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Lawyers In Love

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Copyright 2012 by the A. Van Peebles, All Rights Reserved

[This is a revision of a story that I wrote nearly twenty years ago. While I thought it turned out well, the prose in the original seemed a bit stilted and stiff. So I’ve reworked it, providing the thoughts of the two characters in something akin to stream of consciousness. It’s still the same plot and characters. The original is still floating about the net in various archives, and if people want to see the original version, I can post it here as well.]

It was turning out to be a pretty typical Monday morning when Becky looked up from her work as Mr. Barringer and a woman walked into her office. Mr. Barringer just walked into my office. He never does that. If he wants to talk to me, he, or rather Ms. Riegger, buzzes me. He’s with a woman. Older than me, probably about twenty-nine. Small, about 5’2″, nice figure, pretty, and good taste in clothing. Nice shoes, Ferragamos, I think.

“Becky, this is Katherine Martin, our new associate,” said Mr. Barringer. Turning to the new woman he continued, “Becky here is a law student doing a summer internship with us. If you need her for any research for you, just ask her, but clear major research projects with Ms. Riegger.”

The two women shook hands. The new woman smiled and said to call her Kate, followed by a pleasantry about getting together for lunch, then Mr. Barringer took Kate off to introduce her to the rest of the staff. With his billable time pegged at $550 an hour, Mr. Barringer didn’t like to spend a lot of time on this type of duty.

Another woman in the office, and a lawyer to boot. Best of all, someone closer to my own age, who I can talk to, not like the over-forty legal secretaries who only want to talk about the latest soft-porn novel or Dancing with the Stars. Not like the partners who don’t socialize with law students. The other associates? Typical guys. They stopped talking to me about anything other than business when I made it clear that I wasn’t interested in going to bed with them. The office was kind of dull; now it’s looking up.

* * *

After Mr. Barringer had finished the whirlwind office tour, Kate settled into her office. The firm was pretty much what she had expected, small and conservative—in the professional, not political sense; Mr. Barringer was a big fundraiser for the state Democratic Party and had lots of high-powered connections that an ambitious young associate could take advantage of. That was all to the good. Best of all, the firm was awash with money, a rare thing in this economic climate when most firms were either laying off lawyers or just not hiring. Kate had done her time at the Environmental Defense Council, earning lots of moral capital but relatively little cash, and now this Barringer, Levy, Dunstan, Cooper, and Schmidt, LLC looked like it would change that.

Barringer and the other four partners, seemed like good, solid, WASPish people, and the other two associates, all men, looked like typical young, ambitious lawyers. The young guys are probably dogs, sure to hit on me, but probably excellent lawyers. I can tolerate a lot of frat boy behavior if they’re good at their jobs.

The support staff seemed competent, but Kate figured that they would have little in common with her. That Becky though. A luscious number. About twenty-three or four, svelte, creamy skin, long black hair, small breasts—probably perky—overall assessment, absolutely stunning. Stop it, Kate. It’s not good to be thinking like that. This is a small firm, and sexual relationships in the office aren’t good for the career. While I seriously doubt anyone at this firm will have a problem with me being a lesbian, banging the intern is not likely to go over well. Don’t do anything stupid like sacrifice the career for the sake of a rebound relationship. Besides, she’s probably straight. Nothing says we can’t be friends, though. I’ll need a little girl talk around the office from time to time.

* * *

Two days later, as promised, Kate took Becky out to lunch to get the low-down on the office. Becky enjoyed the lunch itself, at one of the fancier, sit-down restaurants that were usually ruled out by the law student’s budget—tablecloths and real china, not paper cartons and plastic forks—but she pretty much confirmed Kate’s assessment of the firm. It was a good, solid place to work. No drama or scandalous gossip. The worst things about working there was, one, the lack of someone for a young woman to talk to and, two, getting hit on by the male associates. Kate had already discovered this last one; two of them had hit on her already.

Becky took an instant liking to Kate. The slightly older woman was very easy to talk to, and the usually shy Becky found herself babbling away. She told Kate about how she was a second-year law student who worked at the firm during the summer and a few hours a week when law school was in session and how she got the job Escort through her dad, who was a tennis partner of Mr. Barringer. She grew up in the town, going to a Catholic girl’s high school, and then Mount Holyoke, but got her own apartment when she returned to attend law school. It put a real crimp in her budget, but it was better than living with her parents. She had a boyfriend, Peter, who was the sweetest, nicest guy, and then to her own amazement Becky launched into how she was an “old fashioned girl,” saving herself for marriage, and while Peter was nice, there was no spark, and maybe he wasn’t Mr. Right, but he was very considerate and, while he clearly wanted more, understood and never pushed. Oh God! Why did I just tell Kate all about sex life, or lack thereof? How embarrassing. Jesus, it just shows how desperate I am for someone to talk to.

Kate did not learn much about the office, but she did learn a lot about Becky. Her gaydar was pinging throughout the meal. This Becky’s a closet case if I ever saw one. Went to all-girl Catholic schools because she wanted to. Check. Went to an all-women’s college. Check. Softball player. Check. Has a boyfriend, but still a virgin at twenty-four. Check. A sex life so unsatisfying that she told me, a perfect stranger, all about it. Check. And she’s even better looking than I first thought. Athletic. Thin, but those were some broad shoulders, and some well muscled, but still very feminine arms. And my God, that ass and those legs. Verdict: probably approachable, but not worth the risk. If she is gay, she’s clearly a first timer and will take a lot of work and care. I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. I’m still not over Emily. I need a low-maintenance fuck buddy to bang for a while. Anyway, she’s probably just another straight girl fucked up by Catholicism. Remember, not all softball players are lesbians.

* * *

That night, Becky was feeling lonely. Her lunch with Kate had made her itchy for companionship. She tried calling Peter, but there was no answer on his cell. He was probably at the library, where there was no reception in the stacks. She debated whether to leave him a message or not. If he came over, it would be late, and he’d want to stay the night, and every time he did there was unspoken pressure for them to “do it.” And he might interpret this as a “booty call.” Peter never pushes, but he clearly wants to fuck me. God, that word makes me feel dirty. But even if we don’t fuck (there it is again), he’ll want to fool around. The kissing is nice. And he’ll want to play with my boobs. Why I don’t know. They’re way too small. Not like Kate’s. Those are probably very nice. Maybe I should let him touch me down there. No, that would be wrong. But I do give him a handjob now and again. That’s different. He’s a guy. And I don’t have time to go to Confession before work, so no fooling around tonight. No message. She hung up. If Peter saw the missed call and came over, fine. But she wasn’t going to invite him.

Is this normal? Am I some kind of freak? Most twenty-four-year-olds aren’t virgins. I may be the only one. Peter is a really nice guy, good-looking, smart, funny. Why don’t I want to fuck him? I like spending time with him. I like the kissing. I like feeling the warmth and closeness of his body. I just don’t want anything more from him. Yes, I’m a freak.

Oh, God! Why did I say all that to Kate. I am a freak, and she knows it. At least I didn’t tell her about the handjobs, but telling her I was virgin was bad enough. How can I look at her again? There is something about her that makes me trust her. Maybe because she seems so open herself. That smile of hers, that laugh she has—it’s infectious.

And Kate’s a beautiful woman that’s for sure. An athlete, like me, but not into sports. She said she was looking for a good, woman-friendly gym. Maybe if she joined the university gym—I think they take outside members—we could be workout buddies. She said she lifts weights mostly. But she’s not like one of those freakish bodybuilders. She’s toned, but not rippling with masculinity. If only my body were curvy like Kate’s. She has real hips, an hourglass figure, and breasts. Very nice breasts, big, but not too big. C-cup. Nicely proportioned. Not like mine. A-cup Becky, that’s me. What is it the boys used to say? Carpenter’s dream. Flat as a board and never been screwed.

I wish I had breasts like Kate’s. I wonder what they really look like. I bet she’s got big, pink nipples, with tips that stand out like pencil erasers when she’s excited. They must be nice to look at and to touch.

As she thought about Kate, Becky’s hand had slipped down between her legs and she was absent-mindedly rubbing herself. Fuck me! What am I doing. I’m touching myself! That’s just wrong. Masturbation is bad enough, but thinking about a woman while doing it, that isn’t right.

I mean it’s okay for lesbians, but not for me. I’ve got nothing against lesbians. Some of my best softball friends are dykes. Wow. That’s pretty patronizing. It sounds bad even in my own head. People should be able to live as they choose and marry whoever they want to, but I want to choose a normal, respectable life. I really do want to give my virginity to the man I truly love. Is Peter that man?

Why is it that everyone gets so worked up over sex? I just don’t get it. When I look at a guy, even a really good-looking guy…nothing. Why is it that people get so worked up over a man and woman rubbing together, sweating, and exchanging bodily fluids? It’s actually kind of gross.

Why do I keep thinking about this? Why don’t I want what other girls want? The books all say that everyone thinks about same-sex attraction at some point. And ever Father Bill says that it’s normal and nothing to worry about. Yeah, seeking sex advice from a priest isn’t the smartest thing to do. The thing is I’m afraid I may think about girls a little too much. But it’s not like I haven’t had the opportunity to act on those thoughts. I’m a softball player who went to an all-women’s college. It’s not like I haven’t been approached, but I’ve never done anything, and that must mean something.

Becky remembered the time, during sophomore year, when Lori, the first baseman, had asked her to pitch some extra batting practice. They practiced about forty-five minutes later than the rest of the team and the locker room was empty when they entered it. Even Coach Jackson, who usually stayed late, had left.

Yeah, I was kind of looking at Lori in the shower, but it’s not like I had the hots for her or anything. She just has these really big breasts, and I kept imagining what would be like to have boobs like that, but she noticed me looking. Busted.

I knew Lori was gay, of course. Everyone did. She was out. She asked if she can borrow some of my shampoo. And I say “of course,” not realizing what she’s hinting at. She steps closer and I hand her my bottle of shampoo. Our hands touch. I shiver. She touches my shoulder and then runs her hand down my arm and leans into me. Our lips touch, ever so gently. I feel her tongue start to part my lips.

Then I stepped back. “I’m not like that.”

“Sorry, I thought… Crossed signals. I’m sorry.”

Lori and Becky never spoke of the incident, and no one else on the team ever came on to Becky; Lori had spread the word that Becky was straight.

Fuck. I’m touching myself again. Damn, I’m really wet.

She sighed and gave up, too horny to resist. She pulled off her pants and underwear and started masturbating in earnest. She rubbed her fingers in small circles around her clitoris with her right hand and stroked her labia with her left.

Close your eyes and think of Peter. What would it be like to take him in my mouth? Would I gag? What would Lori’s breast be like, if I sucked on the nipple, licking around the areola and flicking the tip of the nipple with my tongue.

Stop it! Think of Peter. What would he taste like? What would his cum taste like? Would he taste like I do.

She brought her left hand up to her mouth and tasted her juices.

God. I shouldn’t be tasting myself, that’s perverted. But I kind of like the taste. Would Peter taste like that? Would he taste like a woman?

Think of his body. He’s got broad shoulders, and his torso is tapered straight. When he presses against me, his body is hard, muscled. Kate has broad shoulders too, but she’s curvy. Would she feel different? I bet it would be softer. The feel of her breasts pressing against my back, her kissing my neck, reaching around and rubbing my breasts and pinching my nipples like I’m doing now. She slips her hands down between my legs and rubs my clitoris. I don’t let Peter do that, but I let her. I turn and face her. We kiss. Her tongue plunges into my mouth as I rub my hands all over her soft, smooth body. God, that feels good. Our legs wrap around each other and we grind together. We look into each other’s eyes. We kiss as we continue to grind. Fuck that feels good. My God, what’s that? Uh. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

As the waves of her orgasm crashed over her, Becky almost blacked out. She had to stop touching herself; she was suddenly too sensitive. She was sopping wet, and a puddle of liquid had formed on the couch. Becky lay panting. Gently, she brought her right hand back between her legs. The sensitivity was fading; she could touch herself again. She slowly stroked herself, amazed at the wetness. She did not masturbate often, and it had never been like this before.

Was that an orgasm? Then what were those things I thought were orgasms? They felt good, but they weren’t like that. If that’s what it’s like to really masturbate, I can’t wait to do it for real … for real would be with another woman. With Kate.

No. I’m not like that.

* * *

Becky avoided Kate as much as she could for the rest of the week. She could not bring herself to face the woman of her fantasy. Kate, busy as she was at the new job, did not notice the avoidance, but she did notice that Becky was disturbed about something.

On Thursday, at lunch with two other associates, one of the men mentioned that Becky was upset about something and asked what it was.

“Boyfriend troubles,” answered the other man.

We can only hope.

My God! Could they possibly act more like frat boys? Hoping she breaks up so they have a shot at her. I mean I don’t like to play the part of the man-hating lesbian, but these two make it really difficult not to.

Wait. Did he actually say that or did I just think it?

* * *

Friday evening Becky invited Peter over.

The doorbell. That must be Peter. Steady girl. This is it, the big night when I finally lose that pesky virginity. Romantic dinner. Candlelight. Wine. Soft music. Then penetration. Yes, I’m going to go through with this. I have to.

Peter arrived. She kissed him hello, more passionately than usual, but we didn’t seem into it, distracted, nervous. He refused to sit down at first. Finally, they sat on the couch together, he took her hands in his and said the fateful words:

“We have to talk.”

That’s not good.

Their relationship wasn’t going anywhere. He was sorry. It was him not her. He respected that she wasn’t ready to move to the next level, but he had needs. It would be best if they just ended it. They could still be friends.

But wait. I am ready. No I can’t throw myself at him. Now that would look like an obvious ploy to keep him. But he can’t dump me. I need a boyfriend. Without a boyfriend I might… Too late. He’s gone.

After Peter had left, she picked up the bottle of wine she had bought for the evening and threw it into the fireplace, where it shattered against the bricks. She tried to call some friends, but it was Friday night and everyone was already out. Then she thought of Kate. She went so far as to fetch the home phone list the firm published, but she stopped herself.

That’s a really bad idea. I’ll just start babbling again and tell her more and she’ll be disgusted with the knowledge that I’m a dyke. Put a bad movie in the DVD player and get drunk. That’s the thing to do. Shit, I broke the only bottle I had.

* * *

Kate was standing at the liquor store counter thinking how nice it was to be able to buy the expensive vodka without thinking about the cost when the bell above the door rang. Involuntarily she turned and looked at who was coming into the store. It was Becky, and she looked a wreck.

When Becky saw Kate panic flashed across the younger woman’s face.

Kate pulled the Becky away from the cash register where the clerk couldn’t hear them and asked her what was wrong.

“Peter and I just broke up.”

“Oh, poor thing.” Kate hugged her. “If you need someone to talk about it with, I’m here.”

“Thanks, but I just plan to get drunk.”

“That’s not good. You shouldn’t get drunk alone. The best thing would be to go out and get drunk in a public place. Some of the guys told me about some good clubs in town, you would be with people, but it would be dark with loud music and dancing and no one would notice that you were upset.”

“No, thanks. I just can’t face people tonight.”

“What about just one person? A shoulder to cry on? We could go to my place, or yours, and get quietly drunk.”

No. Becky. No. You can’t do that. Not tonight. You’re upset and not in control. You might do something you’ll regret.

But instead she found herself saying, “I’d like that, but I wouldn’t want to ruin your Friday night.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. I was just going to spend the evening watching TV.”

Once at her apartment, Becky offered Kate dinner. She had planned an intimate dinner with Peter, and if it wasn’t eaten it would only go to waste. While Becky reheated the meal, Kate cleaned up the glass and spilled wine in the fireplace.

God, Kate. Someone really did a number on this girl. She has nice taste though. I don’t remember any of my apartments being this nice when I was in law school. Maybe her parents have money.

Dinner looks good. Table is nicely set. Candles. I think she was planning a special night—the special night?—when the boy pulled the rug out from under her. No wonder she’s a mess.

“Do you want me to light the candles?” Oh, damn. That slipped out. I am definitely not going to try and seduce her. Making a pass at a sexually frustrated and emotionally distraught officemate would not be a smart end to my first week at a new job, whether she’s straight or not.

“Umm…I guess so. I had kind of planned a romantic evening, but that’s in the toilet.”

“Well, we won’t be romantic, but getting drunk by candlelight may be fun.”

Dinner is good, even reheated. Becky’s really putting away the vodka. I’d better go easy on it, though, or things could get dangerous. Conversation is good. Small talk. Avoid the topic of what happened tonight.

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