fine, he reflected.

"You'll find most of our clients are a: rich and b: women, and they respond much better to a man in a sharp suit than they do to somebody who looks like he just left the Burlington Coat Factory." Hand over hand, she wheeled into their parking lot, pulling into her spot next to the door. They stepped out into the warm summer air.

"Come on," Margaret said, curtly. On long legs made longer by mirror-black heels, she strode into the building, auburn hair flying behind her, looking for all the world like some legal valkyrie. He followed suit, feeling younger and dumber than he had on the first day of law school.

He passed through the door for the hundredth time in his life, looking around at the clean, modern interior (routinely refreshed and hand picked by his mother every two years) as though he'd never been there before.

"Hi Ben," chirped Glenys, the longtime receptionist. "What brings you in today?"

"Mister Fletcher," Margaret wheeled about on one heel, "is going to join us this summer as our clerk, Glenys, and we will treat him just like any other clerk won't we?" Even in the air conditioned office, her voice was cold enough to drop the ambient temp a degree or two.

All the color drained from Glenys' face as she looked at her boss.

"Really? Are-are you sure about that? Should I call Mr. Fl-"

"This was his idea," said Ben's mother. "So if you want to call him, feel free to do so. He'll tell you exactly the same as I have. Benjamin here is going to be treated like a normal, average, everyday law clerk until the end of the summer. Do you understand?"

"Oooohh." Relief spread across the receptionist's face, followed by the merest flicker of disappointment, then her usual sunny smile. "I gotcha. Welcome to Fletcher & Fletcher, Family Law, Mister uh, Fletcher."

"Get the necessary paperwork ready please, Glenys. He'll need a door code and a desk somewhere. He can get his own office supplies from the cupboard." Margaret turned her attention to her son. "She will help you find whatever you need, but bear in mind she is my receptionist, not your secretary. As far as I'm concerned she outranks you, and you will show her the proper respect by calling her Ms. Button at all times. Is that clear?"

"Yes m-ma'am," Ben considered saluting but didn't think it would go down well.

"Good. In my office please, Mister Fletcher. I believe you know the way." She turned and strode on. He followed, but not before shooting a backwards glance at the receptionist, who smiled warmly back at him, then silently mouthed the words 'I'm so sorry.'

His mom's office was the biggest in the building, twice the size of his dorm room. An enormous antique desk dominated one side of the room, the wall behind it covered in her degrees, and an overstuffed leather couch divided it more or less in half. In the corner by the couch were two sizeable bookshelves that held volume after volume of legal decisions: her own private legal library. A one-way picture window took up most of the remaining wall, looking out on the pond in a nearby park.

"Sit," she said, taking her own seat behind the desk, stacked high with file folders. Ben moved to take one of the client chairs, but there was a slim folder there; a post-it on the cover said, 'Glenys.'

"What's this?" He picked it up, and a photo slid out, fluttering to the chair. It was a shot of a couple at a bar, obviously after a few drinks. She was sitting in the man's lap, her short leather skirt hiked high enough to reveal yards of long, toned, fishnet-clad leg, one of which was kicked out playfully, while her head was thrown back in raucous laughter, auburn hair flying. The dark haired man whose neck she had wrapped her arms around was younger, much younger, by about 20 years. His eyes were firmly fixed on the white blouse she was wearing, specifically where she had undone about half the buttons to reveal a prodigious, mature cleavage. His mother's cleavage. "What the f-"

"Give that to me, please," she snapped, holding out her hand. "The folder, too. All of it. That's not for you."

"Mom, what-"

"BENJAMIN JOHN FLETCHER you will hand me that photograph now and you will address me as Mrs. Fletcher or you can march yourself out of this office immediately!" His mother snapped her fingers imperiously.

Ben's nostrils flared. He met her eyes, and wilted a little under that familiar glare. Sliding the photo back into the folder, he handed it over.

"Thank you," she said, putting it on the desk. "If you must know, every summer we give our departing clerk a little party as a kind of a send-off; these are photos of last year's wonderful idiot, Jordan. A very nice young man with not very much going on upstairs. I hear he passed the bar in April, thanks to a very strong recommendation from me. If you want a similar one, I trust you'll put in the effort he did." An expression he didn't recognize flickered across her face. "Well, not necessarily all the effort, but similar."

"You looked like you were having fun." He regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"I am fun, thank you," his mother replied, suddenly wounded. "And you know it."

Ben laughed, and the tension was broken.

"Sorry, yes. I'm sorry, M- Mrs. Fletcher. Can we start again?"

"That sounds like a good idea to me, Mister Fletcher." Margaret smiled at him, and all was right with the world again. "Please, sit. Let me tell you about some of these case files..." She began to speak, outlining whatever was currently on her desk, and how she saw his role in their office, or the "family business" as the old man liked to call it. Benjamin only half-paid attention, studying her face as she talked. His mother was forty-six, but a young forty-six, as they called it. Thanks to a rigorous evening regimen, a strict diet and the addition of a gym in their basement, she'd mostly kept time away, and looked like a woman at least ten years younger; if there was dye in the glorious mane of hair that shimmered and bounced when it was down (as she kept it at home), that was a secret between her and the expensive hair salon she patronized. His mother was beautiful, he knew that, in a disinterested kind of a way -- his douchebag friends in high school had been very vocal about it, if nothing else -- but he'd never seen her looking as she had in that photograph, full of verve, having the time of her life, completely relaxed, completely herself. Always the mom or the long-suffering wife, never just Maggie Fletcher.

A stray thought wandered through his head: had her legs always been that long or was it trick of the photography?

"...ready?" She asked, coming to the end of her spiel.

"Hm?" Then, before she could get angry again, he said, "yes. I'm ready! Let's do this thing."

"Good!" His mother stacked two or three folders together and laid them with a thump before him. "Take these and talk to Glenys. She'll tell you how the filing system works." Grunting, he lifted the stack and turned to go.

"Mom? Mrs. Fletcher?" Ben hesitated at the door. She had the file with the photos in her lap, apparently leafing through them.

"Yes?" She didn't look up.

"I think dad went around you on this, and I know he's a shit, but thanks for this opportunity. I appreciate it."

Margaret's face softened as she raised her eyes and she gave him a grin. "Sucking up won't get you brownie points here, young man. But nice try."

As a small family practice, there weren't many other staff or lawyers beyond his parents: just Glenys, who doubled as a paralegal, a junior partner named Danny who handled routine, unremarkable stuff (mostly real estate filings) and Nancy, a notary public who maintained a desk there but only worked half time. Thus, working space was at a premium, especially since his father's own office was out-of-bounds. Glenys found him a more-or-less functional table out of the way in a corner where he could set up his laptop and such, giving him a fairly commanding view of the entire office.

He was sitting there, trying to get set up on the WiFi, when his mother emerged from her office, folder in hand. Ben watched her walk purposefully over to Glenys' desk and hand it over. The receptionist opened it at and the two began to talk in low tones. She'd left her jacket back in her office, leaving her only in a high-necked sleeveless blouse that left her gym-toned arms exposed, and a satiny knee length pencil skirt that skimmed closely across the curves of her behind. Margaret tossed her hair back absently as she chatted with the receptionist, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, making the muscles of her calves play underneath the sheer hose she wore.

"Hey kid, having some trouble?" It wasn't until Danny broke his reverie that Ben realized he was staring.

"Huh? Yeah, uh, I just can't get this key for the wireless to work." The old lawyer, smart enough in his own way, but nowhere near energetic enough to strike out on his own, came around to the other side of the desk.

"Well, your mother says we have to make you call us 'sir' and shit while you're here, but I'll let it slide this once and do you a solid." Danny stroked his handlebar moustache and started typing. On the other side, Margaret said something that made the receptionist go bright red, and his mother's throaty laugh rang through the office. She rested one hand on her hip and bent over the desk, fingernails drumming against a tightly-packed buttock.

"There! That should do it. You gotta Lexis login?"

"Huh? Oh." Ben looked back at the laptop, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Sorry man, I don't know where my head is. No I don't have a login for that yet."

"I'll let you borrow mine for now, but you should talk to your mom about getting one."

"Yeah, sure." Ben looked up again, but his mom was gone, back into her office. "Thanks Danny."

"No problem kid."

The young graduate let out a long breath, then just sat there and stared at his computer for a while, thinking.

*

Margaret closed the office door behind her, and leaned against it, letting out a long frustrated breath. Then she locked the door with a flick of her wrist. She shook out her hair and strolled back to her desk, casually unbuttoning her blouse as she went, opening it far enough to reveal the lacy white La Perla bra beneath. With a naughty half-grin, she began toying with a nipple through the thin silk.

The nerve of that man! To think he'd come up with such a harebrained notion. Her son! Their son! Here! It was almost enough to make her think he might be suspicious.

Tweaking the nipple hard, she yanked open a drawer of her desk, and pulled out a discreet but powerful little bullet vibe. She tested the battery, and the silver lozenge gave a very satisfactory buzz that rattled the pens in her cup.

Who did he think he was anyway? To tell her what to do with her practice? To ruin her summertime fun? To take away another opportunity to get some big young cock between her legs?

Margaret unlocked her computer and called up her dropbox with one hand while the other rucked her skirt up over her thighs. She navigated into a folder marked "Clerks - HR" and opened it. Her other hand grabbed the business end of the bullet and slid it under the waistband of her hose and panties. The folder marked "Jordan M" was the most recent and easy to find.

Margaret gasped as the bullet vibe came to life; at the same time, she opened the file and clicked on the first of a set of images: the shot of them at a pub across town. Grinning, she began to click through the pictures, most of them selfies she'd taken that night for posterity.

A few were taken at the pub, the subjects becoming obviously and sloppily drunk; she paused for a while on a shot that was mostly just her in the restroom, perched on a sink and holding Jordan's head between her legs with one hand.

She purred as she remembered his clumsy but enthusiastic cunnilingus, making up what he lacked in talent with an energetic tongue that seemed everywhere at once. Her fingers pressed the humming vibe up in between the folds of her labia, seeking the slick fluids already being produced by her needy pussy.

The next pic was of Jordan's meaty eight-inch uncut cock, resting on her lap, thick head glossy with precum. Over the years she'd gotten very good at figuring out which of her clerks were packing heat during the interview stage; it had been a very long time since she'd been wrong.

The vibrator slid along the channel between clit and vagina, up and down, making her shiver with the sensation as she recalled the weight of his cock in her hands - it took two to encircle the girthy shaft - pulsating with life in that grungy bathroom, and the way the young man it belonged to had groaned as she stroked it.

The image that followed was functionally the same, only sans skirt, revealing that Margaret had somehow neglected to wear panties that night, her neatly trimmed pubic hair fully exposed under the wide net of her fishnets, that big club of a dick resting atop it, ready to bully its way inside of her.

Margaret teased the opening of her pussy with the tip of her vibrator, subtly circling around it while she ground the heel of her palm into her juicy little clit, making tiny squishing noises as she did. She was gasping a little now, little short breaths as the feel of that cock came back to her, plunging deep inside of her mature cunt.

He'd clearly been expecting more resistance, but Margaret knew what Jordan would soon learn: mature women were made to take big young dicks, over and over again. Even so, it had taken three days for it to stop aching after that night with Jordan, as they fucked their way through the evening, first in the bathroom, then the cab on the way back to the office, then on her desk, then...

A sharp knock at the door pulled her out of her reverie.

"Goddammit, god god fucking dammit." She yanked the slippery vibrator out of her pussy, leaving only a needy emptiness, and shoved it back into the desk. Margaret stood up on slightly shaky legs, cleaned her fingers with a Wet Wipe, and straightened her skirt. The doorknob rattled as she hastily buttoned her blouse back up, striding over to grab it, unlock it and open it four-five inches.

"What?" She snapped in Ben's face. Taken aback by his shocked look, she took a long breath and tried, in a softer voice: "what?"

Her son raked his fingers through his sandy-brown hair and gave her that familiar easy smile.

"Glenys told me to get you the Carmichael file; apparently she'll be here in fifteen." He offered a thick file folder.

"Damn. Already?" She took it and absently thumbed through. "You should be there, you might learn something." Big green eyes appraised him; Ben was tall and lean, and broader of shoulder than she remembered, his trim figure mostly hidden inside a jacket clearly too big for him.

"Take that off," she said, opening the door and grabbing his lapels. In one yank, it was down around his shoulders; in another, it was off entirely. "Turn around."

She tossed the offending jacket into a corner, and grabbed him by the waist, pulling him closer and spinning him 180 degrees with a deft push.

"What are you doing?"

"Fixing this." Margaret's sharp fingernails raked across his stomach as she reached around him -- it was flat and hard and she could feel the familiar ribbing of abs underneath -- and pulled the fabric backwards, tightening it and darting it with a couple of clever folds until it looked like it had been professionally fitted.

"Don't move too much or it'll come out," she said, giving him another appraising look. The loose gabardine flowed easily over the squared-off hardness of his own ass. Margaret shook her head and gave him another turn. "Roll those sleeves up, show off those forearms." The vee of his torso was much more obvious now, pointing straight down at sizeable shadow lurking beneath-

What was she doing? She took a step back from her son, trying not to think too hard about the subtle outline of what was clearly a very large piece of equipment.

"Yeah, yes. That's good. You can go now. Come back when she gets here."

"Yes Mrs. Fletcher," her son said, never losing that easy grin. "Thank you Mrs. Fletcher." He turned to go.

"And remind me," she called out to his retreating back, "tomorrow we go shopping."

"Yes Mrs. Fletcher!"

Margaret watched him go, thinking.

*

"Mrs. Carmichael is uh, something, isn't she?" Ben asked as he slid into a pair of pants. They were a much slimmer leg than he was used to, but there was no denying how good the luxurious fabric felt against his skin.

"Mrs. Carmichael pays us very well to be discreet and not discuss her business in public," his mother warned from the other side of the door. Then she chuckled softly and her tone changed. "And if by 'something,' you mean 'very loud and kind of handsy,' you're correct. Step on out please, so I can see."

"Kind of? That's putting it mildly." Emma Carmichael was a boisterous botoxed blonde well into her 50's, a onetime trophy wife with a husband some thirty years her senior; she seemed to have more hands than letters in her cup size. From the moment she'd entered the office, she'd taken hold of the young clerk and hadn't let go.