The easiest decision of my life had been to undertake a law degree; the most difficult had become deciding what to do with it. In spite of three years of relentless study, locked away in a law library with little on my mind beyond the obsessive desire to obtain a first class honours degree, when I eventually achieved that ambition I realized that I had no real idea what to do next. It was the summer of 1993.

My mother, on the other hand, had no such doubts and was insistent that I should go into the legal profession. I was not so sure. I considered that her seemingly rabid enthusiasm for this was almost certainly based on two factors, neither of which involved giving my personal happiness a hint of consideration. Firstly, as she never tired of reminding me, she had sacrificed years of her precious life and spent a queen’s ransom on a private education to give me the best possible start in life, and she was not going to see it go to waste without a considerable fight. If that meant plucking incessantly on my well-tuned guilt strings, so much the better so far as she was concerned. Secondly, she had experienced at first-hand, during the course of her own divorce from my father three years earlier, the significant sums of money a lawyer was able to earn. As much as I reminded her that most of this was actually money made on the sad back of miserable life experiences, she nevertheless felt perfectly happy to see her youngest daughter become a moving part in what at that time I had come to regard as a perpetual misery machine.

However, my protestation that I needed more time to think about my future was seed which fell on stony ground. Nothing if not proactive when it came to organizing other people’s lives, my mother then had what she considered to be the ‘perfect idea’, and she revealed it to me at the breakfast table one Friday morning in mid-July.

“What you need, Lucy,” she said with the slightly arrogant air of a puffed-up celebrity agony aunt, “is some practical experience in a legal firm. You would also make some useful connections, I am sure.”

“That sounds a good idea,” I lied disinterestedly, mumbling into my coffee cup and hoping beyond hope that my half-hearted lip-service would somehow placate her and serve to end the conversation rather more quickly. “I’ll write some letters when I get a few minutes, maybe next weekend.” There was a slight pause.

“Oh, there’s no need to do that,” she chimed. Her controlled and upbeat tone made it clear, once more, that something unpleasant was crouching ominously up her sleeve and was just about to pounce into the light of day. I wasn’t mistaken. “I’ve managed to arrange something for you already.” I half-choked on a mouthful of lukewarm filter coffee.

“What?” I barked. It was somehow as though all of my teenage hormones had suddenly returned with a vengeance, bringing a few others along for the ride. “What do you mean you’ve ‘arranged something already’?”

“Well, first thing this morning I took the liberty of making a telephone call to Veronica Hamilton and asked her whether you could possibly spend a few weeks during the summer working at her firm. She said she is quite busy at the moment but she will see what she can do. She has suggested meeting with you to discuss it.”

“Veronica Hamilton? Are you joking?” I could tell by the self-satisfied look that had settled comfortably on my mother’s face that she wasn’t. “You expect me to go and work for several weeks with your divorce lawyer?”

“What I expect, young lady, is for you to take your life and your career seriously. I made a lot of sacrifices to give you the best opportunity to make a success of yourself, and I expect you to do just that.”

“I don’t believe it!” I snapped. “I’m twenty-one, not twelve!”

“Then you need to start behaving like it.”

“But I have no interest in family law,” I protested. My mother said nothing. She just gave me ‘that’ look; the one that she always used when she was intent on getting her way, and that for some reason withered me inside like a fallen autumn leaf and always had. It felt as though my summer, as well as my life, was being planned for me and that the idea that I had any control whatsoever over it was nothing more than an illusion.

Veronica Hamilton was one of the family law partners at Berman Bruce, a leading firm of solicitors in Brighton and at that time, and at just thirty-nine years old, had already secured for herself a formidable reputation as an uncompromising, if not ruthless, divorce lawyer. I had never met her before, although I had spoken to her once, very briefly, on the telephone during the course of my parents’ divorce. The experience had been rather like feeling a sudden and heavy glacier moving quickly over me. My mother, however, had nothing but unmitigated praise for the way Veronica had handled her divorce, although I know this was not a sentiment my father shared. One thing, however, was clear: I was not looking forward to spending six minutes, let alone six weeks, with Berman Bruce or Veronica Hamilton.

My mother had arranged for me to meet Veronica at the firm’s offices that later that same day. Although it had turned out to be another sultry, sticky summer evening, I had decided to play it safe in terms of my choice of wardrobe: a smart black fitted skirt suit, a white blouse with a serious look, and some black, heeled pumps of the kind which my feet had always struggled, unsuccessfully, to get themselves accustomed to. I knew I was going to feel intimidated enough as it was and I wanted to give Veronica Hamilton no additional motive for making me feel thoroughly inadequate.

I arrived at the firm’s modern and airy offices at half-past four that evening, in good time for my appointment fifteen minutes later, and I was asked by the receptionist to sit and wait in what was an impressively plush waiting area to the side of the imposing reception desk. A heavy, glass-topped coffee table was immaculately decorated by a host of quality, high-shine magazines which were arranged with such precision that I felt slightly afraid to disturb their regimented array. I smiled to myself as my eyes scanned them, pondering whimsically whether there was any chance that I would find any bridal titles among them. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t.

I watched the silent fingers of the chrome clock on the wall of the waiting area tick their steady way to quarter to five. The office was still relatively busy as purposeful-looking lawyers, overburdened secretaries and concerned clients passed through the reception area. The clock made its way to five o’clock and then quarter past. Whilst my instinct in a situation like that would always have been to begin to feel a mixture of exasperation and indignation at being made to wait, I began to wonder whether it actually afforded me the rather attractive possibility of telling the receptionist that I understood entirely that Miss Hamilton was a busy woman, and helpfully offering to re-arrange the appointment for some other time, preferably in several weeks!

As I began to stand up to put this idea into effect, the entrance door of the office swung open reverently as a woman dressed in an intimidatingly expensive charcoal grey skirt suit and menacing, black shoes with heels resembling thin pencils made her entrance. She was carrying a bulging, black lever arch file under one arm and a bulky black leather brief case which was slung lazily over her left shoulder. She reached the reception desk just as I had made it to my feet. I watched as she had a brief conversation with the receptionist behind the desk, whose look of polished professional competence had turned to one of pious deference in the presence of this woman. After a moment, I saw the receptionist look towards me, smile nervously and point in my direction. I began to realize that my perfect escape plan had somehow been tragically interrupted by karma, as it struck me that the woman that the cowed receptionist was talking to was none other than Veronica Hamilton.

“You must be Lucy,” she said. As she approached, I suddenly felt the moisture in my mouth evaporate almost instantaneously. I was somehow almost immediately overwhelmed by the disconcerting sensation of beginning to lose myself within the swirling pools of a pair of powerful, deep green eyes which were looking directly into my own. If eyes could have the ability to radiate intense heat and cold at one and the same time, then Veronica’s did. That first meeting of our eyes may have lasted only seconds, but nothing I can ever remember had left me feeling so utterly vulnerable and defenceless . I nodded and somehow managed to produce what I suspect was an embarrassing smile.

“Here,” she said, smiling coolly and thrusting the lever arch file towards me. I nervously took it in both arms, holding it carefully into my body like a newborn baby. She glanced down at her wristwatch. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go and find somewhere quiet and comfortable, and have a chat, shall we, Lucy?”

I followed Veronica through the reception area and out of the main office door, into the still stifling early evening sunlight, tottering gracelessly under the weight I was holding in my arms and three inch heels that my feet were not forgiving me for what I was putting them through. Fortunately, Veronica was clearly barely aware of my mental and physical discomfort; we were barely through the doors before her state-of-the-art phone was in her hand and she was tapping the screen purposefully. Within seconds she was engaged in conversation with someone, obviously discussing one of her cases. I was left in no doubt that she was not a woman to say ‘no’ to lightly.

“Well,” she said, “I can tell you this. If I don’t see that consent form on my desk by first thing on Monday morning, we both know what is going to happen, don’t we. Now have I made myself perfectly clear?” She tapped the screen abruptly, ending the call without further ado. “People usually end up seeing things my way eventually, Lucy,” she said, swivelling smoothly towards me and smiling faintly. “They usually find it makes life so much easier for them in the long run. I am sure you will find that out as we get to know each other a little better. Here we are.”

She pointed towards some hazardous looking stone steps which spiraled downwards towards the door of a quiet-looking wine bar. I followed her cautiously down the steps, one nervous hand gripping a cool metal handrail for support, the other clutching the bloated file of papers, negotiating each precarious stone step as though it were covered in a smooth sheet of treacherous glass.

“The Water Hole” was a wine bar I had only visited once before, some three years earlier, when I had been out with some friends on a night out before leaving for university. It was one of those quiet, rustic places with low beams and low light, and with intimate booths that were hidden from one another by wood and opaque glass partitions. Veronica selected a booth, slipped the brief case from her shoulder onto a chair and motioned for me to sit down.

“What would you like to drink, Lucy?” Her eyes met mine and once more I inexplicably found my ability to form coherent responses to simple questions had abandoned me.

“Erm, could I possibly have.......I don’t know....a fruit juice?” Another half-smile played across Veronica’s lips.”

“You do find making decisions a little difficult, Lucy, don’t you. How about you just let me decide for you?” I nodded again, with a feeling of dependency and vulnerability washing over me like an inevitable tide once more. As Veronica left to get the drinks, my mind started to question itself all over again. Why had I always been so timid? Why did I find making decisions so difficult? Why, in spite of my academic success, did I have so little confidence in myself? These and other similar questions had haunted my thoughts for years, without any sign of resolution. I had managed to reach the age of twenty-one without the hidden depths of my life and thoughts being seriously challenged by anyone. As I sat there, waiting, the most intense feeling arose in me that all of these questions were probably going to be brought quickly to the surface in the company of someone like Veronica Hamilton, and that I was going to be challenged in a way that I never had been before.

I was brought back from the swirling mist of my thoughts by the sound of a wine glass being placed on the table in front of me.

“I thought we’d have red,” said Veronica, sitting herself in the booth opposite me and placing her own glass down on the table in front of her.

“Thank you,” I said. “That’s perfect.” Veronica’s eyes were fixed on mine again.

“Well?” she said. I was confused. “The wine; aren’t you going to try it?”

“Oh, of course. Yes.” I lifted the glass to my lips and took a long sip. I felt the smooth, red liquid coat my lips and ease its way down inside me like a languid dream.

“It’s delicious, isn’t it, Lucy?” I nodded. It was. It was the first alcohol I had tasted in probably nine months. I was no expert, but I realized that the wine was both expensive and treacherously potent, and I knew that I was going to have to be careful.

“Your mother tells me that you got a first class honours degree at university, Lucy. What a bright girl you are, aren’t you.” Veronica’s tone made it crystal clear that she was, in actual fact, singularly unimpressed by whatever academic success I had recently earned. “She also tells me that in her opinion you need to be given a lot of guidance. Is she right about that, Lucy?”

Veronica lifted her wine glass to her lips and took a sip, her eyes looking intently into my own. It felt as though she was somehow managing to silently play with my head, and I had no answer to it. A glossy sheen of ruby red liquid shimmered on her full lips, and the glistening tip of her tongue then slipped over them. Again, for whatever reason, I was unable to form coherent words in my mouth. An embarrassing smile formed on my lips, which I quickly tried to cover over by taking another, long, sip of wine. It was at that moment for perhaps the first time, in the quiet half-light, that I began to realize that not only was Veronica a supremely confident and intimidating woman, but also a stunning and arrestingly attractive one.

“You don’t need to answer that,” she continued. “I can see for myself that I am going to have to take you firmly under my wing.

I think you need that, don’t you Lucy?” I smiled nervously, said nothing and sipped a little more wine. I began to feel as vulnerable as I ever had in my entire life, and as though masking my insecurities was no longer going to be an option. As I came to this realization, I felt a surprising yet comforting sense of warmth wash through every part of my body.

“Your boyfriend must be very proud of you,” she continued.

“I, erm, don’t have a boyfriend,” I replied.

“A girlfriend?” I felt my face flush warm with embarrassment and the nervous smile slip back onto my lips once more. I was beginning to get the distinct impression that Veronica was deliberately trying to discomfort me. If that was her intention, it was working.

“No, no,” I said. “I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. I just don’t really have...” I didn’t really know what I didn’t really have. Was it time? Was it inclination? Was it confidence? I had only had two brief relationships since turning eighteen, and neither of those had lasted more than a few weeks each.

“You don’t really have...? What don’t you have, Lucy; any interest in sex?” My face felt like a beacon. Her eyes were now playful and I felt like the toy. She knew she was in control. I knew she was in control. It was obvious it was something she enjoyed. Part of me felt as though I was beginning to enjoy it too.

“I have an interesting case coming up soon that you and I will be working on,” Veronica continued. “My client is a very successful local fashion designer in her early forties called Samantha Sutton. You may have heard of her.” I nodded. My mother was the proud owner of two or three stunning Samantha Sutton evening dresses in her wardrobe, which had been bought courtesy of Veronica’s successful efforts to drain money out of my father like a cracked dam. “Well,” Veronica continued, “the excuse of a man she has been married to for the past fifteen years has now filed for divorce and is seeking a significant financial settlement in the proceedings, in spite of the fact that he has spent most of the marriage unsuccessfully trying to write books that nobody is interested in reading, let alone publishing, whilst living off Samantha’s success. What do you make of that, Lucy?” She looked at me intently, and there was something about it that almost took my breath away. I paused for a moment and tried to think.

“Why is he divorcing her?” I asked. A wicked smile crossed Veronica’s still slick, wine-red lips and her eyes grew warm; provocatively warm.

“Very good, Lucy,” she purred. “You have asked the only question that really needed to be asked. I am very impressed.” I smiled nervously. “Now, open the file I gave you and go to the fourth tab.” I placed the heavy file on the table in front of me and opened it, finding the fourth tab. I could see that it contained a statement by Samantha Sutton’s husband. As soon as my eyes hit the writing on the page I could tell that the wine had begun to have an effect. I was feeling a little more than light-headed and struggling to focus my eyes. The first few paragraphs gave a history of the relationship, which all seemed remarkably unexceptional. “It’s paragraph seven where things get very...interesting, Lucy. Read it aloud, please.” I did as I was told.

“On the 19th of May, our wedding anniversary, my wife was working late at her studio. She had told me she was very busy getting a collection ready for a launch of her new line the following week and would be working late. However, I decided to go and buy her some flowers, go to the studio, and surprise her.

When I arrived at her studio, it was in darkness and the door was locked, so I went around the back to where her office was. As I looked through the window into her office, I could see my wife. She was not alone. She was with a model, who I immediately recognized as a woman called Emily.” I looked up at Veronica, who was looking back at me intently. “Keep reading,” she said, her voice a little lower and more than a little provocative.

As my eyes went back to the page I suddenly I felt something brush lightly yet firmly against the back of my left leg. I assumed that Veronica’s foot or leg had accidentally come into contact with mine under the table. Then I felt it again, and then realized it was Veronica’s stockinged foot. I could feel her toes through the nylon moving delicately up and down the back of my left calf. I nervously began to raise my eyes to her. “Keep reading,” she urged, firmly. I swallowed hard, my eyes lowered to the page, and I began to read once more.

“I could see that Emily was laid back on my wife’s desk, the top of her dress lowered over her breasts which were in full view. With her left hand my wife was caressing Emily’s left breast and rolling her engorged nipple firmly between her thumb and forefinger. With her right hand she was lifting the skirt of Emily’s dress slowly up her legs, caressing her inner thighs, her hand moving ever higher. Emily was beginning to writhe on the desk, looking as though she was beginning to lose control of herself, as my wife pulled Emily’s nipple firmly, making it respond to her twisting touch. Slowly, my wife moved her other hand towards Emily’s panties, which were now fully visible to my eyes. My wife then lowered her mouth to Emily’s and parted her lips with her own, moving into a slow, lingering kiss.”

Under the table, I could feel Veronica’s foot moving slowly up and down my left calf. Any thoughts that this was somehow an accidental ‘brushing’ were evaporating by the second. I raised my eyes to Veronica’s again for a moment. They were now somehow more than playful; they had become intense and hungry. My heart was, for reasons I could not understand, beginning to beat faster as I felt the nylon caress my skin. Her toes were moving ever higher, running from my ankle and up to the back of my knee and back again in smooth, slow strokes.

“Keep reading,” Veronica instructed firmly.

“I watched, barely unable to believe my eyes, as I saw my wife move the fingers of her right hand inside Emily’s white lace panties. Emily then gripped the edge of the desk as her body began to respond to the way my wife’s fingers were moving inside the flimsy material. They were still kissing; my wife’s tongue was pushing inside Emily’s mouth, and for the first time I began to hear her moaning loudly. Although it was muffled by the glass, I could hear her moaning ‘Oh God, Samantha, push your fingers inside me now.’ She parted her legs a little wider, and then screamed in ecstasy as my wife drove her fingers inside her.”

My voice, which I was trying to keep as low as possible and yet still remain audible, was beginning to crack a little, and I took another long sip of wine. Under the table Veronica was still caressing her foot up and down my leg. As I put the wine glass down and continued to read, I felt her foot move deftly between my legs and slide all the way up the inside of my left leg and onto my inner thigh, pushing my skirt up a little. I swallowed hard.

“Carry on reading, Lucy,” she insisted.

“My wife was pulling and twisting Emily’s nipple in her fingers more firmly as the fingers of her right hand worked faster between her legs. I could hear Emily more clearly as her moans became louder and more intense. She was losing control by the moment, and saying ‘You always do this to me, you hot bitch. I can’t resist you.’ My wife just smiled and kept working her fingers in and out of Emily, getting faster and faster. Emily’s back kept arching off the desk, as though she was desperately urging my wife to pleasure her to greater and greater heights, and my wife was obliging. Emily then moaned loudly ‘You always love to get your fingers inside me, don’t you Samantha; your fingers, or your tongue’. It was obvious that Samantha was bringing Emily closer and closer to climax.”

I could feel Veronica’s stockinged foot now stroking my inner thigh under my skirt, the hem of which by this time was sitting high up my thigh. My head was beginning to be filled with all kinds of sensations that I had never experienced before. My head was light with wine, my flushed face was drenched in warmth, and my body was feeling increasingly vulnerable to what was a powerful lust building inside of me; a lust that I was feeling ever more unable to control. It was as though time was standing still and that nothing else mattered other than the intense, warm feeling that was gathering between my legs. I pressed my back firmly against the wooden panel of the booth as Veronica’s toes beginning to press insistently towards the tops of my thighs, which were still quite close together.

“Read, Lucy,” Veronica urged again. I swallowed hard.

“I...can’t,” I replied, my voice cracking as I felt her toes move close the elastic at the edge of my panties. “I...erm...” My mind was beginning to spin.

“You can’t, Lucy? Why ever not?” I let out a little gasp as I felt Veronica turn her foot slightly and press harder between my thighs, opening them a little more. I felt half-words beginning to form on my lips, which then disappeared, as though I was trying to say something but my mouth wouldn’t let me.

“I think you are enjoying this, aren’t you Lucy,” she purred. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. I felt as though she was penetrating my mind and moving into its depths. “I also think you need to open your legs a little for me, don’t you.”

Her words burned inside me and almost involuntarily I felt my thighs part slightly. I looked into Veronica’s eyes, which were now devouring me.

“Good girl,” she said, as her toes made their way to the edge of my panties and began to run up and down them, playing with the elastic on the leg; the only thing between my now tingling desire and her insistent, probing toes. My mind was awash with thoughts and images which were relentlessly, but deliciously, removing whatever was remaining of my self-control. I couldn’t stop thinking of Samantha Sutton as her hand worked and teased inside Emily’s panties, aware that I was beginning to experience many of the same sensations of almost uncontrollable sexual excitement and desire; the desire to be pleasured and controlled until I could bear it no more.

I bit my lip as slowly, but surely, Veronica’s toes began to drift over the fabric of my panties and lightly tease the yielding lips of my sex. I had almost forgotten what sexual arousal was, but that somehow seemed irrelevant. I had never experienced the tingling need that was taking control of me between my legs right at that moment. Her toes were supple and precise, her big toe sliding up and down my opening and then deftly pressing into the material and finding the nub of intense pleasure, which she slowly began to circle and press on. I could hear little gasps escaping my lips but was unable to contain them. I parted my legs a little wider, as though nothing else mattered at that moment other than the desires of my body.

“Cotton panties?” she whispered. “I expected something a little more exotic from you, Lucy. Now take them off.”

In the gloomy stillness of the booth, Veronica’s words were all I heard and all I could respond to. I felt as though my mind was yielding and my desire for her control was all that mattered. I bit my lip again, lifted my bottom off the seat a little, and eased my skirt up my thighs, before sliding my fingers into the waistband of my panties, slipping them down my thighs, and allowing them to drop onto the floor. Almost immediately, Veronica’s toes were at the top of my inner thigh once more. I felt exposed; deliciously exposed.

“That’s much better, isn’t it Lucy. Now open your legs for me. I can tell what a needy girl you are.” I did I was told and allowed Veronica’s eyes, burning like a furnace, to inflame me once more as her toes drifted back up my inner thigh and over the puffy, moist lips of my labia. I pressed my back against the wall of the booth as I felt Veronica twist her foot slightly, allowing her toes to press tantalizingly against the moist humidity of my opening, which seemed to yield like drenched petals.

“You are so moist, Lucy,” she said, her voice now husky and rough. “You’re wetting the toe of my stockings, aren’t you?” At that, she suddenly pushed her toes against my entrance and I felt myself yield between my legs, which I parted still further to allow her to penetrate as deep as she wanted. I could feel myself flooding, covering her toes in the liquefied fruit of my need as she opened my wet flesh. As I felt her big toe find my swollen, sensitive bud, I felt my hand drifting down almost involuntarily between my legs, allowing my fingers to find my lips and pull them apart slightly. Veronica’s toe tantalized and teased my clit as I felt my desire building rapidly to an uncontrollable climax. The smooth abrasion of the nylon against my clit felt exquisite and I pushed greedily against her toes, urging her, almost begging her, to pleasure me with them. As Veronica’s toe slid inside me again, I moved my fingers between my legs and began to circle and rub my clit with two fingers, vibrating it and pleasuring it in a way that I had never pleasured it before. Between my legs, I felt drenched and increasingly in need of release. My little, stifled moans became ever more urgent as I reached the point where I knew I had lost all control. Suddenly, my climax broke between my legs and I felt my body jar and spasm over and over as Veronica kept pushing her stockinged toes in and out of me, covering them in the flow of lust that was flooding my sex in a way I had never experienced before.

Slowly but surely my breathing began to regain some regularity and I felt Veronica’s toes slide out of me. She slid them down my inner thigh. As she did so I could feel the nylon against the silky skin, slick and smooth with my lust. Gradually, her toes moved all the way down my leg before slipping it back inside her shoe. I discreetly began to pull my skirt back down over my thighs. I watched as Veronica drained the last of her wine from her glass, her eyes still hot and hungry.

“I expect to see you in my office at nine o’clock on Monday morning,” Veronica said firmly. “Over the weekend I want you to become totally familiar with the contents of that file. For the next few weeks you are going to live and breathe this case. Is that understood?” I nodded, still barely unable to move. Something inside whispered to me that the next few weeks were probably going to be nothing short of a roller coaster ride that I was going to be completely unable to get off.

Copyright: All of my stories are written entirely by myself. Please do not copy or repost them.

Copyright 2015: claire2013 All Rights Reserved. This story may not be copied, reproduced, or linked in any manner without the express written permission of the author.