I’m bored. Luckily, we have a law student in the office for a couple of weeks of work experience, as we do every year. But this one carries himself with a degree of confidence which suggests either entitlement or potential.
Time to find out which.
I push my chair back, but before I stand, I turn my head to flash an enigmatic smile over my shoulder toward the student.
“David! I need your height to help retrieve some documents. Follow me.”
He’s a whisker over six feet, compared to my five-seven, so tall shelves are a barely plausible excuse to be alone in the file room with him. My colleagues will not be fooled. And no-one gossips like lawyers gossip, so I imagine my reputation will precede me. The alacrity with which David stands certainly suggests it does.
I confess I’m not skilled at flirting: I prefer to be indirectly direct.
I stand too close to David, and every time he reaches up to bring down whatever file I’ve indicated, my hand will inadvertently brush against his ass, or his arm will make unavoidable contact with my breasts. When he turns to place the file on the trolley, I might momentarily — and entirely accidentally! — touch his thigh.
Legally speaking, this is sexual harassment. Luckily, none of our placement students has ever complained to HR: I’m a good judge of character, albeit some judgments can only be made in camera.
David tolerates my attentions briefly, but after the fifth file I’ve reached his limit. When my fingers graze his fly, and the noticeable bulge now sheltering behind it, he grabs my wrist in his right hand.
“Ms Turnbull, if you don’t stop touching me, I might start touching back.”
I know exactly how to deal with that sort of threat. I speak calmly, deliberately, and with absolute authority: “Let go of me.”
He obeys, but there’s no shame or embarrassment on his face, only an intrigued half-smile.
I chose well. I step forward, and turn, so my back is to the shelves. With a last, light stroke of his arm, I raise my own arms above my head, crossing my wrists.
“Thank you. I just needed to be sure you recognised a clear no. You can replace your hand now.”
He’s a law student, so I already knew he was intelligent, but he proves he’s got smarts too: he pins my wrists with his left hand. Then he waits, silently, like he needs permission.
“Well, David? Are you going to make good on your threat?”
I’ve found the first touches of sophomore law students can be broken down into three broad categories:
Virgins and utter spunktrumpets go straight for my pussy. If David does shove his hand up my skirt, I’ll allow him to touch me just long enough for my scent on his fingers to torment him all the way to the bathroom, but then we’ll be done.
Mummy’s boys begin at my breasts. If that is his target, I’ll let him play a little. If he plays well… well, we’ll see where that goes, but it probably won’t go as far as he wants.
Real men will touch me literally anywhere else, but the less obviously erogenous their choice, the higher they rank.
David raises his hand… and runs one fingertip along my jawline, ending under my chin, where he applies a gentle upward pressure.
Jackpot.
He holds my gaze as firmly as he’s holding my wrists. “I hear you like to play games, Ms Turnbull.”
“I do. Let’s play Hot and Cold. I’m thinking of a part of my body. Try to find it.”
His finger trails down my neck to the notch above my breastbone.
“Cold.”
He diverts right, to run a fingertip down the silk-covered slope of my breast.
“Getting warmer… cooler… warmer… cooler.”
He ignores my mixed signals as he repeatedly circles my nipple until it’s engorged enough to become a signal of its own. Then his finger slides slowly down my stomach.
“Warmer. Much warmer.”
When his finger hits my waistband, I offer him an encouraging, “Getting hot now!”
He ignores that, just as he ignores, “Hmm, growing colder,” when his finger runs down my thigh.
But when he reaches the hem, he changes direction. His hand slides under my skirt to begin a slow journey up my outer thigh.
“Mmm, much hotter!”
His eyebrows flicker when he encounters a lacy stocking top, but he stays on track, which earns him a quick, “Sweltering!”
His eyebrows raise along with his hand when he reaches my waist without finding any indication of underwear. But my waist is not where I want him to be.
“Cold.”
He moves sideways, and down, to caress my smoothly waxed mons.
“Getting hotter again!” I shuffle my feet a little further apart, allowing his hand to cup my pussy. “Positively humid now!”
One fingertip slips between my slick lips to rest at my entrance.
“Scorching!”
He nods. “Yes, I feel the heat. Did I win, then? Because I believe that means I pick the next game. So, I’ll ask you one question. You can have as many guesses as you like, but every time you guess wrong, you pay a forfeit.”
We’ll see. As long as the forfeits are fun, the game can continue. “Okay. What’s your question?”
His finger presses against me, promising penetration. “What do you call a woman who allows a man she barely knows to touch her the way I’m touching you?”
