Revelation

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An establishment whore becomes environmentally aware.
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imhapless
imhapless
3,536 Followers

As a trial attorney, Brock Vanark wasn't just a Great White Shark – he was a killer whale. Despite his youth he had amassed an impressive string of victories defending large multinational corporations, or suing critics on their behalf, as the top litigator and rainmaker at McKenzie Squires P. C., an old fart establishment law firm in Washington, D. C. He also had become rich employing a reverse contingency fee arrangement that few, if any, other litigators had the guts to try, let alone pull off.

Brock's reverse contingency fee arrangement provided that if a large multinational being sued was either absolved of liability or achieved a favorable settlement (what was a favorable settlement was spelled out in advance) Brock individually would receive fees that might be as much as ten times what he would have on an hourly basis, and McKenzie Squires would receive about 40% of Brock's take for providing logistical support. If he lost (which hadn't really happened as of the start of this tale) or a settlement did not meet the pre-agreed upon favorable outcome, he would receive either nothing, or a fraction of what he would have if charging on an hourly basis.

Brock had one other unusual arrangement with prospective clients – he would not even agree to meet with them unless they signed a waiver foregoing all potential rights to challenge his employment for other parties based upon information that the prospective client provided to him in their initial meeting should Brock decline to take their case. This put off a few prospective clients but Brock had as much work as he could do, and as much money as he could ever want, so he didn't give a shit. "Take it or leave it," he would say – with a smile – to anyone who balked.

Given his heavy litigation schedule and rainmaking duties for McKenzie Squires, Brock had no time to establish relationships with females despite the fact that because of his deceptive "choir boy" good looks he had many females that would love to establish a relationship with him. However, he had a high libido, so he did what busy rich guys have done for decades – he hired prostitutes. Not streetwalkers, but high end call girls. He had probably fucked half the pricey hookers within a hundred mile radius, usually in hotel rooms under assumed names. There were also two regulars – who were trophy wives of high powered travelling businessmen who wanted some extra cash for shopping trips – that he trusted to entertain at his condo when the conditions were right. He was happy with his sex life, though far from fulfilled, and with no romantic love.

There were two loves of Brock's life, however – his older sister Bernice Canton and even more so his ten year old niece Brooke. For some reason Brock felt a connection to Brooke almost from the time that she exited Bernice's womb and he spoiled her to the extent that Bernice and her husband Clem would let him. Brooke was the only person in the world that he would take time from his busy schedule to do what he might otherwise consider frivolous things with, such as going to the zoo, attending a sporting event or play or movie appealing to girls, or a trip to a museum. His greatest joys in life were seeing Brooke happy and being on the receiving end of one of her awesome clinging hugs and sloppy kiss on the cheek.

Brock had essentially zero social conscience, making his unparalleled special relationship with Brooke even odder because she had an innate strong sense of justice, empathy, and fair play. She had talked her Uncle Brock into supporting various endangered animals such as elephants, manatees, and wild mustangs, and if they ever passed a beggar on the street Brock knew that he'd get a big smile and a hug from Brooke if he gave him or her a few bucks, so he always did despite his inner loathing of them.

******************

The genesis of this story occurred in a most unusual manner, one that could only be accurately described as "serendipitous."

On a Friday night, just before Brock was about to lay the wood to a new call girl, his cell phone buzzed. The only people he would have answered it for under those circumstances were Brooke and Bernice. The caller ID said "Brooke Canton."

"Hi Honey, what's up with my favorite girl?" was Brock's cheerful greeting.

"Hi Uncle Brock," Brooke gushed on the other end of the line. "I'm so excited – I won first place at my school for the fifth and sixth graders' science fair."

"Wow – that's awesome, Honey. What's your project?"

"It's on global warming. And guess what – I go to the state competition in a month! I'm so excited!"

After an exchange of more information, with Brooke's excitement seeming to ramp up more with each sentence, came the coup de grace. "I want to make my project even better for the state competition – could you help me Uncle Brock? Please, please, pretty please with sugar on top?"

Brock knew that he couldn't turn her down, so he gushed "Of course, anything for my favorite person in the world!"

When he finally terminated the call, he was in a great mood including because Brooke's successes were even more rewarding to him than his own were. He turned to the perplexed hooker, smiled as he reported "That was my ten year old niece, the light of my life, who just won her science competition. My joy is going to turn into your lucky night," he fake snarled.

"I like the sound of that," Amber squealed as Brock reached for her last vestige of clothing.

Brock ate Amber's pussy through multiple orgasms and doggy-fucked her senseless with an alacrity that he had rarely manifested before. When Amber left the hotel room the next morning, having overstayed her three hour session by six hours, she walked bowlegged, but with a grin on her face and a $1,500 tip in her purse.

*************

Despite his busy litigation schedule, Brock met with Brooke, viewed her project, and then got to work learning as much as he could about man-induced global warming. His interest was initially only academic, and his preliminary motivation was only to help Brooke. However, since Brock never did anything halfway, he soon developed an actual interest in the subject. His interest was enhanced by Brooke's unbridled enthusiasm and sense of purpose. He ended up surreptitiously buying professional visual displays and commercial science experiments that greatly enhanced the optics of Brooke's project.

The state science fair for fifth and sixth graders was on a Saturday when Brock most likely would have had to be travelling to an out-of-town trial. However, Brock put in a measure of hard work and enthusiasm that was almost unprecedented even for him, and by posturing with the opponent, and by reducing his contingency fee to his client by 20%, he settled the lawsuit on the Friday before the state competition.

As Brock quietly observed Brooke's passionate presentation of her project to the judges, and her deft handling of all of the questions thrown at her, his heart so swelled with pride that he actually exhibited some humanity – a tear in his eye. "Must be some allergen in the air," he unsuccessfully tried to fool himself.

Brooke took third place in the state, a result more rewarding to Brock than almost any of his multi-million dollar victories at trials, and he happily treated Bernice, Brooke, Clem, and Brooke's science teacher and her husband, to dinner at a five star restaurant. At the end of the evening he received a double hug and even sloppier kiss that normal from his precious niece as she squealed "I love you sooo much Uncle Brock – thank you a thousand kisses worth!"

Despite his inner joy, that may have been the end of Brock Vanark's foray into the realm of social consciousness except for a meeting that Wednesday over lunch. Jim Watson, the managing officer/president of McKenzie Squires (both of the name attorneys having departed the earth decades ago) came into his office first thing in the morning.

"Brock – we've got a great chance at landing FFA as a client in a landmark litigation that was just filed last week," Jim gushed.

"What's FFA?" Brock asked.

"The Fossil Fuel Association," Jim responded in a perplexed tone.

"What's that? Never heard of them," Brock deadpanned.

"They promote fossil fuels worldwide and have more money than God. They're headquartered in Dallas, but they've been sued in D. C. by a bunch of tree-huggers calling themselves the Climate Reality Institute, CRI," Watson replied.

"What's the issue?"

"The environmental kooks allege that FFA's policies are resulting in a destruction of the earth's climate, and they want damages for all of the poor people who have been affected so far, and an injunction against a couple of dozen of their practices."

"Why tell me about it?" Brock asked, his weekend activities with Brooke jumping into his head.

"They specifically asked me to have you handle the situation for them; they don't need one of your reverse contingencies and are even willing to pay double your and our normal rates. This could be really big bucks for the firm – and you," Watson chuckled.

"Did they sign the waiver?" Brock asked.

"I want you to not require that in this instance, Brock. There's no way that you're ever going to be representing environmentalists, and we really need this litigation," Watson sternly replied.

"They sign the waiver or I don't meet with them – simple as that," Brock flatly responded.

"For Christ's sake, Vanark, what the fuck is your problem?" Watson snarled.

Brock stood up to his full six foot five inch height, got in Watson's face and spat back "That's my fucking requirement. I have no exceptions. If you don't like it get the management team to fire me – but don't you ever, ever, talk to me like that again. You need me a fuck of a lot more than I need you!"

His last comment was punctuated by a stiff finger into Watson's chest.

Watson's attitude had a 180 degree change. "OK, OK – don't get your panties in a bunch. I'll give the waiver to John Patterson, FFA's executive director. If he signs I want you to meet with us for a lunch with Patterson, the CEO of his largest member, and Patterson's wife at noon at Bistro Voltaire."

"Sure," Brock dismissively replied.

Brock's mind was in turmoil that morning – he found it hard to work, especially since about 10:30 a. m. Watson's secretary entered his office with the waiver signed by Patterson. Among the thoughts running through Brock's head was how he could keep his expected representation of FFA secret from Brooke.

Brock had a surprise when he, Watson, and Bill Murray, the second in command at McKenzie Squires, entered Bistro Voltaire. Already sitting at the round table in a small private dining room, and standing up to greet them and introduce themselves, were John Patterson, Charles Brighton, the CEO of the largest fossil fuel company in the world, and Melanie Patterson, John's trophy wife. Brock was shocked to see a trophy wife at the luncheon; he hadn't focused on that when Watson told him who would be at the luncheon. Brock had no idea why Melanie would be at a business meeting, but given her beautiful face, her tall athletic body ("she has to be at least five feet ten inches tall in bare feet" Brock said to himself as he unconsciously licked his lips), and lustrous wavy brunette hair with seemingly natural streaks of red, he was happy that she was there.

A few more surprises were in store during the luncheon. Melanie sat right next to Brock, on his left, while Charles Brighton sat to his right and John Patterson across from him at the table for six; and Melanie's right hand occasionally drifted over to Brock's left knee in a manner that could not likely be accidental, emphasized by the fact that her stocking foot also occasionally stroked his left calf.

Even more bizarre was the fact that as desserts were being served, and Charles left the table to make a pit stop, Melanie moved a small sheet of blue paper – roughly the same color as the tablecloth – into his lap. After a minute delay, and before Brighton returned, Brock unfolded the paper and glanced at the note. "Call me between 5 and 6 p.m. today before you decide on representation. xxx-xxx-xxxx," he read before he tucked the note into a pocket.

Brock was intrigued. Melanie had seemed to be supporting John's and Charles' desire to sign Brock up, and even parroted their denigrating comments about "climate change freaks;" yet here was this note, following her under-the-table activities.

As the luncheon concluded, John Patterson pushed for a commitment from Brock. "This is right up your alley, Vanark. You can get this frivolous suit dismissed and do in these tree-hugging freaks once and for all."

"I don't make spur of the moment decisions, Patterson," Brock replied. "Have someone deliver a copy of the complaint to my office this afternoon, and I'll let you know by Friday at the latest.

While the others at the table seemed to be disappointed – including Melanie and especially the other McKenzie Squires attorneys – Brock remained steadfast.

When they got back to the office, Murray growled "You can't seriously be thinking of turning down representation of FFA, Vanark. That would be crazy."

"If you like FFA so much you and Watson can handle it yourselves, Murray, and leave me out of it," Brock growled back, knowing that Murray and Watson only did SEC filings and couldn't win a traffic case before a small claims commissioner, let alone a jury trial in Federal Court.

"Let me know as soon as you decide," Watson huffed as he stomped away.

Brock knew he had to do three things before he made a decision, not necessarily in order: 1) Call Melanie; 2) review the complaint; 3) figure out how to handle the situation with Brooke if she ever found out he was representing the Fossil Fuel Association against the Climate Reality Institute.

*****************

Brock reviewed the complaint when it was delivered to his office about 3 p. m. Then he set his alarm for 5:10 that Wednesday afternoon. He was anxious to talk to Melanie since it was one of the most intriguing situations in his experience. Brock used his burner phone, rather than the office phone or his normal cell phone, to make the call.

Melanie answered on the second ring. "Hello; who's this?" she asked since the burner displayed no caller ID information on the other end.

"Brock Vanark. You did ask me to call, didn't you?"

"Yes," she chuckled, "but since there was no caller ID information I needed to ask.

"I'm intrigued by your note. Why did you want me to call?"

"I can't go into it over the phone, but I really need to discuss it with you. Can you meet me around 1 p. m. tomorrow, Thursday, at the Motel 6 on Route 1 in Alexandria, Virginia?"

"That's an odd place," Brock chuckled.

"We can't be seen together," Melanie replied.

"If you make it 2 p. m., OK," Brock responded after scrolling through his calendar on his iPad."

"Room 215 – knock five times in rapid succession, then wait a beat and knock twice more."

"Is that where you're staying?" Brock incredulously inquired.

"Of course not," Melanie laughed, "John has a condo in D. C. where we spend most of our time when not in our Dallas condo. The out-of-the-way motel room is just for our meeting."

"You were pretty sure that I'd meet if you already have a room number," Brock laughed back.

"You are a man and I'm a hot chick," she snickered, "and I did play footsie with you." Then she terminated the call.

The next twenty one hours after the call to Melanie were some of the least productive in Brock's experience. He did plow through some deposition transcripts for one of his litigations and dictated a motion to compel discovery, but his heart wasn't in it, let alone his mind. Getting to sleep was a real problem, with visions of Melanie's hot body dancing in his head, interspersed with visions of Brooke crying when she learned that he was working for an entity representing some of the largest emitters of greenhouse gases in the world.

In keeping with the clandestineness of the situation, Brock drove his Secretary Amy's Prius to Alexandria rather than driving his ostentatious Lamborghini or taking a limo, and took a circuitous route to minimize the chance that he was being followed. Much to his disappointment when he did his five quick, delay, two quick, knocks on the door to Room 215 at the Alexandria Motel 6, Melanie was fully clothed when she answered the door, and he could see that papers were strewn on the bed and a small desk in the room rather than the sheets being turned down.

Melanie considered the obvious look of disappointment on his face funny. "Just like a man – thinking with his dick – you were hoping for a roll in the hay, weren't you?" she laughed.

Rarely at a loss for words, Brock stuttered, "No...uh...no I wasn't. I...well...I am just confused by your invitation and perplexed by why you gave me that note."

"I figured that the best way to get a horn dog like yourself – don't look so surprised when I say that," Melanie chuckled, "here was the possible expectation of sex. The real reason you are here is much more important than that, however. Here, have a seat on the only chair in this palatial establishment," she chuckled again.

Once Brock sat, Melanie didn't mince words as she paced. "I am a highly committed environmentalist and behind-the-scenes activist for the Climate Reality Institute. I want you to take the litigation between CRI and FFA, but not on behalf of FFA, but rather on behalf of CRI."

"What – are you crazy?" Brock replied. "I've always worked for large multi-nationals, not environmentalists or other do-gooders, and CRI could not possibly afford my rates."

"But you're not happy with your work, Brock. You're tired of representing assholes, you have more money than you could ever spend even if you had a high class escort every night, and making your niece proud of you should and would be more important to you than another five million dollars in fees from the likes of FFA," she replied, while still pacing.

"Just a fucking minute," Brock raged, standing up and getting in Melanie's face, "how dare you presume to know my sex life, and how in the fuck do you know anything about my niece."

Melanie didn't back down one iota. "FFA did clandestine spying on you in vetting you for possible litigation since they had received threats from many environmental groups over the last six months," Melanie shot back. "As for your niece," she continued, reaching down to the bed and pulling up a newspaper photo and waving it in Brock's face, "who the fuck is that standing behind smiling third place state finisher Brooke Canton and her parents with an even bigger grin than hers?"

Brock looked at the photo. Of course he had seen it before – it was published in the Virginia Metro section of the Washington Post on Monday.

Still pissed but calming down somewhat, Brock snarled, "How do you rationalize being John Patterson's wife with working for an opposition organization?"

"I don't work for CRI, I help them out behind the scenes. I am such a dedicated environmentalist that I seduced John Patterson just so that I could get inside information from and about FFA. Do you think that I like fucking that toad during our sixteen months of marriage?" Melanie snarled back.

"You whored yourself out for a cause?" Brock inquired, true disbelief in his tone.

"I'm not motivated by money like the whores that you employ – I'm motivated by social consciousness. And you should be too," Melanie retorted. "Now since you have already driven out here in your secretary's gas-saving Prius, you might as well at least listen to what I have to say."

Brock thought for a minute – Brooke's enthusiastic presentation of her Climate Change science fair project caroming through his brain – then shrugged, sat down, and said "OK; I'll listen for forty five minutes."

imhapless
imhapless
3,536 Followers