Career Limiting Moves
written by:
Jack Handee

"You got it all mixed up. This country, first you gotta get the money. Then you get the power. And, when you got the power, then you get the women. And then, Chico, you got the world by the balls."

—Scarface

My father likes to fancy himself a modern day philosopher. One of his favorite hobbies is collecting quotes and peppering his daily conversation with Confucian-like bits of advice, some of which never end up making sense. It used to drive me crazy until I figured out he was yanking my chain. It seems he gathers his sayings on scraps of paper and mixes them together to form new expressions like one of those children's ad lib games. The results sound deep and meaningful, but aren't much beyond gibberish. The fun, he says, is watching his audience weigh the result. Or, better yet, agree with his insight.

When he's not composing phony parables, I do listen to him. He's been around more blocks in life than a half-price hooker and knows what he's talking about, especially when it comes to business. A good example is some advice he passed on at my law school graduation party: Avoid career limiting moves, Jack. Mistakes come in all sizes and it's seldom the big ones that ruin a man.

Indeed, the simple stuff can be the most dangerous, like asking the boss about his lovely wife, only to remember their divorce was finalized the month before. Then there's doing a ‘Reply All' to an email, adding how good that strawberry-blonde secretary would look smothered in whipped cream atop a mattress of shortcake.

While I've successfully avoided the most obvious of CLMs, Dad's advice was now flashing through my mind like six feet of glowing neon. There weren't many situations more career-limiting than what I was doing, although for that to be true, I needed a career in front of me and that little detail was squelched earlier in the day.

So was this my parting gift? A final token of appreciation for giving Byron and his cronies the old college try, even when my best efforts weren't good enough?

Not likely.

"Harder," she whispered. "Please... harder..."

With an angry thrust, I plunged my cock into her wet channel. She squeaked and giggled and I got goose bumps as her legs clamped around my naked ass and her fingernails pulled down my back. Raw sex pumped through my veins in a wicked blend of passion, anger... and yeah, there was some revenge mixed in.

Fuck me, Byron? No, no, buddy... Fuck you.

"My God, this is insane," she moaned, writhing against me while she chewed on my ear lobe.

Career limiting moves?

This one's for you, Dad, and I gave her another hard thrust.

*****

Law work can be cut-throat. Sure, you see the big, splashy attorney ads on television urging everybody to sue over everything from auto accidents to spilled hot coffee. It's easy to imagine surfing waves of cash, and for those at the top, it is lucrative. But for the rest of us clawing our way through the ranks, it's orchestrated to be an ‘up or out' culture. The strong are promoted and the weak are systematically replaced by a steady flow of wannabes churned out of the upper-echelon law schools. New blood, it's called, and not long ago I was knee-deep in that mix.

At 7:45, my phone rang. It was Lois, a turgid old gal and the executive secretary to Byron Whitman, the founding partner of Whitman, Donnelly, and Craig, the most prestigious law firm in the tri-county area. Lois had worked for Byron for as long as I'd been alive. Well, maybe not that long, but it appeared that way. She was short, wrinkled, sharp as a razor, and efficient as a ninja. If you knew what was best, you didn't fuck with her.

She asked if I was available for a lunch meeting with Byron. Not a difficult question to answer, as the invitation likely represented the tap on the shoulder I had been waiting for. A step out of the trenches, and an inch closer to partnership. The brass ring was so close I could feel the cold metal in my fingers.

*****

I arrived at Sullivan's, a classy joint on the east end of town where reservations are only granted to the city's most influential crowd. You only show up at Sullivan's if you're a regular, know a regular, or somebody Sullivan's wants as a regular. When I rolled out of bed, I was none of those, but that was all about to change. Make partner in a firm like WD&C and every high-brow joint in town would be tattooing my name on their preferred parking spots.

I stepped inside and was greeted by a tall, lanky maitre d' who looked like Alfred the butler from the old Batman and Robin series. He was all too ready to relegate me to non-worthy status and I milked the moment for all it was worth, not even taking exception when he attended to everybody but me.

"I'm here for a lunch date with Byron Whitman," I said when my turn arrived. It was nothing short of poetry watching him scramble. He didn't even check his list, as evidently I was expected. "My apologies... you must be Jake Handee?"

"Jack Handee," I corrected. "Byron should be expecting me."

"Indeed, he is... right this way please."

We filed our way through a mixed crowd of suits and Polo shirts and I spotted Byron's walrus-sized frame filling out a corner booth. He was a big guy, well-fed, with slicked black hair helped along by a few bottles of Just for Men. His skin tone fell somewhere between tan and pink. It was sprinkled by freckles and broken blood vessels reminiscent of too many martini lunches.

What Byron lacked in debonair presence, he made up for in courtroom warfare. I'd seen him in action a few times and it was like watching Ted Koppel on steroids. His strength was arguing either side of a debate with equal vigor until it was like witnessing a slow and painful dismembering of his opponent. Most important was how he chose his side of the argument less on the truth versus what he needed to accomplish. Not exactly moral high ground, but effective, particularly in this line of work.

I was surprised to see his trophy wife with him—a great example of the aphrodisiac brought on by extreme cash flow. Rebecca is a tiny thing and looks even smaller when next to Byron's super-sized frame. She is a striking brunette with liquid green eyes and plenty of head-turning attributes, but it's her breasts that get the most attention. Store bought, expensive, and delightfully authentic, the twins are way more than a mouthful and are accented by a classy look reminiscent of the Playboy centerfolds in the mid-sixties. Those were the days when tits were real and nobody mixed up photography and airbrushes.

I was first introduced to Rebecca at the firm's Christmas party the previous year, or so I pretended. In truth, we had some history between us that started in law school. Actually, we fucked in law school at an end-of-semester party thrown by one of the local frat houses. I emphasize the word fuck so as to avoid any mix-up with anything personal.

It happened a little too naturally following a very public game of body shots where everybody was blowing off steam after semester finals. In a drunken surge of adrenaline, I muscled my through a crowd and slurped salt off her belly while a roomful of jocks and sorority girls cheered us on. With some rather harsh tequila flowing through our veins, I scooped her off the kitchen table and carried her to an empty bedroom amongst a roar of applause. Hyped into a sexual frenzy from our exhibitionism, we tossed aside our inhibitions the moment the door closed. Mob psychology can be a powerful thing.

It was a rather clumsy encounter that started with my face buried between her legs while she pulled my hair and squeaked out a delicious orgasm. She tried to return the favor, but my energy was limited and I used what little remained to don a condom and consummate our introduction. For a drunken encounter between strangers, it was oddly memorable. Although considering how jazzed we were from the public body shots, I think I could have been Ronald McDonald and still got her pants off.

Funny in retrospect, as I'm really not a one-night-stand kind of guy, but tequila carries a personality of its own. The last thing I remember was waking up with a hangover the size of Connecticut to the sound of Rebecca swearing and bumping into furniture while she stumbled to get her jeans on.

I didn't see her again until after the summer break and by then I was firmly entrenched in my studies with no time for a girlfriend. Okay, that's the modest recovery I used after bumping into her at the college bookstore where she showed no sign of remembering me, or our night together. I heard later she was studying to be a paralegal, yet her obvious agenda was to marry a successful attorney. She succeeded in bagging the biggest game of all with Byron. She met him during a summer internship with the firm and later quit when they announced their engagement.

I kept my eyes off Rebecca and her tits as I approached. Byron was talking on his cell phone, his thick arm and diamond-encrusted pinkie ring stretched behind her shoulder. She looked bored, and was scanning the crowd while she took small sips from a martini glass. But, as I approached, her attention locked onto me and her lips arched into a smile.

Alfred stepped up first. Byron ended his call, snapping his cell phone shut. "Jake! You're late," he declared.

"My fault, sir," Alfred said. "We had a full lobby and I was delayed in seating Mr. Handee."

"I have to pee," Byron added, using too much effort to scoot his oversized ass out of the booth.

"Something to drink, sir?" Alfred asked me.

A drink sounded pretty good. I don't have pivotal career discussions everyday and my nerves were frayed. I wondered if alcohol would send the wrong message, but thought not. Being a partner involved mastering social graces and part of that was holding one's liquor.

"I'll take what he's having," I said, motioning towards Byron's half-empty glass.

I scooted in and Rebecca was watching me, still with a knowing smile.

I extended a hand in her direction. "Hi. I'm Jack. We met at the Christmas party last year."

"Yeah, I remember," she said. "But I thought Byron called you Jake?"

"He did. I didn't have the heart to correct him."

"Good idea. He doesn't like being wrong." She took a sip from her martini. "What's your last name again?"

"Handee... spelled with two es and no ys."

She almost choked, which was no big surprise. I've grown accustomed to such reactions regarding my name. "You're kidding right?" she said, catching her breath. "Your first name is Jack and your last name is Handee?"

"It's actually Jackson Nathan Handee, but yes. Credit my father's strange sense of humor and persuasive personality. He convinced my mom a memorable name was important in life. If we had more time, I'd tell you about what he does with famous quotes."

She looked puzzled.

"Never mind," I said. "It's a long story."

She nodded and took another sip. "So having a name like Jack Handee..."

"Yeah, I've heard all the jokes. Good news is my Dad was right. It's not something people easily forget."

"I wouldn't think so." She stared at me, smiling again, seeming to choose her words. "You don't remember me, do you, Jack Handee?"

I stalled for a second. I had a sneaking suspicion she was referring to our first meeting and not the second. "Other than the Christmas party?"

She nodded, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Yes, I do remember you. I thought you had forgotten."

She blushed slightly, lifted a swizzle with two impaled olives, and slid one into her mouth. "No, I definitely remember. Well, sort of."

We laughed. "It's ‘sort of' for both of us. I definitely remember the hangover."

She laughed harder. "Yeah, me too. I kind of wondered why you never called, or tried to look me up?"

"Hey, I was going to! I saw you at the bookstore one day and you gave me the cold shoulder. I took that as a hint to stay away."

"I remember that day... I was just really embarrassed. That party was really crazy. I got a little carried away."

"Yeah, that body shot game had everybody carried away."

She stared into my eyes and slid the second olive from the swizzle into her mouth. "You married?" The way her gaze held mine rounded out her question in an all too provocative way.

"No, I'm not... but you are. To my boss, no less."

She chewed her olive and smiled. "You're a lawyer... haven't you figured out how to navigate technicalities?"

"I am, and I have. But I also try and avoid career limiting moves... no matter how tempting."

She smiled. It was a great smile. "Are you tempted, Jack?"

I was rescued from an awkward answer when Byron waddled up to the table. He stared down at us, grabbing his belt with both hands and yanking to keep his pants up. "You two look cozy," he said with a frown. "Am I interrupting something?"

Rebecca gave him her attention. "No, we were just introducing ourselves since you didn't do it before you left... so rude."

"You're not drinking, Jake?" Byron asked.

"I ordered something. Should be here any minute."

"By the way, his name's Jack," Rebecca added.

Byron scooted himself into the booth. "That's what I said."

"No, you said Jake."

"My apologies... Jack."

Rebecca was right. He didn't like being corrected. A waiter showed up with a tray of drinks. Clearly Byron had a routine going. He hadn't ordered anything himself before leaving, yet a refill was already being delivered.

"What are you drinking there, Jack?" Byron asked, enunciating my name.

"I ordered the same as you."

"Good choice. Try some."

Whatever he drank got served straight up. I took a careful sip and readied myself for a slow burn, but that didn't happen. It was smooth, aromatic, with an aged expensive flavor.

"Ever had Scotch that good?" Byron asked, watching my reaction.

I swallowed and set the glass on the table. "No sir, can't say that I have."

"Four hundred dollars a bottle."

"It's...very good."

We sat in silence. I figured he would take the next step in conversation. If he was waiting for me, I could always reach for the portfolio I'd brought summarizing the cases I'd handled. Stalling, I went for my glass and surveyed the restaurant. I was midway through a sip when I felt something brush my knee. Rebecca's right hand was caressing the neck of her martini glass while her other was buried beneath the table.

"So, Jake, how long have you been with us?" Byron asked.

Rebecca flashed him a glare.

"Jack!" he said with a chuckle, holding up his chubby hands in surrender. "I was just joking that time."

Rebecca's eyes never left her husband, but her hand beneath the table moved steadily up my thigh. My attention darted to Byron. "Sorry?"

"Too noisy in here for you, or are you just not paying attention?" he asked.

"No sir, I'm paying attention."

My teeth mashed together and I forced a smile as Rebecca's fingertips crossed over the zipper line of my trousers.

"Five... I mean, three years, sir."

I dropped my hand beneath the table and tried to move Rebecca's fingers to her own lap. She became more aggressive, going from ginger strokes to fingernails in flesh, squeezing my crotch hard enough to make my eyes water. Despite my best attempt to stay off a further reaction, I felt an erection coming on. Rebecca turned to me and tilted her head. Better settle down, her eyes told me. Mustn't give away our secret.

I sat up straight and composed myself. Thankfully Byron's attention was pulled away when his cell phone rang again. He looked at the display. There was no indication we were in mid-conversation, as he took the call without apology. With his attention elsewhere, I shoved Rebecca's hand to her side of the table and flashed her a glare of my own. She returned a mischievous smile and downed the rest of her martini.

Byron slapped his phone shut a second time and threw back the last of his Scotch before moving onto the refill. "Okay, we need to get down to business."

I reached for my portfolio, but Byron's stern expression as he stared at Rebecca caught my attention.

"Okay, okay," she said. "I get it. Time for me to leave." She began gathering her purse and scooted towards me. Her hand slid under the table and between my legs a second time. "Can you excuse me?"

My lips squeezed together to keep from flinching as she took a handful of my cock. "Yeah... Sure."

I dragged the moment out as long as I could. After I used up all my nervous twitches, I stood up and buttoned my coat to hide the growing tent in my trousers. Rebecca was more in control, doing nothing to call attention. A real professional.

Byron sat with a satisfied smile, watching as she left our table and sashayed across the restaurant. "When was the last time you saw a woman with an ass that fine, Jack?" I decided his question was more rhetorical than an invitation to comment on his wife's backside and said nothing in response. "So... you want to be a partner?" Byron asked, bringing the subject back to business.

I sat up straight. "Yes, sir. I do."

He leaned back and smiled. "I remember how hungry I was when I was your age."

From there we spent the next fifteen minutes in what felt like the Byron Whitman show with Byron interviewing Byron and me the captive audience. I kept waiting for a break in the conversation, for the focus to shift. After all, the point of our meeting was to confirm my readiness for being promoted, or so I assumed. But, instead, the agenda seemed centered around Byron telling me all the great things Byron had accomplished.

I found an opportunity to mention my billable hours (I was ranked in the top five every year since joining the firm), yet Byron immediately turned the conversation to how he topped the productivity charts during his first five years. If we discussed my trial work, it was only after we talked about his experience, as well as the high profile cases he was consulting on currently. He brought up golf and stayed with it, even after I admitted that I only played twice in my life. That didn't much matter. His real point was how he finally shaved those last few strokes off his handicap.

And when he brought up my father, I was thrown even further off balance. My dad did mention he knew Byron from law school, but it was such a passing reference I nearly forgot. However, there was nothing casual when Byron mentioned their acquaintance. He downed the last half of his Scotch in one long swallow and tapped the glass on the table. His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped an octave.

"Where is your old man these days?" he asked.

"He left public practice and teaches at a university out west."

"Figures. That explains why I don't hear about him any more. Teaching... He always was the know-it-all. Still giving everybody advice they didn't ask for?"

I took a sip of Scotch to buy myself time to answer. Anything to figure out where this was going. "Yeah. I suppose."

"He ever mention me?"

"Once. When I started interviewing with the firm. Said you two attended law school together."

"He ever mention Samantha?"

Samantha. I searched my memory. The name was unique enough to remember, but nothing clicked.

"No, I can't say that he did."

"She went by ‘Sam'. Worked in the campus library. Not much to look at. Sort of plain. A little chubby... Like me." He stared at me, as if I should agree. "I'm surprised your old man didn't mention her after all the trouble he went to stealing her away from me."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Whitman, but I'm not following."

He looked off into space for a few seconds. "Law school was a turning point for me, Jack. Up until then, I hadn't found my niche. I never fit in. Never dated. But, in law school, different things mattered. Nobody cared if you could throw a football, or if you looked good in a suit. You moved up based on substance. The smarter you were, the more opportunities you got. The strong survived, the weak perished."

"Similar to how you run your firm," I added, knowing I was kissing up, but searching for anything to get the conversation back on track.

He pointed a sausage-sized finger at me. "Exactly! And I was at the top of my game and nobody, including your old man, could compete with me."

"Actually, didn't my father finish at the top of his class?"

"He was behind me!" Byron snapped, so loud the other patrons looked our way. He stared at his empty glass, rolling it in circles against the tabletop. "You ever been in love, Jack?"

"I suppose."

"My first love was Sam. We met when I was grading briefs for one of the professors."

"Mr. Whitman, with all due respect, I thought we were here to discuss my work with your firm." I reached for the folder I brought with me. "I've compiled a few statistics regarding my performance..."

He leaned forward, breathing scotch into my face. "Can you just shut the fuck up for a minute? You're as bad as your old man." His cold stare drilled into me. I closed the folder and spread my hands, giving him the floor. "I would visit Sam every day," he said, "trying to work up the nerve to ask her out. Took everything slow. Tried to do it right. And then, one day, I showed up and who do you think was chatting her up?"

He wasn't going to continue until I answered him. "I assume my father?"

"You're goddamn right. He knew I was interested in her. And, of course, that's when he became interested. He wanted what I had. He never noticed her until that point. Your old man had more girls than he knew what to do with. I only had Sam. I watched him turn on that phony charm of his and get under her skin. I tried to warn her, tell her what he was doing. She said he was just being nice. That it was all my imagination. Called me possessive."

He paused for several seconds, staring at his empty glass as if reliving some painful moment from the past.

"Then she stopped taking my calls," he finally continued. "Threatened to go to the dean if I didn't leave her alone."

No fucking kidding, I thought. I took another sip and sat the glass on the table. "Mr. Whitman... I can tell this is a painful story and I empathize with you. But what does it have to do with me?"

"I'll tell you what it has to do with you. Every time I see your name on a piece of paper. Every time I see your face in the halls. I think of that son-of-a-bitch and what he did to me." He paused for effect. "I want you gone."

"I beg your pardon?"

He reached for his suit jacket draped over the arm of the booth and fished out an unlabeled envelope from the breast pocket, sliding it across the table. "Open it."

I did. Inside were two documents, one folded and the other a check with my name on it. A sizeable check. "Something tells me this isn't a bonus," I said.

"I want you to get out of my sight. Get out of my firm. Get out of this town. I don't ever want to see your name on court papers or anywhere else. Do you understand?"

I closed the envelope and tossed it back to him. "Mr. Whitman, I've invested a great deal with your firm and I've made you a lot of money. I have nothing to do with anything that happened between you and my father. Granted, I'm not sure I want to work for you any longer, but I have no intention of leaving town. You're bound to see my name sooner or later."

"You won't find work," he said, stretching his oversized arms out in a dominant pose. "Firms aren't in the business of hiring thieves."

"Thieves?" I said with a laugh. "I've never stolen anything in my life."

His eyes narrowed and his mouth curled into a crooked grin. "Mistakes happen," he said. "You know how vicious rumors can be."

"If you're telling me you'll intentionally soil my reputation so I can't find work, I'll sue you for defamation."

"Defamation," he said, laughing in exaggeration. "Oh, Jack, I thought you were a better lawyer than that. You won't find a person in this town willing to testify to any such thing.

"But you will find a distinct lack of interest when you apply to any firm in the tri-city area. Look, I'll admit, you're caught in crossfire here. That's why there's a check in that envelope to get you moving in the right direction—a direction far away from me. There needn't be any hard feelings. Just go away. Provided you sign the release in the envelope, the money is yours and you'll never hear from me again."

I stared at the envelope on the table and felt like I'd been kicked in the crotch. My blood boiled when I thought about all the long hours invested and holidays sacrificed, all to line Byron's pockets with billable hours. It was all I could do not to empty my glass of four-hundred-dollar scotch across his fat face.

But, even with the sinking feeling that my career was being jerked out from under me, I was struck by an odd thought. When I used to watch him from afar, I wanted to be Byron Whitman. He had all the elements of success I dreamed of—he had built a fledgling firm into the most prestigious partnership in the city. He owned homes on both coasts. Rebecca was a stunning wife that left us all envious. Sure, fidelity wasn't her strong suit, but what were the odds Byron remained faithful? Not my style, but you get what you pay for. Yet, the more he itemized his success, the more it seemed built on a foundation of sand.

Then it all started to fit together. The way Byron spent our final time together convincing me of his worthiness. The fact that he brought Rebecca with him to a business lunch, just to show her off. He was revealing a side I never imagined—a side he never intended to show me, I'm sure.

I saw a fat kid who never fit in when he was growing up. I saw the last guy picked for teams in gym class. I saw a teenager whose intellect was superior, yet whose social skills were as clumsy as a stumbling drunk. I saw a hyper-need for approval. I saw how badly he wanted to be acknowledged by a world that largely ignored him. I saw loneliness in his bloodshot eyes that almost made me feel sorry for him.

Almost.

Until I remembered I was brought here to be fired.

And, as I weighed my options, I realized there were few. Byron was a force to be reckoned with. Despite a solid reputation in the city, nobody was going to stand by me against his accusations, trumped up or otherwise. To make it all worse, I spent too much of my life, my money, and my energy to walk away from law all together. The upside was, after all the hours I spent at work, there wasn't much of a life to leave behind. If I combined his hush money with my liquid investments, I could get by and start over in another state.

Still, I despised being squeezed out, especially over a king-sized temper tantrum rooted in unresolved puppy love. I reached into my breast pocket, took out a pen, and pulled the envelope towards me. Byron watched carefully. I'm sure he didn't expect a quick surrender.

But surrendering I wasn't. In fact, I was only getting started. "This other piece of paper," I said, looking in the envelope. "I'm guessing it's a non-disclosure?"

"Precisely."

I hesitated for effect. "I'll sign. Of course, I want to read the terms."

"I would expect you to. You'll find it straightforward."

"And just to show no hard feelings, why don't we drink on it? I'll buy." Now I had him off balance. I flagged down a passing waiter and ordered another round with a request for a separate tab.

Byron leaned back, a triumphant smirk on his face. "I have to hand it to you, Jack. Your old man was a pussy, but you're different. Any good fighter knows there's times when it's best to stay in the corner and sit out the next round."

"Well, you're not an average opponent, Mr. Whitman. Sure, I'd like to stay, but I can see the best thing to do is take what I've learned and move on."

He leaned forward and extended his hand, a skinny gold bracelet dangling from his hairy wrist. We shook on the deal.

"If you'll excuse me, it's my turn to pee," I said. "When I get back, I'll read the document, and we'll call it a day."

"Sounds good," Byron said, reaching for his cell phone. "I've got some calls to make anyway."

I left him at the table and headed in the direction of the bathroom, but I was really searching for Rebecca. My first guess was the bar. I rounded the corner and saw her parked on a barstool nursing another martini. Her dress was riding up her thigh.

I reached for my wallet and fished out a crisp C-note. I hit the bank earlier in the day, ensuring if the situation called for flashing cash, I was ready. I'm not usually one for false pretenses, but there's something to be said for assuming the role of a rich partner while the income stream catches up.

"Excuse me," I said to a passing busboy, glancing at his name tag. "Mark, is it? Mark, I'm looking for some privacy."

"Certainly, sir. For a phone call?"

"No. More privacy than that."

He looked at me cautiously. "I'm not sure I understand."

I did a half-nod in Rebecca's direction. She sensed our presence and stared back at us before flashing me a smile.

"The lady has a certain appetite for dangerous liaisons," I said. "I guess a better way to say it would be semi-public liaisons."

Mark stared a little too long in Rebecca's direction, then back to me. "Interesting, but honestly, I'm not sure I can help. This is an exclusive restaurant and the other patrons... well, I could lose my job..."

"Completely understood. It's the undertone of discovery that excites her." I added a wink for emphasis and crossed my arms to show him the folded C-note. "If we're careful... can you help me?"

He glanced at the bill in my hand. "How much time do you need?"

"Fifteen minutes should be plenty. She's... ready... if you understand my meaning."

"Damn," Mark said with an envious grin, discretely pinching the money. "Down that hall towards the restrooms, there's an unmarked door. It's a storeroom for now and a coat closet in the winter. I'll have to unlock it."

"Perfect," I said, and turned my attention to Rebecca.

*****

The coat closet was dark. We're talking black. I fumbled for the light switch as Rebecca's hands went to work on my belt. With a flick of the switch, a surge of light hit us hard. I looked around. Even the storeroom at Sullivan's was classy, or at least remarkably tidy. There were boxes neatly stacked against one wall and an assortment of hanging coats providing a soft area to lean against. I grabbed a raincoat from a hook and threw it the floor.

"Whose jackets are these?" she asked, squinting and shielding her eyes.

"Leftover from last season and never claimed." I used my foot to position the coat against the bottom of the doorjamb. "Keeps the light from being seen outside."

"Isn't it easier just to turn off the light?"

"Yeah... but I want to look in your eyes when I fuck you."

She giggled and flashed me a wicked grin. "I like that."

She stroked my swelling erection through my pants while I swallowed and tried to breathe. Her head nudged into the pinch of my neck and she nibbled my skin, her perfume rising between us. Opium. My hands found her breasts, softer than I imagined. I hadn't fondled many boob jobs and always suspected something getting lost in the transformation, but hers stood firm and alive, her nipples rising to my touch.

Whatever this was between us worked at a basic level. I spun her around and wrapped a hand underneath her arm, squeezing and massaging her breast while my other hand grabbed fistfuls of her dress and draped it across her lower back. She wore a thong that crawled between her cheeks providing the illusion that she was missing her panties. I caressed her ass for a moment and then laid down an open-faced slap that chirped throughout the storeroom, leaving behind a pink imprint of my hand.

She squealed and caught herself, letting go of a hungry giggle before reaching behind, grabbing my wrist, and shoving my fingers down the front of her panties. No surprise. She needed to call the shots. I could make out a trimmed strip of hair as I teased back and forth against her moist channel while she started to moan. But I stopped short, refusing to enter. Sensing the tease, she laughed and grabbed handfuls of the hanging garments as I pressed my erection against her ass.

"Stand still," I said, pulling back to unbutton my trousers.

"Let me get my dress off or it'll get stained."

It was all so harsh, so orchestrated. Pay off the restaurant help. Put your hand here. Don't stain that. But I loved every nasty second of it, if for no other reason than this was Byron's most prized possession and, for that moment, she was mine.

I took a few steps back and soaked her in. She was dressed in a chic flowing dress made from tiers of printed and solid chiffon with ruffled trim. The top was held along her shoulders by adjustable spaghetti strands giving way to her magnificent cleavage. She was cute as hell in college, but now carried a more sultry look, accented by more than a few aftermarket enhancements. I watched as she dropped the straps from her shoulders and lowered zippers on either side until the dress settled around her feet. She stepped out, picked it up, and carefully tossed it to the shelf behind us. I smiled as she stood before me in a white thong cupped tightly between her legs and a matching white bra that seemed to wrestle with her breasts as she moved.

I knew I should be careful with how many clothes I removed, particularly if we needed to make a hasty exit. But I was steadily losing self control as she moved closer. I took off my jacket and added it to the shelf with her dress. She unbuttoned my shirt while I loosened my tie. When my chest was exposed, her fingernails dug into my skin while I reached around and tried to find the clasp of her bra.

"It unsnaps in the front," she said, staring into my eyes. She gave a twist and seductively peeled back the cups before dropping her arms and allowing the bra to hit the floor. "I'll let you take off my panties," she added.

It was obvious how much she enjoyed showing off. She grabbed another jacket from the wall and threw it to the floor between us. I stretched my arms to the sides and held onto the shelf as she dropped to her knees and then lowered my pants to a mid-thigh level. My erection bobbed and brushed against her cheek.

She stared up me from below, her green eyes focused as she slid her palm up and down my length. I stuttered through the first part of her name while she drew me into the warmth of her mouth. Slowly, and with delicious rhythm, she slid back and forth, tightening her cheeks around the swollen knob of my cock until I had to bite my lip to avoid moaning. Her fingernails scraped my legs and then wrapped around my ass as she bobbed back and forth, in and out, steadily faster until I could take no more.

I gripped her arms and forcefully raised her from the floor, my wet cock falling from her mouth. Between her small frame and my overflowing arousal, it was like lifting a rag doll.

"Sorry," I panted. "Getting carried away."

"I like it rough," she answered, biting my chin.

I pulled on the string of her thong and dragged it down her hips while her hands pressed against my shoulders to steady her weight. One leg stepped out, then the other, and I threw the panties to the side, sliding my hand along the inside of her thigh while I buried my mouth against her belly button and scraped the soft flesh of her stomach with my teeth, drinking in her musk.

"We need to hurry," she said, gasping.

I didn't want to hurry, but time was of the essence. I faced her, my fingers dipping deep between her legs and inside as she gasped again. Her hand wrapped around my cock and we worked one another into a state of breathless desperation.

"Will you still look in my eyes when you fuck me?" she asked.

I scooped her from the floor and wrapped her legs around me, shuffling and almost stumbling until I could prop her against the boxes near the far wall. She leaned back and spread her thighs as I positioned myself. With our alignment secured, her eyelids fluttered as I entered.

We fucked. Slow at first, then rapid, deep thrusts, hands digging into flesh, biting and sucking between gasps. We were starting to get loud. I could hear the hum of the lunch crowd outside and figured it wouldn't be long before somebody heard us too.

"Harder," she whispered. "Please... harder..."

I gave her a grunting thrust.

"My God, this is insane," she moaned.

And just when I felt so in control, she kissed me. Until that moment, it was nothing but raw sex. All about the domination, stripping Byron of his trophy in the ultimate Fuck you. But when her lips touched mine, something in me shifted. Like the rest of our encounter, it was a hungry kiss, our mouths melting together, hot and messy. But I was losing any distinction of body parts and drifting into something more connected. The need to be inside her was still there—still urgent, but somehow deeper.

She kissed me again and we continued to fuck, her legs clamped around me, her arms around my neck, her whimpers tickling my ear.

And, when she started to come, everything leading up to our stolen moment faded. All that was left was Rebecca and me. When I came inside her a few seconds later, I buried my face in her shoulder to keep from screaming her name.

After a final few seconds of holding her close, with her body trembling against me, it was over.

*****

It took longer to get dressed than undressed, or so it seemed. I waited for Rebecca as she touched up her make-up in a handheld compact.

"I'll go first," I said. "Give me a few minutes and then follow."

She nodded. "Wait..." She moved towards me and straightened my tie. "There. It was a little crooked."

I stared into her eyes. I knew this was the end and I also knew I didn't want her to go. "I have to ask you something." She looked at me hesitantly. "Why are you with Byron?" I asked.

"That's sort of personal, isn't it, Jack?"

"And the rest of this wasn't personal? Look, it's none of my business. But why would you do this with me if you're happy with him?"

She hesitated, as if deciding whether to answer. "Byron gives me what I want. Today you gave me what I need. Don't judge me, Jack. We all sell out in one way or another."

"I'm not judging you. I just... I don't know... I felt something between us today. It's the same thing I felt the first time we were together in college. I think you felt it too."

"I felt a lot of things today. And we don't have time for this conversation."

She was right, but I wasn't giving up easily. "Can I see you again?"

"No. Look, you're a great guy and I have a lot of fun with you. But if I see you again, I'll start to like you too much, and then it will get complicated. That could be a career limiting move for both of us. This way, it stays simple and manageable."

She started to turn away and I cupped her arm. "Look, I know I'm moving fast, but if you're telling me you felt the same thing between us that I felt..." I hesitated, not believing what I was about to say, yet not able to stop myself. "I won't be working for Byron after today. We could..."

"Jack..." she stepped up to me and placed her hand on my cheek. "Do I need to spell it out for you? When the lights go on, you can't afford me. Now, if you ever make it to the top of your game—and something tells me you will—look me up. You're right, there's definitely chemistry between us. Byron is on the leasing plan. You might just have what it takes to gain full ownership."

And that was it. As quickly as it all began, it was over. She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, then placed her hand on the door knob. "Let's do this a little different," she said. "I'll leave, and you hang back for a few seconds and follow."

I watched her leave the storeroom and thought about my father. I knew what he had to say about career management. Now I wondered what advice he offered when it came to women.

~:~~:~

Final Thoughts:

It takes weeks to produce a quality story and minutes to read the result. I'm fine with the trade-off, as my goal is to produce fiction that people enjoy, while improving my writing through practice.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read more of my work, do me a favor and leave a healthy vote (9 or 10) for this story. Another thing you can do is add me to your favorite authors list.

Doing either leads more people to read my stories, which keeps me motivated to write.

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~Jack