What a Day!

Sarah, getting dressed for work in her lawyer blues, decided life was not over. Just because her husband decided, at 35, that the priesthood was his real calling in life, why should her life be over? She hadn't had intercourse in three months and, while she knew about fellatio and cunnilingus, those experiences were really distant memories.

The priesthood! For the love of Christ, why didn't he just tell her he was gay? Either way, he was telling her she was not enough, that she lacked something. Of course he denied all that, assuring her this life change had nothing to do with her. Sure! Right!

Sarah took a look in the mirror. Not bad, she thought. Not bad at all. California beach blonde from the neck up. Not much from the neck down, but that's the fault of the suit. Without it, an observer would see the body of a very fit 25 year old, 5'7" tall and well proportioned. The observer would never think she was actually 35.

The suit. What to do with the suit? No court appearances. No client meetings. And it was Friday. Sarah's law firm had no dress policy. Her eight partners--seven men and Beth--always dressed professionally. Over time, though, the men had shifted from suits to slacks and jackets to, from time to time, "nice casual." Sarah and Beth had not, however, made the shift. Sarah always thought that, as a woman, her life did not include dressing "nice casual" in a law office.

"What the hell," Sarah said out loud to the mirror as she quickly began undressing. "It's not like anyone can fire me." Off came the jacket, skirt, blouse and pantyhose. Through the closet Sarah cruised, finding an "above the knee" skirt which matched up well with a black silk T-shirt. On came the new clothes (sans hose) and sandals. "Lookin' good," Sarah said, wondering what had possessed her to change her clothes and start talking to herself.

* * *

In her Range Rover, Sarah decided to treat herself to a latte. She'd stopped going to Starbucks, deciding she should watch the bucks. Arriving, she found a parade of large boxes on wheels, none of which, she felt certain, transported more than one person or anything "off road." Oh well, she thought, 20 years ago it was little Beemers. Everyone must conform!

Walking in, Sarah saw her old counter boy. Barista? Whatever, he hadn't changed a bit. 22, if he was a day, about 6' and loaded with physique and charm. "Will he remember me," she wondered, "and why do I care."

"Venti skim latte, ½ caff, very hot, right?"

"Huh," she said.

"Your order, Sarah."

He knows my name. And my order. God, was I that good a customer?

"Sure, that's it," she said. "But how did you remember. I'll bet I haven't been here in six months."

"And why's that?"

We're having a conversation, she thought. Why? And what about the line behind me? Reflexively, she glanced behind her. No one was there.

"I've been out of town a lot," she mumbled, embarrassed to admit that she'd been trying to save a few bucks. "God," she said to herself, "get a grip. You're a lawyer. People pay you $250 an hour and you're nervous in a conversation with a punk kid who, if he wasn't selling coffee, would be scooping ice cream or bagging fries."

Sarah paid and stood around, looking at merchandise that interested her not at all.

"Here's your latte, Sarah. Do you live nearby?"

"Yes," she answered automatically. "Why?"

"I thought I'd call you sometime. Maybe we could catch some tunes or something. Shake it a bit."

"No, I don't think so," she said, grabbing the latte and barely avoiding a man who had walked up behind her.

Out the door. To the Rover. "Where are my fucking keys? Where are my fucking keys?" Sarah could not figure out why she was so distressed, but knew she needed to get a grip on her emotions.

* * *

Arriving at her office, Sarah stopped at the reception desk to check for mail and messages. Old habits die hard, she thought, as mail now gets delivered to her office and messages get left on voice mail.

The stop did, however, provide opportunities for a client in the lobby, the office runner and the receptionist. In differing ways, they all let her know she was noticed.

The client, a man she recognized but had not met, was a local power broker. Rich. Big, in the way that powerful men are big without being fat. Fit, for a man of about 60. Well cared for. And unmarried, a fact she knew because her office had handled his divorce.

Bob Falham looked her over, top to bottom, liked he owned her. Nothing, from the rapidly developing goose bumps on her legs and arms to the nipple erections, seemed to escape his notice. When he got done looking at her he looked away, returning to his magazine and quietly moving his hand to his crotch to make a minor (major?) anatomy adjustment.

Jeffrey was the office boy. Good looking and buff, he had the brain of a gnat and an attention span of no measurable length. Sarah had been begging the office manager to fire him.

Jeffrey lacked Mr. Falham's finesse. He said, in a too loud voice, "Wow, Sarah," causing Sarah's face to blush deeply, the skin to remain goose bumpy and her nipples to grow larger and harder.

Helen, the receptionist, watched the scene unfold over the 15 or 20 seconds, curious about what Sarah was going to do. Helen, in her early 40s, was the picture of frosted elegance. Perfect hair, makeup and a summer weight suit. No casual attire for her.

As Sarah moved away from the reception desk, Helen beckoned her back. "We need to talk," she whispered in Sarah's left ear. "Buzz me."

Sarah walked toward her office, briefcase in hand, puzzling out the lobby situation. Did Mr. Falham really adjust his penis, and was it because of me, she wondered. Why did Jeffrey, the airhead who probably did it upside down with 105 pound blonde cheerleaders dumber than himself, find her attractive enough to make a scene when, usually, he ran away from her, fearing for his job? And what does Helen want?

Settling into her office, Sarah felt damp. Her forehead felt wet and, more important than that, her privates were not "clean and dry." She knew she'd showered, dried off well and powdered herself. So why the wetness?

Sarah did not get much time to think about the matter, as Tom Faust (her partner/mentor) walked in, followed by Bob Falham.

"Sarah, you know Bob, don't you."

"No, I don't think we've met, but I know a lot about you, all of it good, welcome, please sit down," Sarah said in a rush of syllables, knowing her body was heading into goose bump/blush/nipple erection mode.

The men sat down, Tom trying to figure out what he was missing and Bob looking bemused. Bob took the lead.

"Sarah, I know we haven't met, but Tom's always said great things about your work. I've got some litigation that needs handling and I'm tired of paying Bauer, Shearson prices. Interested?"

Sarah regrouped, stifling the "huh" that almost escaped her lips and said "sure" with all the enthusiasm she could muster. Suddenly, she realized the dampness between her thighs had returned. Damn, what a day.

Bob looked at her and said, very pointedly, that he hoped she would have time to focus on the work. Then he winked at her and suggested they get acquainted over lunch.

Sarah, still in a trance, said "sure" and got out of her chair and moved toward her purse. Bob, laughing, looked at his watch and asked her if she often ate lunch at 9:15 in the morning.

Sarah blushed very deeply and, with that, said "whenever." Bob said he'd call, Tom shook his head and the men left.

Sarah moved toward the door, locked it and flopped down in her chair. Totally exhausted, she looked at her watch and noted the fact that it was only 9:16 a.m. "God," she mumbled, "I'm ready for bed and I just woke up."

Sarah's immediate concern was the dampness. Pulling up her skirt, she examined her bikinis. They reeked of vaginal discharges. Gawd, she thought, do I reek!

Sarah was a strong, assertive woman. She knew she needed to gain control over herself. Relying on her lawyer training, she mentally removed herself from her emotional state and evaluated her situation. "Assess. Re-assess. Act." That was her mantra.

Sarah got up, unlocked the door and walked back to her desk. Sitting down, she hit her intercom button.

"Zoe, please get in here right away."

Zoe, Sarah's devoted assistant, ran in. "What's up," she asked.

"It's my time, and I screwed up this morning. Can you dash over to Macy's and buy me some panties before I make a real mess of thing?"

"What style," she inquired, knowing Sarah's size. "Briefs."

"No, ah, ah, see if you can find a thong. It's, ah, it's this skirt I'm wearing. If I wear briefs I'll show."

"Back in a jiff," Zoe promised.

* * *

Sarah got down to work, leaving her feelings behind. In a half hour she'd gone through her mail and her e-mail, billing almost two hours worth of "receipt and reviews." The knock on the door startled her.

"I'm back," said Zoe. "I hope these are O.K."

Sarah barely looked up, feeling the blush and the goose pimples. "Just leave them on the chair. Thanks, and I'll pay you back before lunch. Oh, and please close the door. Thanks again."

* * *

As soon as the door closed Sarah was removing her briefs with her left hand and grabbing for the Macy's bag with her right one.

The thong was black satin, sexier than anything else she owned and not what she'd expected from Zoe.

Pulling on the thong, Sarah realized she'd hardly solved her problem. She was as wet as she'd been, just from having removed a pair of panties in her office and from seeing and feeling the new thong.

"Assess. Re-assess. Act."

She quickly removed the thong and placed it, along with the stained briefs, in her bottom desk drawer, behind the box of leftover holiday cards from last year. She grabbed some tissues, dried her crotch and sat down, placing some uncrumpled tissues under her crotch. She reminded herself not to get up from her seat without achieving a permanent solution for her situation.

* * *

Sarah worked, solidly, for an hour and a half or so. Happy with her progress and her morning's production--4.75 billable hours between 9:15 and 11:45--she had just started thinking about where she should get take-out from when her phone rang.

"Sarah, Bob Falham. Are we meeting for lunch?"

Sarah paused, gathering her thoughts as she felt the flush, the goose bumps and the hardening nipples. Ready to say yes, Sarah asked Bob when and where. When he told her he could meet her in ten minutes and take her to the Downtown Club (in the next high-rise), she "heard" her mantra and suggested that they meet at 12:45, in about an hour. Bob agreed, and they ended the call.

Sarah needed the hour to get ready for her luncheon meeting. She didn't plan to study up on her client, although she knew that would be a good idea. She didn't plan to do any other work, although she knew the meeting could swallow up a chunk of the afternoon and that she had some work she ought to get done before she went home.

Her mantra did not tell Sarah she should act like a lawyer. Instead, her mantra told her she'd better have an orgasm before she left for lunch, or she'd make a fool of herself at the Downtown Club!

* * *

Sarah debated her choices. A stall in the ladies room seemed very tacky, and not so very private. Her office--with a locked door and a depressed DND button on her phone--would be more private, unless someone heard her.

Suddenly, Sarah saw the solution to her problem. The firm's war room--where trial preparation occurred--had a lock on the door and, more importantly, a lock on the closet door. She did not think anyone would wander in during the noon hour and she was very experienced in the art of manual self-stimulation. This would work!

Pleased with herself for finding a solution so quickly, Sarah grabbed more tissues--she'd better get a new box, she thought--and headed for the war room. Entering, she closed and locked the door, opened the closet door, stepped inside and locked the door.

The closet was dark, and barely large enough for one person. Perfect (so long as no one dropped by).

Sarah quickly unzipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor. Reaching down to remove her panties, she realized she wasn't wearing any. Suddenly, she remembered her mental note: deal with the tissues keeping her crotch dry while she worked.

"Oh God," she mumbled, realizing what she must have left behind when she got out of her seat to come here. Then, in an uncontrollable way, she started giggling as she thought about the silent double entendre. "Come here/cum here." This was just too much.

Stifling her giggles with her left hand, Sarah started diddling with her right hand. Soaked and sticky, she was thoroughly enjoying her place in the universe, even if it was only three feet square and very dark.

Soon, Sarah's left hand left her mouth and joined her right one. Right hand on her clitoris, left hand in her vagina, she stroked and plunged. She knew she should hurry, but she was enjoying herself too much! The clock and getting caught were not issues on her radar screen.

* * *

"Knock, knock. Anybody here?"

Helen, the receptionist, had just entered the war room. A 2:00 meeting was scheduled and she liked to make sure the room was ready for its occupants.

* * *

Sarah's arms stopped in mid-stroke/plunge, as she heard Helen's voice. Thank god, she thought, it's only Helen.

Using her voice to mask the rustling of her skirt and the sound of the zipper, Sarah called out to Helen that she'd been looking for a looseleaf binder in the closet and gotten locked in. By the time Helen got to the door and opened it Sarah was properly dressed again (albeit without panties), and hoping Helen wouldn't notice the odor or her very frazzled demeanor.

Accustomed to taking the offensive, Sarah asked Helen to have someone check the lock on the door right away. She also told Helen someone ought to check on the cooling system in the office, as the closet was very warm.

* * *

As Helen watched Sarah's lovely ass leave the room, she noted the absence of the panty line she'd seen when Sarah left the lobby earlier in the day. She wondered what had really been going on in the closet.

* * *

Sarah walked back to her office and, as she entered, she glanced at her watch. 12:25. Not quite time to go.

As Sarah sat down at her desk, her phone rang. Unthinkingly, she picked it up.

"Sarah, Ben Davis here."

Ben Davis. Pompous young fart. Never does what he says he will do and assumes, just because he has good manners, that rules don't apply to him.

"Where's your disclosure statement, Ben?" The disclosure statement that should have been received at least 45 days ago. The disclosure statement that, most recently, the court said she must have by last Friday.

"That's what I'm calling about, Sarah. My client had an emergency and can't get me what I need for another couple of weeks."

"No."

"No," said Ben. "That's it. Just no."

"No. Not just no. No and goodbye, Ben!"

* * *

Sarah hung up as Ben blathered on. Without glancing at her watch (or, for that matter, seeing the damp wad of tissues near her desk), she grabbed her purse and headed for the elevator.

Sarah arrived at the Downtown Club at 12:40. Bob Falham was waiting for her in the elevator lobby. As she got off the elevator he greeted her and asked her if she'd like a drink before lunch.

Lawyers--lawyers who work for a living and work all day--don't drink at lunchtime. When they do, the day ends early and "billables" goals are not met.

"A martini would be great," Sarah said, wondering who had just spoken those words.

"Good," Bob responded. "We'll have a drink and I'll fill you in on what I need. That way we can enjoy lunch."

* * *

While Sarah and Bob were discussing the litigation--a very good piece of commercial litigation that could keep Sarah busy, on and off, for more than a year--Jeffrey was doing the afternoon office clean-up. The firm had found, over the years, that mornings and the noon hour tended to generate a lot of trash. Lawyers eating breakfast and lunch in their offices and throwing the residue in the trash had taken something away from the firm's carefully, and expensively, acquired ambiance.

Walking into Sarah's office, Jeffrey awakened from his walking slumber. Moving toward her desk he thought: God, I'd like to fuck her.

Grabbing the trash can, Jeffrey removed the plastic bag and mindlessly opened the extra bag the cleaning crew had left in the bottom of the can. As he walked away his eyes focused on the paper on the floor. Reaching down to pick it up--something he wouldn't have bothered doing in any other office--the scent hit him. Pussy!

What in the world, Jeffrey thought. Did Sarah get off right here in this office? Why didn't she throw the tissues in the trash? What's going on?

* * *

Sarah was ready for a third martini when Bob suggested wine with lunch. That sounds nice, Sarah thought, responding with a "hmmm." Sarah thought she was handling herself well, and the client seemed to be happy with her. Besides, they had finished the discussion about the case, so her brain cylinders did not need to be on full alert anymore.

* * *

Bob was also enjoying himself. He knew he shouldn't be drinking at lunch, as his doctor had told him to reduce his intake of alcohol, exercise more and go on a diet. Of course, his doctor also told him to reduce his stress level, and he was certainly feeling better about the lawsuit. In fact, but for how he was feeling about his doctor and his doctor's advice, he was feeling damn good!

* * *

Sarah and Bob ordered and continued their chat. Bob, getting comfortable, asked Sarah why she didn't wear her wedding ring.

"I'm not married anymore," said Sarah.

"So you must have abandoned the poor guy?"

"No, actually. He abandoned me."

"Was he nuts? Who'd he leave you for?"

"The Pope. He's becoming a priest."

Bob started laughing. Louder and louder. Sarah joined in, thinking, even as she lost control, that she was glad that the dining room had emptied out, and that she and Bob were in a small alcove.

When Bob gained control, he noted several things about Sarah. First, her face was cardinal red. Second, she had very large, very erect nipples. Third, she seemed to be uncomfortable in her chair, as though she had an itch. God, I'd like to fuck her, he thought.

***

Sarah and Bob laughed their way through lunch and a great Cab. Leaving the Downtown Club Bob asked if he could see Sarah again. Through the fuzziness in her brain she remembered her essence: I'm a lawyer! With that she recognized just how much she had compromised herself. Just as quickly she noted the fact that she hadn't done anything.

"Lunch was great. Thanks. Have your office send over the file and, once I review it, we should meet." As Sarah finished her little speech she stuck her right hand out and waited for Bob to shake it.

Bob, dumbfounded and wondering what he'd done to elicit such a cold and businesslike reaction, did not grab Sarah's hand quickly. When he reached for it it had already been withdrawn and Sarah was turning away from him in the direction of her office.

***

Sarah arrived back at the firm. She was in a daze, realizing how close she'd come to going somewhere and fucking a client's brains out. A client! She knew the ethical rule about not sleeping with clients backwards and forwards, and also knew how close she'd come to breaking it.

Walking directly to her office Sarah didn't even notice Helen leave her desk and follow along. As she sat down in her chair and sighed, Sarah saw Helen standing in the doorway.

"What," said Sarah, sounding to herself like a 12 year old who knew she'd been caught and thought "brazen" was the safest attitude.