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On the Advice of Counsel
By
MaineBoyXY
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The first day of summer internship for rising third year law students is pretty much the same at our firm every year.  They come in wearing on their face a blend of pride at having made their way through our selective application process and trepidation at the realization that the school books were behind them--that now they were in the real world and they’d be on the verge of practicing law.  Of course, they’d really be doing a lot of grunt work:  researching case history, cross-checking citations, making copies, proof-reading briefs, hell, even picking up laundry for the partners on the litigation teams to which they’d been assigned.  It wasn’t a glamorous job, but successful completion increased exponentially the likelihood of being hired right out of law school.  And the six-figure salary our firm pays freshly minted attorneys is always appealing to the youthful ego and the practical needs of a deeply indebted former law student’s budget.

As I passed a few interns in the corridors on orientation morning for this fresh batch, I grinned inwardly remembering my own awkward self-consciousness three years ago when I’d been one of them.  Now, in my short tenure at the firm, I’d confirmed the impression of self-motivated reliability I’d made as an intern.  I was easily in the top five percent of my “freshman class,” a label applied to all the associates hired in the same year throughout the firm’s many offices, nationwide and abroad, until the first of our number was promoted out of the depths of junior associate.  Those promotions could happen at any time after the two-year anniversary, and I was confident I’d be among the first.

Orientation lasted through the morning.  After lunch, the interns were introduced to their teams.  My civil appeals team had been assigned two interns.  One, Mark, had a bookish look, and his face was colored with the pale sheen of nervous anticipation.  He was about 5’10, average build, average brown hair, average glasses.  Average.  I could tell what to expect of him already; we all could.  He’d do what he was told, and he’d give it all he had, and he’d do it to standard.  But he’d never really have initiative:  he wouldn’t think up anything new or contribute a fresh perspective.  He was a foot soldier, which is why, although he didn’t know it yet, he’d never be hired here.  The firm took on a couple of these kids as interns every cycle and assigned them to the overworked departments.  Ours was one.

Andrew was the other intern, and that’s all he and Mark had in common.  Andrew was at least 6’4”.  He was slender and, even through his suit--suits aren’t really designed to show anything off--I could tell he was layered in lean muscle.  His skin was the color of fresh cream and his face looked like he’d never had a pimple in his life.  His eyes were dark, impenetrable, like polished volcanic obsidian.  His short, jet-black hair was styled into a fake tousle in a way conspicuously inconsistent with the attorney stereotype, especially at this firm.  To say that his manner betrayed no unease would be more than understatement.  He sat there, wholly confident.  In fact, if he’d taken the effort to smirk--everything about him was a casual nonchalance, from the way he looked at his watch to the way he had stretched in his chair as we had milled about the conference room before the meeting started--he would have looked smug.

Our team’s supervisory partner, Jack--it wasn’t a nickname, his parents had actually named him Jack in one of those pangs of eccentric and ironic informality that occasionally strike strict, conservative, demanding old-money families--described our current caseload and how they, the interns, would be contributing to our work.  We then worked our way around the conference table, introducing ourselves, relaying where we’d gone to school, for whom we’d clerked, how long we’d been with the firm, which cases we were working on.  Our team is informal (relatively speaking) so we weren’t sitting in any particular order.  The two interns sat in the middle on one side of the long, oblong table, and the rest of us sat mostly opposite them, some of us spilling over to the ends of the other side.  So it was that, even though I was the second-most junior member--unlike other divisions, appellate got a new associate every year in our office due to our workload --I was the fifth from last to introduce myself.

Mark and Andrew had maintained good eye contact with each of us as we spoke so, when it was my turn, I found my eyes meeting Andrew’s for the first time.  Something there caught me off guard, the way his gaze held mine.  I remember that I actually paused mid-sentence, my mind going blank for an instant, when I switched from Mark to Andrew.  I quickly turned my face towards the mirrored mahogany conference table, cleared my throat and continued.  When I’d regained my momentum and train of thought, I glanced up again, but, for some reason, I only looked at Mark.  I ignored Andrew, even tuning him out from my peripheral vision.  When I finished, I naturally turned to my left as Denise, a senior associate, took her turn.

I don’t know why, but as she spoke, I cautiously glanced back to the interns.  Mark, as ever, was looking at her rapt with interest, nodding, absorbing her biography as if it were some fascinating tale of mystery and suspense; Andrew was still staring at me.  Again, I froze, my eyes caught in his.  Again, after a brief pause, only a fraction of a second, I could break away, but that fraction of a second felt like a lifetime.  Again, I turned away and softly cleared my throat.  I could feel red crawling up from my collar over my neck and cheeks as the blush broke out.  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and reached for a glass and the ubiquitous carafe of water from the center of the table.  My hand trembled as I poured--not so much as to be noticed by anyone else, but I could tell.  As I replaced the carafe, my eyes passed over his reflection in the burnished wood of the table.  He was still staring at me!  I kept my eyes down to avoid his as I gulped.

I felt an almost palpable relief when the meeting ended.  I stood and realized I was clammy with perspiration.  Jack stopped by as everyone milled about idly chatting on their way back to their offices.

“You OK, Rob?  Coming down with something?” he asked.

“Nah,” I shrugged it off, my discomfort rising since I now knew everyone had been able to detect something was wrong.  I was a young Turk, not arrogant by any means, civil, polite, but ambitious.  And aggressive.  But not today.  Not now.  “Just a hot flash,” I grinned.  It was May, after all.  He accepted the explanation, and I turned back to my office.

It wasn’t until Thursday that I ran into Andrew again.  I hadn’t been avoiding him, in fact I’d seen him in the corridors but only at a distance of tens of yards.  It was the deadline for a filing in federal circuit court, so I’d gotten there exceptionally early to make sure I finished with time to revise and get it to the clerk’s office with time to spare.  I pulled into the underground parking garage and was in the process of pulling out my briefcase, laptop carrier, and accordion folder--long night at home, the office away from the office--when I heard another car pull in.  I walked over to the elevator and pushed the call button.  My head was lost in a whirl of citations as I mentally went through the checklist for the day.  The elevator arrived and I stepped in and fingered the button for my floor.  A voice called out, “Hold it, please!”  I naturally moved my foot in front of the sliding door, blocking the infrared sensor.  Andrew jogged around the corner.  We made eye contact.  We were both surprised.  He smiled broadly.  It was an evil smile.

“Hey, Rob!” he said.  His voice was deep, somewhat airy, effortless.  He wasn’t lazy, he enunciated well, but there was something at the back of it like a stoned California surfer, something that just reinforced that whole casual, disinterested attitude.

“Hey, Andrew,” I replied without enthusiasm.  I found myself dreading the trip from B3 to 15.

“Want me to carry something for you?” he asked.  I held my briefcase in one hand, the laptop in the other, and had the accordion file tucked under my arm.  Without waiting for an answer, he reached for the accordion file.  One hand slipped along my hip, and even through my suit, shirt, and undershirt, I felt my skin tingle.  “Woah, it’s heavy!” he said.  “Is this the Pamunkey case Randy was talking about?”

My lead case was an appeal involving an Indian tribe trying to enjoin the Army Corps of Engineers from issuing a permit to a municipality to build a damn on tribal property.  “Yeah,” I replied.  “We’re filing a response today.”

“Cool, anything I can do to help?”

I stared at the panel in front of me.  I wouldn’t mind having someone proof-read the filing.  And on its face, it sounded like a genuine offer.  He was an intern, after all.  He was there to help.  And it would be a learning experience.  But something in his tone, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, didn’t ring right.  “Uh,” I wavered.

He put his hand--the one not holding my accordion file--on my shoulder.  Somehow I suppressed an instinctive urge to jump.  I looked at his hand, then up to his face.  His eyes sparkled.  They were black, like a shark’s in those documentaries as its head emerges from the water, jaws gaping, teeth jutting, closing in around an innocent baby seal or something.  He smiled.  His teeth shone in the dim light of the elevator.  White teeth.  Black eyes.

“Meeeep!” is the little scream those baby seals make in those documentaries as the jaws close in on their little bodies.  It’s the sound that filled my head as I looked at him, his hand still on my shoulder, smiling at me in that confined little box as we moved upward.  “Uh, sure, Andrew, I’ll probably be done around lunch.  You want to proof it for me?” was the sound that escaped my throat.

“Great!” he actually sounded excited.  “Man, I’d been hoping to get a chance to work with you all week.”  I felt slightly flattered, but mostly anxious.  What did that mean, exactly?  As we stood there, in the confined little box, under the watchful eye of the security camera, not only being recorded for posterity but being watched, live, in the security booth on the first floor, he used his grip on my shoulder to turn me slightly.  We’d been standing parallel, facing the front of the car, but he moved me into an oblique angle.  I offered no resistance, mostly because I hadn’t expected it and it took me by surprise.  He removed his hand as his eyes left mine, traveling slowly down the front of my body.  “Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to this all week,” he repeated softly.

I felt my eyes widen as he so blatantly checked me out in the elevator of my place of business.  I was debating whether or not to say something, and if so what, when the bell sounded that we’d arrived at our floor.  His eyes darted back up to mine, he flashed me a smile, and then stepped off into the hall.  As he strolled through the maze of corridors, secretarial cubicles, conference rooms, and storage areas, I trailed along after him like a puppy.  At my office, his hand grabbed the knob.  I saw his expression cloud for the first time as he reacted in surprise, then disappointment, to find it locked.  The easygoing façade was hastily reconstructed as he turned, grinning.

He stepped back from the door as I caught up to him, set the briefcase down, and retrieved my keys from my jacket pocket.  At many large firms, junior associates didn’t even rate offices, but it was another perk of the job here.  Of course, it didn’t have an outside window, but it was more secure and private than a cubicle, and I was free to decorate it as I chose--short of the standard issue desk, small, round consulting table and pair of chairs, lamp, and wooden file cabinet.  I opened the door.  Andrew picked up my briefcase and followed me in.

“OK if put these on the table?” he asked.

“Please,” I replied.  In my office, my own little fiefdom, I felt a reassuring surge of relative power.  Here, we were surrounded by the vestiges of my superiority over him:  I was the employee, albeit junior, and he was just the temporary help.  “Andrew?” I asked softly, not timidly, but in a tone my colleagues recognized as artfully disarming before I undercut an opponent’s argument.  But I was outmatched.  He knew exactly where I was headed and he cut me off at the pass.

“Hey, Rob, I’m sorry if I was a little obvious in the elevator.  Everyone I’ve worked with all week long says you’re the guy to watch in this division, that Jack’ll be around for a while for sure, but you’ll probably be taking his place in a decade or so when he retires.  So I figure I can learn a lot from you.”  He managed to say it all without sounding the least bit obsequious.  His eyes were full of sincerity.  He moved from the table closer to the desk, which I’d stepped behind.  He bit his lower lip for a minute, then grinned at me.  “And besides, you’re really hot.”

I looked at him blankly.  In my head, I knew I was attracted to him.  I knew I had been from the very beginning.  I also knew it would be a serious mistake to get involved with an intern, since my evaluation would play a part in the decision to make him an employment offer in the fall (conditional on the completion of his degree and passing the bar the following spring).  And, if he did get hired, and I knew he was exactly the sort of motivated student who would be, he’d probably be assigned to the appellate division where he was interning.  He’d be a colleague, a junior, reporting to me after my promotion.  It would be bad in so many ways.  Then a thought hit me from thin air.

“Andrew, how did you know I’m gay?”

He laughed, genuinely amused.  It was a great laugh, too.  “Jesus, come on, Rob.”

I don’t think anyone at the firm knew at the time that I was gay.  It wasn’t that I was in the closet, or that I’d lied about it.  It hadn’t ever come up.  Even here, nominally in the South, the firm’s nondiscrimination policy included sexual orientation; it was an international firm, after all.  Admittedly, I’m not effeminate and there’s nothing about my speech or mannerisms that could be called obvious--other than ruthless exercise, good grooming, and sartorial style (in my own preppy, conservative way).  But it wasn’t like I was hiding.  The workload for junior associates isn’t exactly conducive to any kind of social life, though, and since I’d only casually dated in college and law school, I didn’t have anyone established or settled.

That’s not to say I’d been monastically celibate for the past two years, of course.  I’m relatively good-looking:  blond, green eyes, about 6’, 170, fit.  You know how it goes, right?  Working out in the gym, a guy looks over at you, you look at him.  It’s 5:30 in the morning, the place is mostly deserted because it’s a holiday for anyone with a normal job.  You smile, he smiles, you go to the locker room, he follows.  So, yeah, my sex life had been a lot of jerking off with the occasional blow job thrown in, but it wasn’t the kind of thing that makes it back to the office.

“No, seriously,” I pressed Andrew.

His mirth faded and he looked at me intently.  He leaned on my desk, using his height to advantage as he moved his face close to mine.  I could smell the mint of his toothpaste or mouthwash.  “I don’t care whether you’re gay or not,” he said softly.  “I want you.”  I stared back, dumbfounded.  He smiled again and pressed the tip of his tongue to his upper lip.

He backed away.  “Anyway, I have to get some stuff ready for Randy for his nine o’clock today.  Man, that guy’s a real slave driver.  Give me a call when you’re ready to use me.”  His words hung in the air, then he turned and walked away.

Work after that was nearly impossible, but I forced myself to it.  I kept having to consciously banish recurring thoughts of Andrew--his body, his voice, the way I tingled when he touched me.  At one point, Jessie, the communal secretary for the associates in appellate, buzzed my office to tell me Jack wanted to do lunch next week.  After I shook myself awake for her call, I realized I’d been daydreaming.  I’d written Andrew’s full name out on a Post-It note and below it were a series of doodles.  Most of them were indecipherable, but those I could make out were clearly obscene.  I was horrified.  I tore the note to shreds and laid into my work with frenzy.  From then on till lunch, I managed to continue uninterrupted.

I buzzed Jessie to tell her I was printing the filing while I stepped out to lunch.  She’d stop in to check the printer, make sure it didn’t jam or run out of paper, and make a copy for proofing.  She knew I always liked to edit my own work, but office policy required at least one other set of eyes on any document being sent to a client or filed in court.  She pampered me because, unlike most attorneys, I typed my own documents rather than dictate them for transcription.

Leaving the office for lunch is mandatory, not because of office policy but because it’s the only way to stay sane.  When the typical day starts at 5:00, and you’re in the office from 8:00 in the morning to 9:00 at night, or later, you simply have to walk away for an hour in the middle.  There was a deli on the corner of our block, and across from there was a park.  Without fail, unless it was raining, I ordered my sandwich from the office, walked to the deli to collect it, and spent the time in the park.  If it rained, I ate in the deli.

I returned from lunch to find the filing printed and copied.  Jessie was great.  (She made cookies once in a while, too.)  I dialed Andrew’s extension.

“Hey, I’ve got the Pamunkey filing printed and copied,” I told him.

“Great, Rob, why don’t you drop it off and I’ll look it over?”  Something struck me about his tone as I acknowledged and put the receiver back in the cradle.  It sounded overly sweet.  Slightly demanding and condescending, but artificially nice, too.

I grabbed the photocopy and walked out of my office.  I made my way the short distance to the cubicle farm where Jessie and the interns sat and dropped the bulky stack of binder-clipped paper on to his desk.  He was on the phone.  He looked up and smiled.  I smiled back.  Jessie glanced up from her dictation, eyebrow askew.  I smiled at her, too, then turned back to my office.  That’s when it hit me.  It wasn’t just his tone, it was what he’d said.  He’d asked me to bring it to him.  He was the intern; he ought to have come by my office to collect it!  He’d look it over?  It was a court filing, prepared by a practicing attorney.  And not just any practicing attorney.  Me.  I was giving it to him for review, not approval!  Back in my office, I seethed.  This relationship was heading in the wrong direction.  He was a subordinate, after all, and while it wasn’t particularly in my nature to pull rank on anyone, I was beginning to feel like he was taking liberties with me no one else in the office would have tolerated.  Maybe it was proximity in age.  Maybe it was because he’d revealed his attraction to me, sensed my reciprocation, and thought there was some relaxation of protocol.  Whatever it was, it needed to be addressed and soon…before it became the foundation for the next two months.  I decided to bring it up when he came back with the filing.  And he would be bringing it to me, that’s for damned sure, I resolved.  I took out a red felt-tip and began plowing through the lengthy jargon.

I had finished my edits and was revising the electronic version when the knock came.  “Yeah,” I called out.  The door opened and Andrew walked in.  He’d shed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves.  His cream-colored forearms seemed almost luminescent under the fluorescent lighting, very fine hair thinly brushed over the skin.

“Hey there,” he said coyly, leaning back against the door after he swung it closed.  I looked up at him, exasperated.

“Listen, Andrew, I think this is really going the wrong direction.  I think that you and I need to hit the reset button and kind of recalibrate our relationship here,” I began.

His demeanor changed immediately.  His smile vanished, his face growing stern.  He stopped leaning on the door and stood fully erect, his posture perfect.  “You know, Rob, I think you’re right.  I think that would be a very good idea,” he said coolly as he stalked from the door to my desk.  He didn’t stop at the far side, but rounded the corner and moved into position beside my chair.  Seated, I was dwarfed by him.  “I think that we did start out on the wrong foot, and that now someone is rising above his proper station.”  He tossed the copied filing down on the desk and turned my chair, and me in it, around to him.  “Fortunately, I think I know how to correct this situation.  I think it’s time for you to suck my dick.”

I stared up at him, shocked into paralysis.  My mouth fell open, then I closed it.  He reached down to his fly and opened it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked incredulously.

“I’m going to give you what you’ve been wanting since Monday afternoon, Robbie boy, so that you can get it out of your head, so that you won’t be distracted by it.  Then we can get down to real business.  No more need to break the ice, no awkward small talk, no denying what we want or need,”  he continued as he reached into his fly and fished out his dick.  When it fell clear of his trousers, I was amazed again.  It was completely flaccid but it was easily five inches long and thick enough to fill my curled fingers.

“Get the fuck out of my office!” I said hoarsely.

“Mmm, I don’t think so, Robbie,” he answered.  He wrapped his long fingers around my head and pulled my face in to his crotch.  I put my hands on his hips to fight him, but he’d moved too quickly and my face was pressed against him before I could react.  “Smell it, bitch boy, smell my crotch!” he ordered.

“Let me go!” I yelled into his crotch, my words and voiced muffled.  I tried pushing against him, but there was no leverage as he leaned over me.  I was sitting in my wheeled desk chair, my head pulled far forward into his lap.

He held me still.  “Robbie, listen.  Calm down.  Just suck me off.  You know you want to.  If you don’t, I’ll piss on you.  Think about how that’s going to look.  You’ll storm out of your office, covered in my piss.  You won’t get out of that, you can’t hide in here all day.  It’s only 3:30.  Your suit, your chair, your carpet, they’ll all reek of my piss for days, man.  Just let it go.  Just blow me off and I’ll let you go.”

“Fuck you!  You wouldn’t dare!  You’d be toast so fast…” I started to argue.

“Yeah, yeah, like I wouldn’t get fired for what I’ve already done anyway, so what’s to stop me from pissing on you?”

“Fuck you!” I yelled.

“OK, then, here I go,” he retorted.

Panic struck.  “No!  Wait!”  He was right, I couldn’t let him piss all over me.  I didn’t doubt he’d do it, either--he was apparently completely fucked up.  How the hell would I explain it to the partners?  That he just went psycho, with no warning, and whipped it out and pissed all over me?  What about the security tape from this morning in the elevator?  It had no audio, but it would show him checking me out, and it sure didn’t look like I had complained.  “Jesus, Andrew, just let me go!”

“No way, crossed the Rubicon now, Robbie, you’ve got to suck me.”

“Fuck!” I yelled.  I tried pushing away from him again to no avail.  His hands had locked around my head, his fingers buried in my hair.  His dick was pressed up against my cheek as my nose was crushed against his groin. It felt incredibly hot and I could tell it was somewhat firmer than it had been.

“I’m going to count to three, Robbie boy.  No negotation.  No persuasion.  At three, I’m going to open up if your lips aren’t around my knob.”  He paused for a second to let his terms sink in.  I sighed.  Was there any choice?  There wasn’t any between being soaked or sucking him off, apparently.  As inhaled, I caught the scent of his crotch.  God, it smelled great!  But I couldn’t do this!  Not like this!  Not to him!  “One.”

“Come on, man, don’t do this!” I pleaded.

“Two.”

“You know you’re going to be done in this business, right?  You might as well just drop out of law school after this, you sick fuck!” I yelled.

“Three,” he replied.

“OK!  OK!” I yelled.  “I’ll do it!  Loosen up on my head so I can put it in my mouth!”  His grip loosened, and I tilted my face and let the head of his cock slip between my lips.  He took one hand off my head and leaned back, resting it on his hip.  He tilted my head up so our eyes met.  He could read the anger in mine as well as I could read the smug superiority in his.

“So, you want to drink it instead of wearing it?” he asked, smirking.

My eyes widened and I tried to back off, shaking my head no.  He smiled and pulled my head closely into his crotch again.  His soft shaft filled my mouth, and I began to feel it swelling.  I clenched my eyes shut as he buried my nose in his fly.  I was silently praying that he didn’t piss in my throat.  I’d never been into that stuff, I’d just been an average, vanilla guy.  No kinks, no fetishes.

“Hey, Robbie, if you want this to end, you’d better start sucking.  You’re not getting off that thing until I cum.”  I grimaced and began to suck and move my tongue along the bottom of his shaft.  Nevertheless, I was relieved he wasn’t making me drink his piss.  I slowly started bobbing my head up and down as his dick starting swelling into full erection.  It didn’t take long, really.  He started moaning and rocking his hips, one hand on the back of my head guiding me up and down.

“Mmm, yeah, you give great head, Robbie.  Work that fucking cock, suck boy.  Make it feel real good, just like you’re doing right now.”  I grunted.  I kept sucking and he kept sliding his cock in and out.  It grew to a good eight inches or more when it was hard.  I knew I had drool running down my chin, because when he bottomed out in my throat I had to completely relax to avoid gagging.  I knew, too, that some of my drool was getting on his trousers, discoloring the tan-colored silk.  My eyes were still closed, I was concentrating on getting him off and getting this ordeal over with, when he called down to me.

“Hey, Robbie, say ‘cheese!’”  I looked up to discover he’d taken out his cell phone, one of those models with the digital camera.  He snapped the picture of me, my head back, my eyes open wide, his cock embedded in my throat between my spit-covered lips.  He smiled and I yelled in protest around his thick fuckstick.  He responded by burying it completely in my throat.  I gagged, and then panicked as I realized I couldn’t breathe.  I started pounding on his hips with my fists, and he eventually let my head slide back.  I sucked in a deep breath through my nose just before he pulled my back down.  My eyes began to tear and I felt my nose start running.  He repeated this over and over, backing off just long enough for me to gasp in a breath, which became harder and more desperate as snot ran down my nostrils.

“God, I love the feeling of my cock buried deep in a cocksucker’s throat as he gags around it.  Struggle, Robbie!  That’s right, fight it, man!  You’re my bitch now!  I’ve got you on film and I’m going to use you any time I want.  Big shot lawyer making his way up the ladder, but deep down inside he’s really a little bitch boy who needs to be abused.  Well, I’m your man, Robbie boy, I’m going to use you real good, in ways you didn’t even know you needed.”

I was on the edge of blacking out, the lack of oxygen taking its toll on my brain.  I felt my limbs go limp, my arms dropping to my sides, my legs falling loosely under the chair.  I slid out of it and landed on my knees, his hand holding me upright to receive his pummeling.  I was barely aware as he slid back so only the head remained inside my mouth.  I gasped through my nose as he pumped his load onto my tongue.  “Yeah, bitch, swallow that load!  Eat my spunk!  Now you’re going to digest them and they’re always going to be part of you.  Just like you’re always going to be my bitch.  Until I get tired of you anyway.”

He soaked the knob in my mouth for a minute, then plunged his softening cock all the way in.  He pulled back out and wiped it dry on my cheeks--as dry as possible considering the slobber and tears on my face.  He released my head and I fell back on my haunches, against the chair and the desk, trying to catch my breath.  He tucked himself back in, the wet spot on his crotch huge and very obvious.  It didn’t look like he’d pissed himself, or creamed his shorts.  I guess an ignorant observer wouldn’t know what the hell had happened, just that it wasn’t right, whatever it was.  He pointed to my lap.

“See, Robbie, I told you you were a little bitch boy.  Your little cock liked that, and so did you!”  I tilted my head down.  The crotch of my own trousers was also wet.  I hadn’t cum yet, but my throbbing hard on--which I’d only then been made aware of--had been drooling, too.

“Fuck you,” I muttered hoarsely.  My voice sounded terrible, my throat abused by Andrew’s long, thick dick.

“Hey, look on the bright side, Robbie boy, it’s only 4:10!  You still have twenty minutes to get that filing to the clerk’s office before it closes and you lose your job!”  I leapt up with a start.  Fuck!  The filing!  I hadn’t finished the edits yet!  It had to be filed in before the end of the day today!  I turned to my printed copy, covered in my handwritten corrections.

“Aw, don’t worry, bitch.  Turn in my copy, I finished all the edits for you.  I mean, you won’t have time to correct your own copy and print it and run it to the courthouse.”  Andrew looked at his watch.  “In fact, I hope you’re a fast runner, because you won’t get it there in 4:00 traffic in the car.”

I looked at the clock on my desk.  He was right.  I looked at the copy of the filing he’d thrown on his desk.  It wasn’t the copy Jessie had made; he’d altered the copy on the network and printed out a new one.  Fuck!  Did I trust him?  My job was on the line now.  I was indecisive.  Time was wasting.  I had to file something.  Something had to be better than nothing.  He was right, if I missed the deadline, I would be seriously fucked with the partners.  Fuck the promotion, I’d probably be fired.  Panicked, I grabbed his copy of the filing, grabbed my jacket, and darted for the door.  It would be close.  Too close.

I threw open the office door, there was no time to fix my hair or wash my face.  I wiped my cheeks on the sleeve of my shirt and tore down the hall, headed for the stairs.

“Don’t worry, Rob, I’ll wait for you here until you get back,” I heard Andrew call after me.

Author's Note:  Thanks to E. for providing the kernel of this story.  I'm prepared to extend it but only if there's reader interest:  email me at MaineBoyXY.  Also, in addition to the full story list on my freshly updated FAQ site, a list of my stories is now available on the Nifty Prolific Authors page.