Jobs (18+) | a series of One-shots ^^ On-going, never-ending ^^

Act 1 - The Lawyer

Act 1 – The Lawyer

As a Defense Attorney, I weigh both sides of the case. However, as I cup your balls in my hand, I’m conflicted as to which side is heavier. Is it your left nut, or your right? Oh, who am I kidding?? It doesn’t really matter coz you see…they both weigh the same…against my tongue.

~ Laura Sawyer

I’m Laura. Laura Sawyer. A Defense Attorney. And my husband is a Prosecutor. We both make money lying about stuff. Stuff that sends an innocent person to jail. Stuff that wins a pedophile’s case against the word of a bloody teenager. Stuff that makes a perverted professor protect his license even if he fúcked half the school including the janitors. Stuff that makes you question your own morality and whether or not it’s strong enough for you to actually own up to your shít and be locked in jail. Yes. We are the devil’s spawns. We help sentence you to limbo. Or inferno. Your choice.

Adam. My husband. Has the smallest díck in the world. Two inches soft. Four inches hard. You can’t get anything better than that. So why am I still in this fúcking relationship? Well. There’s Money. Properties. Children. Yes. Children. Plural. Two boys and a girl. All in their high school. Which means that despite my husband’s ‘shortcomings’ he still managed to get me pregnant. Three. Fúcking. Times.

I’m in my mid-thirties. Fit. Healthy. Overflowing with femininity. No stretch marks thanks to Heidi Klum’s tips on how to shed the baby weight. I actually look like her. But taller. With ginger hair. And bigger boobs.

I run my fingers through my long, wavy tresses, checking myself in front of the mirror as I curled my locks into seductive wisps. I look to the clock. 9:15AM. I’ve a client waiting at ten. I say waiting because it will take me an hour to drive just to meet up with him. Yes. Him. A man. A he. A person with a penis.

“Adam?” I call my husband. He is sitting by the window, legs crossed, reading the morning paper. Which is fúcking stupid because why would they call it ‘morning’ paper when it’s being read all afternoon? Idiots. “I have a ten. A twelve. Then a four. You?” Snappy. Brief. Concise. That’s the way I talk.

He tears his attention from the paper to look at me, “I have a ten o’clock with Ms. Pyle regarding her case with another lawyer who made a pass on her while they were working on her case. Do you remember? It’s the one that blew up after I took care of that plaintiff who happened to be an asset in the case. Funny how things turned out, and by the way there’s also a junction I need to go to, so do you mind buying takeout for the kids because neither of us will be making dinner anyway and when…”

I zone him out, playing one of Miley Cyrus’ songs in my head. That particular track where she is partying with her bitches while waving the American flag and rubbing her áss by the hood of the car. Fúcking in the USA was it? Whatever. Just someone give me a rope please. I feel like wrapping one end around my neck and the other around a boulder which I will throw into the Atlantic Ocean. Adam will not stop talking. An attribute that wins him a lot of cases. He talks so much that the judge overrules everything in favor of his clients just to get things over with.

BlackBerry. Car keys. Jacket. “I’m leaving.”

“Take care honey and—” I slam the door.

The only sound I like hearing is my Christian Louboutins, click-clacking as I walk to my car. I press the key fob. Lift the door on my convertible. Sit. Push the key into the ignition. Car roars to life. And I’m off to meet my first client.

His name is Daniel. Daniel Bates. He looks like someone who loves to masturbate. I can tell that he and I will get along just fine. His problem? He is being sued for falsifying documents. He works for the IRS. Internal Revenue Service. That says it all. Internal. Revenue. Service. Which means that taxes and revenues should remain internal. Not external. However, he turned the system inside out. Making external what is meant to be internal. Pocketing revenue from the services they offer. So yes, he wants me to represent him and turn his External Revenue Stealing propaganda back to its original acronym.

“I’m expensive, Danny. How will you pay me?” I ask, walking to sit in a booth at this pizzeria.

He follows me like a dog, “I’ll use some of the money I stole,” he says, raising his hand up for the waiter to bring us the menus, “Hungry?”

Daniel Bates. Hmm. Masturbates. “Yes,” I respond curtly, thinking of having myself other than pepperoni.

Daniel is Hispanic. Which means that he must have a díck longer than two inches, “Place your order. I’m paying,” he says, studying me in my pristine charcoal suit, hemmed and stitched tight to hug every curve and push up what gravity wants to pull down, “You don’t wear a ring. You single?” he asks, eyes trained on my non-existent wedding band.

“Married on paper. Yes. Married for love? No.”

I catch a glimpse of his eyes and something hard pulls tight below my stomach. Daniel Bates. Masturbates. He runs his hand through thick, dark hair, sighing, “I have a girlfriend,” he mutters.

I close my menu, “How is that piece of useless information going to help me win your case?”

“It doesn’t. I’m just reminding myself that my heart already belongs to someone,” he murmurs.

I cross my legs below the table, squeezing tight, “What about your díck? Does she have her name on it?”

He grins. A boyish, wolfish, lopsided grin, “What are you saying?”

“Nothing.”

I wanted pepperoni. And that is exactly what I’m having, “Aah! Shít.”

He pulls his díck from my mouth, “What?” I ask, looking up, “What!?”

“Deeper.”

“Alright.”

Ladies Bathroom. At the pizzeria. I paid the owner to hang a sign saying ‘Out of Order’ outside the door.

Daniel Bates. Sexy Colombian. Nine inches. Thrice the size of Adam.

I’m on my knees. My open hands slide up his shirt. Palms flattening over the ridges of a tight stomach. Fingers moving outward to curve my grip around the cuts of hard muscle on each side. In all the years I spent with Adam –boinking his penis the size of my middle finger– this is the first time I had a live, throbbing, pulsing cóck that really made me cry.

“You’re still representing me, right? Jesus, Laura. You suck like a man.”

I rolled my eyes up to look at him while pushing his tip against the back of my throat. I suck like a man? What the fúck!? He is hissing profanities through the grit of his teeth, a hand curving around the back of my head to push his cóck deeper down my throat. I pull away with an obscene pop, “I súck like a man?” I snap, repulsed, teary-eyed, and with drool in my mouth.

He shrugs, “Sorry. I don’t know how else to describe it,” I roll my eyes and resume the activity.

7PM. Home. My two boys are burning their eyeballs in front of the Xbox while my girl is on Skype in a three-way with her girl friends. I drove by the pizzeria to get a family pizza. Pepperoni. Now tell me I’m a good mother for taking care of my children, and a husband who has the smallest díck on the planet, “Dinner is ready! Boys, stop playing! Call Hannah! Time to eat!” I yell to the living room from across the kitchenette. Adam’s car’s beeping in the driveway, backing up in the garage. Just in time for supper.

He walks up to me, gives me a chaste kiss, and then asks, “How was your day? It’s only been nine hours and I already miss my wifey,” he sweet-talks, hugging me. My arms are stiff by my sides, “Did you make your nine hours fruitful?”

Fruitful. Heh. Yeah. I had a nine-inch banana while you were away. Fruitful indeed. “Yes, hun.”

“That’s great. You know, it’s looking good with Ms. Pyle because her complainant messed up his statement when I asked…” I zone my husband out, re-slicing the pepperoni pizza into diagonal strips to cut the pie into bite size pieces. And as I do, I can’t stop thinking of Daniel Bates, and how delectable it was to have a niner.