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This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and locations are fictional or fictionalized and any similarities to real persons, living or dead, places, occurrences, or circumstances are purely coincidental. Any and all opinions expressed, political, religious, or otherwise, are the opinions of the characters themselves and do not necessarily reflect those of the author.
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WARNING: This contains discussions about religion, more specifically of the Abrahamic God of the Bible. The opinions expressed are not complimentary to that god, and go beyond blasphemy or sacrilege, and most who hold to any form of faith in that particular god would consider those opinions heresy. During most of the Christian Era, the expression of such opinions would have resulted in a good burning at the stake. If such opinions offend you, please, for the love of God, don't read this. You won't be able to just skip those parts because they're too pervasive.
####
Dicks scare me.
Big ones and little ones and all the ones in between, they all scare me.
Red and yellow, black, and white, even polka dotted, scare me.
Maybe the polka dotted ones would be a completely normal fear, but whatever.
Some would say I have a phobia, but I don't entirely agree.
Technically, a phobia is an extreme or irrational fear or aversion to something. Some think of it only as an irrational fear though.
That
is why I don't entirely agree that I have a phobia.
It's not what people would think if I actually admitted to my phobia.
In the two decades since seeing my first dick, they've all scared me, and it's only extreme, not irrational, and definitely not an aversion.
As an eighteen year-old senior in highschool, I can't say I was popular. I didn't belong to any of the cliques, but my memberships in Orchestra, Debate Team, and being a varsity cheerleader, guaranteed I would be well-known.
None of the cliques would let me in officially because they all knew I'd be bringing along my friends from all the other cliques, and that just wouldn't do.
We had been to an orchestra competition three hours from school. The school rented two big, greyhound buses to transport us back and forth. When time came to return on Saturday afternoon, I hesitated and waited to be the last girl on the bus. The girls always got on before the boys, but I didn't want to end up with another cheerleader wanting to sit next to me. Of all the students at the school, the other cheerleaders were the hardest to pretend I didn't hate them.
To this day, I believe my biggest and best accomplishment in highschool is that every student in my school believed I liked them when I graduated, no matter how I really felt about them.
I found a pair of seats that were empty and sat in the window seat. The first four or five boys behind me getting on the bus sat in seats before they got to me, then Greg Walters, another senior, made a beeline for the seat beside me.
He probably had three choices for seating: sitting alone, sitting with somebody besides me who would make it known how much they disliked the situation, or sitting with me.
I dismissed the rumors I'd heard that he had a crush on me. I attributed his attitude towards me as jealousy of my first chair clarinet status versus his fourth or fifth chair rather than an infatuation with me personally.
I'm sure nobody was surprised at my reaction when I smiled and nodded instead of reacting in accordance with my feelings when he chose the last option.
Greg Walters could only be described as weird and a social outcast. He grew his hair out long and seldom washed it, wore crooked glasses, and was skinny, short, and ugly. When he talked, which was seldom, he almost always said something offensive.
I wasn't happy with the seating arrangement, but nobody knew it.
About half an hour into our trip home, spent in silence between me and my seatmate, Greg got antsy. He couldn't seem to find a comfortable position, and I just wished he'd either sit still or move to a different seat since he was uncomfortable next to me.
Both of us had our clarinet cases in our laps, but eventually Greg slouched down in his seat and slid his clarinet mostly off his lap. It sat at an angle to partially cover his leg, then he stopped fidgeting around.
I was relieved.
Something moved and caught my attention, so I half turned my face toward him.
Because of the way he had his clarinet case, nobody else on the bus could see his erect, twitching penis, but I could, and I got an eyeful, right there on a bus, surrounded by other orchestra members.
I turned my face and eyes back toward the front of the bus, but could see he made no effort to correct the current situation.
I did what I had to do, and turned my head toward him and leaned half the distance to his ear without looking down.
"What d'ya think I'm gonna do with that?"
I had already considered my options, and decided making him put it away was the better option than what I really wanted to do, right there in the crowded bus, but just barely.
"Put it away, Greg."
I turned my head back toward the front while he awkwardly shoved himself back into his pants, then I crossed myself.
So, that's why dicks scare me. That was the first, and quite possibly the last time I successfully overcame the urge to put a penis, any penis, every penis, in my mouth if I saw it, to the exclusion of everything else, whenever the opportunity was presented to me.
I almost flunked out of my senior year of pre-law because of a dick. If my first and only boyfriend ever hadn't broken up with me because I was keeping him, and me, from class, I would have.
If I have to, regular sex, where a guy puts his dick in my pussy, is okay, but only because I get to suck it first, and after so he can fill me with his cum from the top down.
Sex seems pointless if a guy's cum goes anywhere but in my mouth and down my throat.
I'm still surprised at how many guys just aren't satisfied with that enough to make a relationship long-term.
Even now, all these years later at thirty-six years old, when I shake a man's hand and smile at him, whatever the circumstances, they probably think I'm just being cordial, but my smile is mostly because I'm thinking about his dick in my mouth and his cum in my stomach.
I also know that if I had my own dick, not attached to me but attached to a man who allowed me access at my whim, I'd probably end up looking like a crack whore on the streets instead of the smartly dressed, apparently power-hungry, young, law partner that I am.
Big ones, little ones, and all the ones in between, red and yellow, black and white, given half a chance, I can't keep any of them out of my mouth.
If I ever run into a polka-dotted one, it's probably going in my mouth too.
That's why dicks scare me and that's why I do my best to avoid them in most cases.
####
"Russell, please, come in," I greeted another partner in the firm. I had asked him to come to my office. At thirty-eight, he was the second youngest partner in the firm ever, and we made partner at the same time, when I was thirty-two and he was thirty-four.
He had spent most of those four years trying to convince me that he had an open marriage and his wife wouldn't mind at all if he took me to dinner without a business reason.
There had never been, and I didn't anticipate there ever being a business reason, or any other reason, for that to happen.
"What's this about, Kat?" he asked as he sat down in one of the leather chairs across my desk from me.
"Katarina."
I might have imagined frustration dart across his countenance. He maintained eye contact with me while ignoring my request to address me properly.
"I have a favor to ask. My brother is quickly approaching a point in his life where he will be needing legal representation..."
"Marriage on the rocks? That's a tough one, Kat."
Russell managed the family law side of the firm.
I shrugged.
"I'm in the same boat myself, Kat. We're separated."
I didn't believe him, so that annoyed me in addition to his refusal to call me Katarina unless one or more of our subordinates were in the room.
I chose to ignore all that for now.
"Do you have somebody you can recommend that can be billed at the internal rate?"
"For me or your brother?" Russell laughed.
I just looked at him with my best poker face. That's not really true; I have one poker face, and it's not just good, it's perfect.
"Yeah, um, Jill would be good for your brother."
Jill, at twenty-eight years old, had enough experience to handle a simple divorce, and there was no way Russell knew this, but she looked enough like my sister-in-law that she could be her older sister. My brother would probably like her, or hate her, for that. People like my brother were harder to predict sometimes.
"She may need some assistance for some of it. I don't see my sister-in-law making any of it amicable."
"We could probably work out something where I could lend a hand when needed, Kat," Russell responded with a smile.
I knew that smile. I felt my eyes narrow infinitesimally.
"So which of the young paralegals did you fuck to get into hot water with your wife, Russell?"
"Why would you jump to that conclusion, Kat? I'm offended."
I raised my eyebrows without a word.
I knew his use of my nickname in every sentence was an attempt to goad me off-topic, so I didn't indulge him.
"It was Jill. I don't need to stoop to screwing paralegals," he admitted softly after a few seconds of a staring contest, which I obviously won, like always.
I nodded my head before getting out of my chair and walking to the window behind me, twenty-five floors above the bustling streets of Midtown.
I wished I could say I could feel his eyes making their way from my ankles over my bare calves and up to my gymnast butt inside my pencil skirt, but I'm not that good, yet. I couldn't feel them, but had no doubt that's what they were doing.
"What did you have in mind for an arrangement to persuade you to assist your girlfriend with my brother's divorce?"
Not all questions in a negotiation need to be answered. Some are just intended to make a point or illicit information that has nothing to do with the actual question. I knew what he had in mind.
"She's not my girlfriend. It was a one-night stand."
I chuckled derisively, intentionally loud enough for him to hear.
"You got caught having a one-night stand? Pathetic, Russell."
I felt relieved looking out the window. I felt that every part of my brain that I didn't need for the conversation had become consumed imagining me working his dick in and out of my drooling mouth.
