Lawyer Up (20 page)

ABSOLUTUM DOMINIUM

“Open.”

Pat opened her mouth and her eyes.

“Wider,” he said.

Kneeling before him, Pat stretched her mouth as wide as she could, acquiescing to the pressure of the hard, erect penis pressing against her lips. It slid in and kept pushing until it hit the back of her throat. She began to suck, lips firmly closed around the shaft and tongue luxuriously caressing the velvet underside.

Strong hands reached down to grip her shoulder-length hair, twisting it around until she was effectively bound to him. Never in her life had she felt such urgent, throbbing arousal, but then never had Pat made love like this, never ceded absolute control of her body to another person. The man had absolute dominion over her.

Earlier, he had commanded her to strip while he stood there and watched. Then he had ordered her to kneel before him as he slowly unzipped his fly. Her quick compliance had earned her the hint of a smile before he instructed, “Take it all in and suck.”

It felt surreal. Pat could hardly believe she was naked and on her knees. That she was giving an all-out blow job to a fully clothed man, an almost stranger, but the wet ache between her legs made her willing to do anything this virile man wanted.

“Good…very good,” he muttered quietly.

Her lover didn't say much. However, Pat felt immense pleasure at the small compliment and wanted to do anything she could to satisfy him. She began to move her mouth as quickly as possible, all the while enthusiastically laving him with her tongue. Pat gripped his jeans and then tugged them down so she could feel more of his bare skin. She squeezed and massaged his tight ass before lowering one hand to fondle his warm testes. At the sound of his answering groan of pleasure, Pat smiled around the cock that filled her mouth.

“Enough!” he commanded.

Then he pulled out and Pat lurched forward, regretting the loss of the hot, thick shaft as it dragged from her lips. Before she could even comprehend what was happening, he had pulled her into his strong arms, cradling her against his powerful chest. Nestling closer, Pat began to understand how much she adored strength in a man. No entreaties or polite discourse required—just power, both physical and mental.

As he carried her to his bed, so large and plush it looked like it belonged in an antebellum bordello, Pat wondered what had taken her so long to realize this about herself. She didn't just want to submit, she needed it, craved it—craved a lover who would command her, who didn't require her to dictate what she wanted. For once, Pat didn't have to be the bossy bitch who directed everyone's every action. Instead, she could be captive to someone else's desires.

Pat found it strangely liberating, and she sensed that giving up control was the only thing that would allow her to reach the pinnacle she desired. She wasn't a prude, but Pat suspected that she had never really experienced an absolute orgasm—the ultimate peak of unbridled, unrestrained pleasure that left one utterly replete and happy. The key for her, it seemed, was total surrender, and it was a price she would willingly pay—at least tonight.

Pat shivered in delight as he laid her down on the silky-smooth bed, the rich satin sheets as wicked as the game they played. Although, in that moment her desire to service and please him felt very real—not a game at all. Wrapped in a sensual haze, she still vaguely realized it was only a fantasy. It was play, naughty and lascivious. Even so, she reveled in the new sensations of feeling sexually vulnerable and desirably feminine. Pat looked up at him and waited for his next decree.

“Now I'm going to fuck you,” he said in his deep, masculine voice. Was it a promise or a warning? Pat shivered again.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

As quickly as she could, Pat rolled over and up into position. In the pain of waiting, she held herself there trembling, ready and eager for his use. Finally she felt his thick, hot dick at the entrance to her pussy, and impatiently Pat surged backward toward him.

“
No
!
” he barked.

Pat was roughly pushed forward, her face falling into the pillow.

“Ouch!” she cried out as a hard slap landed on her bottom. “I'll be good. I promise,” she whimpered.

He pulled her back up into position, and this time Pat held still even after she felt his dick nestle at her hole. Again she trembled, aching to feel him enter her all the way.

“Please,” she moaned.

“What is it you want…
exactly
?” he asked with a slight chuckle. It was clear he loved having her at his mercy.

“Please,” she pleaded again. Pat felt his hands grip tightly, almost painfully, on her hips when she paused, holding her firmly away from him. He wanted her complete obedience.

She begged quickly then. “Please, please, I want you to fuck me hard, really hard…pound into me.
Please
!
”

“Yes.” It was just a harsh exhalation.

Then he plunged into her fully, and Pat gasped. He was so large that she was stretched tightly around him. He gripped her hips and began driving into her over and over. She felt every inch of his thick, hard pole as it slid wetly along her electrified nerves in a forceful repetition of foray and retreat. He fucked her hard, as she had begged him to, and in the end, Pat couldn't hold still. She moaned and joined him, surging into motion to meet each of his attacks. He grunted then and exploded into her. On his last potent thrust, Pat screamed out in pleasure as she shuddered around him.

“Yes!” she cried.

She had waited her whole life to experience such a mind-blowing orgasm. It was wonderful, marvelous, an ephemeral paradise. Then she lay down, panting, and he rested behind her, one hand possessively on her hip, before they both fell asleep.

Almost immediately, she opened her eyes, feeling dreamy, lazy…and reality set in. As she began to understand what had happened, Pat choked back a sob.

Had
it
really
all
been
just
a
dream?

But she was alone in her tangled sheets. No lush bordello-sized bed, no silky, wicked linens, no handsome, arrogant lover…just her old bossy self.

Pat consoled herself silently.
Well, at least I came before I woke
up
.

Then she rolled over and tried to fall back asleep.

She tossed and turned before finally giving up. As she lay there watching the slow dawn light spread across the room through the glass of the tall French doors, Pat replayed the dream over and over in her mind. On one level, it shocked her that she had dreamed of submitting like a sex slave—something so completely opposite the formidable persona she portrayed to the world—but at the same time, Pat was in awe of how wildly erotic the experience had seemed.

Why couldn't it be like that in real life? she wondered. Enjoying wildly exhilarating sex that would take her away from her mundane existence. Wildly exhilarating sex with a man she desired and who desired her above all others. Her nocturnal paramour had been a stranger but not—he'd seemed vaguely familiar, although Pat knew with certainty that she'd never had a lover like that. Never had a lover who understood and satisfied her every carnal need, even the ones she hadn't yet acknowledged herself. Now it was all becoming fuzzy, fading to nothingness along with the delicious sensations her wicked slumber had created in her.

Pat plumped her pillow yet again as she tried to get comfortable
.
Her head hurt—too much alcohol the night before. That was probably the real reason for her fantastical dream, she concluded.
If
only
these
erotic
dreams
would
stop
haunting
me.
It was harder and harder to ignore the demanding need building inside her. With a sigh, Pat rolled over and finally fell back asleep.

POUPONNER ~ TO MAKE YOURSELF LOOK NICE

“
Wake up
, Pa-tri-cia.” Creole nudged her. He had let himself in with the duplicate key she'd once given him and now stood over her bed.

“Go away!” She pulled a pillow over her head.

“I…have…coffee,” he singsonged. “Sweet and strong, the way you like it, and beignets too.”

“C'mon. You have to hurry unless you plan to go shopping in your pj's,” urged Barbara from the doorway.

Pat was foggy and a little nauseous.
What
are
they
doing
here?
She couldn't remember, but a vague notion teased her consciousness.

Oh
no, not
that!

She pulled the pillow off and looked at her friends. “I know y'all meant well, but now that I'm sober, I can tell you this is not a good idea. You're wasting your time, and I'll be wasting my money.”

“Nonsense. It's a beautiful day outside. The perfect day for new beginnings,” Creole said as he pulled the curtains wide.

Pat flinched at the bright sunlight pouring in through the French doors and covered her head again. Unfortunately, that did not deter Creole. Before she knew it, Pat was being bustled out the door, coffee in hand, thick sunglasses on face, and armored with the goodwill of her friends.

As the day progressed, Pat was surprised to find that it was fun—who knew? In a private salon dressing room, Pat tried on outfit after outfit that Creole brought to her. Within no time, all the girlfriends were gleefully joining in on the shopping extravaganza, trying on whatever Creole suggested. They laughed, joked, and played dress-up. Such a pile of purchases built that eventually the store manager popped some bubbly, and then the party really got started.

Creole seemed to have a knack for bringing out the best in any body type, Pat marveled, even though the suggested items were often quite the opposite of what she might have chosen for herself. In the past, Pat had always dressed to conceal her perceived flaws. Boxy jackets to cover her skinny, almost boyish figure. Flat shoes so she wouldn't tower over everyone else. Dour colors so she wouldn't draw notice. Serviceable, plain fashions rather than pricey, flamboyant designers—Pat had never felt worthy of more than that.

With the ladies' boisterous encouragement, Creole taught Pat to take her supposed defects and embrace them as positives, to magnify and then glory in them. Through their eyes, she began to see the possibilities for a brand-new Pat. Not awkwardly tall and thin, but willowy and striking. Their compliments helped her envision people's eyes turning appreciatively toward her, seeing her as an attractive female rather than just another sexless working grunt unworthy of anyone's notice.

Would
he
see her as sexy and feminine?

She knew they called her Pat-ocrat, and it hurt. She'd tried to brush it off as a glass-ceiling thing or jealousy, but Pat accepted that her reputation as an autocratic tight-ass had been partially deserved. She had been called on the carpet more than once at the firm for harsh treatment of associates in her drive to win cases, and although she'd since softened her manner, the nickname had stuck. Pat wondered if this new look would finally help change people's long-held opinion of her—if she actually managed to go through with it, that is.

Would
it
change
his
mind? Would he like it?
The errant thoughts flitted by before she could squelch them.

There was also a fledgling inner Pat that hungered for this transformation, sensing she was on the cusp of unleashing a sexual vitality that had waited, lurking inside her, for way too long. She had buried this burgeoning siren deep within, afraid of more rejection. Now, like the relentless metamorphosis of a caterpillar within a chrysalis—something that can't be stopped or undone, once started—the real Pat was slowly transforming and emerging. If she could find the courage to fully embrace her new femininity, let it blaze bright for all to see, Pat might finally, truly let go of her painful past and begin living jubilantly. It was a path to happiness if she could only embrace it.

Over the quick weekend, Creole orchestrated a total makeover from the inside out. From sexy new lingerie to softer, more feminine clothing, to altered makeup that enhanced her hazel eyes and lush lips, and, finally, a radical new hairstyle. The expensive male stylist had been aghast, decreeing no more ponytails
ever
! After dyeing, highlighting, cutting, and shaping, Pat's hair now fell just so to frame her face. The biggest battle had been her resistance to the sky-high heels that made her feel like a giant. Creole argued they would highlight legs that “go on forever,” especially with her new short skirts.

“Men will absolutely looove it, girl! Trust me,” Creole promised before teaching her to walk like a model. No more marching around. She needed to sway and strut. Could she really go through with this? she wondered for perhaps the hundredth time.

Later, on Sunday afternoon, Creole made her practice everything until she had it down. He even chose exactly what she would wear Monday. He stayed for dinner and kept telling her how beautiful she looked, even when Pat argued that it was too much, too many changes. Everyone would laugh. In the end, he wouldn't leave until she vowed on his voodoo-doll keychain that she would give it her best try. She promised but didn't feel all that bound by such a silly relic.

“You'll see,” he promised again. “It will seem strange at first, but you really do look amazing. The total package!”

“I just don't—”

“Pat!” He wouldn't hear her self-put-downs again. “This
is
who you really are…an intelligent, highly successful, and
very
beautiful woman. There is no reason to hide that part of yourself from the rest of the world.”

Creole hugged her reassuringly and then he was gone, leaving Pat alone with her insecurities.