Dutch Blackmail

A curious thing about the offices of every major law firm is that somehow, whatever the décor, the same hush prevails in almost every one. Noise is absorbed and deadened, leaving only the barely perceptible whirring of a machine of people, trained professionals generating billable hours. She had remarked on that still soundscape when she'd first arrived for her initial in-office interview almost 20 years ago; she was reminded of it again today as she nimbly hopped up the staircase from the in-office barista on the 27th.

Physically the two decades had been more than kind to her. She made no noise as she purposefully strode the corridor in her habitual Ferragamo toe pumps. Emerging from her shoes were long and toned legs that rose into a tailored, forest green cashmere dress, belted with a darker green crocodile belt. The dress was discreet, and yet it was tight and indiscreet enough to draw attention to an athletically toned body (a testament to genetics and a disciplined regime of exercise) and high, C-cup breasts. These high and rounded breasts were contained in a lacy bra that provided some support, but not so much as to stop all sway. She was tall, and with heels was not far off 5'10". She was lean, with a tight abdomen and slim but well-defined muscles in her arms. Her hair was structured into a carefully, if naturally, waved mane of blonde hair. She disliked her bum (athletic but not the taut, slim model's bum she wished she had), but many men seemed to like its graceful curve, and so she accepted it and wore thongs to ensure a smooth line of her dress. Her face was aristocratic, high-cheek-boned, even somewhat stern (some might say haughty) unless softened by her dazzling and engaging smile.

She was a successful, rain-making partner, feeding and watering a dozen junior partners and associates with a steady flow of corporate work in the media sector. She had equally successfully mentored several cohorts of female lawyers, some of whom were on partner track. It was in relation to this that she was frowning as she reflected on the meeting that had taken place in an internal meeting room behind the coffee lounge.

The young lawyers had to bill impossibly high numbers of hours. The days were long, bleeding into late nights and weekends. Paid hundreds of thousands of dollars, but with limited outside opportunity to flirt and find sex, they frequently coupled and decoupled in the office. The post-Covid return to the office had (if anything) made this even more frantic. She and her husband (promoted again to run another division of a global bank) had discussed this at one of the infrequent times they were in New York together. Employee manuals had all sorts of rules about this, but human nature was more powerful.

A young lawyer had come to see her. A graduate of one of the smaller Ivy law schools, Laura used the woke expressions of her generation, but it was clear this younger lawyer had enough pragmatism to not risk her career in the inferno of a cause. This young lawyer was habitually assigned to the practice group of a corporate partner nicknamed Surinam who drew almost all his business from a crony/friendship with a partner at a private equity firm. (The head of the private equity firm had just emerged, heavily fined but otherwise unscathed, from a major tax dispute with the SEC). Surinam had an ambiguous relationship: the firm appreciated his billings, but he was not widely liked.

She'd had two scratch-ups with Surinam, both over which client the firm would represent. The choice had been relatively straightforward -- her large corporate client being picked both times -- but bad blood between them remained. Surinam had a reputation as someone who had used attractive, coffee-complexioned good looks and a great appetite for office politics to advance his position.

The young woman lawyer on Surinam's team had come to see her for two reasons: she was a woman and Surinam was not really trusted by his team. She had gone to talk to Surinam, and then backed out half-way into the conversation, choosing to talk to her instead.

The young woman had been the subject of a clumsy pass from a slightly more senior associate: a fumbled kiss and a groped ass at a bar. Listening to it she imagined the scene, dim light, cocktails flowing, two heads together in a circle of intimacy, hands straying, and a clumsy kiss attempt by the young man. Implicit consent but not explicit consent. A differential in the power dynamic, but not massively so. The young lawyer was filled with ideas that she should be outraged, but she wasn't. The situation had been managed: a firm no given. A firm no accepted.. The young woman wanted reassurance that she wasn't doing something wrong by not reporting it (and destroying her colleague's career). As clear as anything, she'd wanted to hear that the drunken pass was not worth a scene or a scandal or destroying his career or hers. That advice had been given, and both women seemed relieved by the outcome.

That done, the Blonder partner had left the conference room, fetched a coffee and walked up the flight of expensively architectural stairs.

She and Surinam worked on the same floor. As she turned the corner she saw that he was in loitering in his office door, waiting for and studying her progress down the hall to her office. His arms were crossed, giving off the faint air of a coach surveying his team as he confronted third and long.

She had to pass him to reach her corner office (a perk of her being a much bigger producer than him). His jealousy was palpable and could have been called chauvinist if that instinct wasn't secondary to his greed for money, to his thirst for position and to his undying hatred of anyone doing better than he. Surinam also had a recurring habit of staring at her tits. It was not even remotely clear if he hated her more than he wanted to fuck her, or vice versa. He fancied himself a ladies' man and tried to play up a tall frame (6'2"") and a solid (if not thin) athlete's build. His coffee complexion set off a much-brightened smile, but that smile was shallow and insincere. The annoying thing was they had both gone to the same university.

As she approached he momentarily gawked at her tits and then said, "Were you meeting with Laura?", naming the young female lawyer. His eyes were no longer fixed on her chest, and he was observing her with an intent look.

She nodded, trying to discern his primary motivations in asking.

"What about?". He tried to keep an impassive face, but his eyes gleamed with an indecipherable excitement.

"Career development."

He kept staring as she walked by. Leered, you might call it. His gaze swept her ass as she walked by. She kept a steady pace. She was aware he studied the slight sway of her tits and ass. She was aware he was probably plotting something. What was it?

This distracted her. She did not sit, but instead stood by angle of the windows that faced north and east. A Midtown streetscape sparkled below, crisp autumn sun shining off the acres of glass canyons and sprinkling the distant glimpses of river with flashes of light. A wedge of Central Park lay in her line of sight, bucolic and inviting.

She decided to clear her head with some exercise. She wavered about where to go. She'd find better facilities at her large and quite formal club facing the tumble of rock and trees on Central Park South, but she elected to work out at her university's club, which stood proudly sstreetside near Grand Central behind a façade of stone and arched windows. The gym and the pool were smaller, but the crowd would be much smaller too, particularly as it was a Friday.

The club's substantial doors stood sentinel-like under a blue awning; the doorman opened them for her and she paced to the changing rooms. She undressed to swim. Her conceit was to wear a bikini, which often caused staring. Dark blue, it cupped her breasts and the bikini bottom rose to just above where the line of where her pubic hair would be (if she wasn't completely waxed). The triangle over her ass was small, and accentuated a taut ass. The bathing suit teased the viewer with a sense that she was really bare-down-there. She had a very well-proportioned body: conventionally fit, not the bulging muscles of pro swimmers. From the day she had arrived in the US from Holland she marvelled at how many American women wanted to have a demure "modest one piece bathing suit" image, even if they were fantastic sluts. She'd worn a super-tight racing suit on the swim team at her Ivy university, and in some ways it was more revealing. And, she thought, it wouldn't be forever that she could get away with a bikini, so why not wear it?

She popped on a bathing cap. It was easy to slink into the pool. She swam a steady pace of laps, one flowing into another. Her racing turns at the end of each lap highlighted her taut ass off at each lap. She wasn't really clocking the one watcher, who sat immobile in a poolside chair. The two other women in the pool finished their swims and left the pool.

She continued for another 20 minutes. The club would be empty now. She could shower in peace and quiet.

She paused at the pool ladder and looked around. Her watcher was Surinam. He belonged to the club too (same university, after all), but this disconcerted her. It was borderline stalking. Being leered at in the pool by strangers was fine, but by him and at this today/now moment made her feel quite uncomfortable.

She climbed from the pool, dripping. The bare chill in the air perked her nipples to stiffness under the tight swimming suit. The water coursed over the bare skin of her belly and arms and legs, tracing and then plunging below the small waistband gap. She was conscious of his eyes on her as she walked, taut muscled and sinuous to pick up a fluffy, virginal white towel. She dried and then wrapped herself. Surinam (clad in a pool robe) stared at her, but said nothing. She nodded at him with what she hoped was a combination of contempt and strength.

The locker room wasn't overly busy, but still felt a sanctuary. The two other women swimmers were almost dressed; in fact one was already wearing her anonymous blue serge pantsuit. The other was shirtless, breasts swelling out of a bright red bra, drying her hair at the mirror.

Her locker was between the two women. She knotted her hair up in a bun, placed the towel on the brown leather of the changing bench, and untied her top to free her breasts. She wiggled out of the bottoms and then delicately slid some green flip flops from her locker. She walked to the shower naked; both other women took in her high, firm breasts and tight pink nipples. Red bra was standing by a full-length mirrored wall. She used the mirror to judge herself: her breasts were firm and high and her porcelain white skin contrasted nicely with the wood tones around. In Europe nudity of this sort in the locker room was not a big deal; even nudity by the pool wouldn't be a big deal in some countries.

She showered slowly, outwaiting Surinam (she hoped). He was a troublesome presence, and her mind wandered over various angles to deal with this

By the time she emerged from the shower the brunette was gone and the red-head was on the way out the door. She was alone. She looked at the door and then a reflective look crossed her face. After a moment's thought, she bent, moved her bag to the bench by wall, fiddled in it, and then carefully arranged it. She wrapped herself in a fresh towel and sat to dry her hair at the mirror.

The mirror afforded a clear view of the locker room door. That view became one of Surinam entering, still in his pool robe, deadbolting the door behind him.

She turned but he was already talking. He was blackmailing her. He motioned away interruptions and made it clear that she had 'abandoned a young lawyer at her moment of need, guiding her away from a complaint to the detriment of her honor and her soul' and he would back the lawyer up to the disciplinary committee. 'Counselling a junior to ignore assault... you may even lose the bar".

"Of course, I can forget about all of this if you do what I want". He leered at her.

"And what would that be?"

"You know."

"No. Spell it out." And he did. He would keep quiet if she let him fuck her 'like she deserved'. Otherwise "I'll report this, cause a major incident. "Your career will be a shitty mess of conflict, even if you beat the charges." So, sex and this all goes away. "Do we have a deal?"

"How do I know you will keep a deal?" she asked.

"We can jointly write the report on the incident."

They locked eyes. She rose from her chair, her towel ending just above her breasts and below her pussy, but she wore it with defiance.

"Do we have a deal?" he asked.

"Send me an email, right now, stating that you valued my intervention with Laura. That I gave excellent advice with which you fully agree, and that this is a case study on how to handle these difficult and ambiguous situations."

He stared at her, triumphantly. He tapped out an email and then approached her to show her his phone. She pressed Send. There was no signal in the locker room. It was trapped in his outbox.

He was glaring and gloating as he sat on the bench about six feet from her. "Now, my proud and arrogant colleague, take your towel off. I want to see you naked."

"Here? Are you mad?"

"The club is empty. It is work from home Friday. And I paid off the attendant. That email won't send until I leave, and I won't leave until you make me cum. So yes. Here. Get naked."

Her white towel was not much of a defense. There was a bulge in his dressing gown. They stared at each other across a distance of maybe eight feet in the middle of the room. She edged more to the center, he moved too.

"Off" he said.

She stared at him and, finally, unwrapped the towel and let it fall to the floor. Her hands went to her hips. She held his eyes, which were darting over her nude body.

"I knew you waxed your pussy. It looks so tight. I can't wait to be in it." He said, in a sort of leering and unpleasant tone.

He stood and untied his robe. His body was athletic, not perfectly toned but strongly muscled, big arms and not flabby. He had a straight slab of a cock, veined and maybe six inches and then some half erect. He was circumcized, and his shaft was topped by a dark red cockhead shaped like a plum. He threw the robe on the floor. He walked around her. Her eyes followed his cock, which was big. A shower or a grower? His flesh-wand swayed like a metronome as he walked. "Turn around for me". She ignored him, so he walked around her, soaking her in. She felt his hand stroke down her bare back and over the swell of her ass. He finished his walk round and then sat on the bench facing her, legs spread. His member had swelled more and rested like a plum-tipped ramp, a brown angle down from his shaved groin to the darker brown of the bench. His balls were like a pair of ripe kiwis.

"On your knees and suck my cock."

She pointed at the bench next to her. He shrugged and then moved. He sat again, cock now stiffer and larger. She walked over, deliberately swaying her tits as she did (let's get him excited because the sooner this was over, the better). His cock twitched and swelled.

"So, are you sure you still want to blackmail me into sex? To force me to fuck you?".

"Yes. I am. So I think a little cocksucking might be the best way forward. And I'm a nice guy: I took a nice soapy shower before I came in."

She reached him and, slowly, sank to her knees a short distance before him. His legs were spread wide, his balls hanging tight below a penis shaft now three quarters erect and bobbing, a thicker and a little longer than before.

She hesitated again, kneeeling, and then braced her right hand on his thigh (muscular) and used her left to grip his shaft. It was warm and pulsed slightly in her palm. It was almost fully hard now. She began to stroke it and leaned forward. She held the tip to her lips and kissed it. It smelt of soap and emanated heat. She gave it more small kisses and the tipped it sideways and she kissed down its length and she tugged at it. It continued to harden. She had eight inches of throbbing rod in her hand.

"Suck it."

She straightened his shaft, pointed it at her face and then opened her mouth. She breathed over his plum-shaped glans, gripping his thigh with her right hand, and then lowered it onto her tongue. She took the first inch into her mouth and swirled her tongue around the plumhead. Blonde hair was falling around her face and onto his legs.

"Tie your hair up. I want to see this."

She stood, letting his cock bob, and walked around him to her bag. She fiddled, and extracting a hairband, put her hair in a low knot.

He was grinning as she returned to her position between his knees. She opened her mouth again and this time looked up at him as she guided his penis into her mouth. She began to slide up and down the first two or three inches of his rod. Sucking sounds filled the air. She looked down at his stomach. She felt his hand on the back of her head, forcing her down the length of his rod until she began to gag. Instinctively she reached back and smacked his arm away and spat his rod out of her mouth. A long trail of saliva linked her mouth to his swelling fleshtip.

"OK. OK." He sounded a bit apologetic. "But I want it deeper than that."

She opened her mouth and, relaxing, carefully slid down to about four inches. She began to slide up and down, suctioning a bit as she did. Her left hand trailed down and began to massage his balls. He began to do a sort of human purr: he was making small moans and his cock tingled as he did.

After a minute of this (getting more than halfway down his rod length), with her saliva beginning to trail down his shaft and collect on his balls, she pulled off. Sitting on her haunches she stroked his slick cockshaft with one hand and began to fondle his wet balls.

She leaned forward and lifted his cock to tongue his balls, first with licks then with slurping sounds. This combination caused him to moan.

He lay down on his back and pulled his feet onto the bench, spreading his legs wide to allow her better access. She continued to tongue his full ballsack, smooth and shaved, which had tightened under her attentions to outline two bulging orbs. He was laying fully back, eyes closed. She began to lap and pump in a coordinated move to make him cum.

"Not so fast." He had risen, perched on his forearms. "I am nowhere near ready. I want you to toss my salad."

"I don't want to tongue your crack."

"You..." he paused, "are being blackmailed."

"You are a scum."

"And you are going to do what I want. Or else."

She hesitated. He leaned forward and, looping fingers into her blond hair, pulled her towards his crack. He leaned back and drew his leg up, exposing a completely waxed area from balls to his asshole. As she drew close, she directed her tongue at his perineum, lapping at it and darting her tongue down and up from the top of his crack; her hands grabbed his buttocks (nicely muscular). That should stop his demands. Then she felt him move, and a hand was directing her head down. Her tongue met his puckered hole, which at least tasted of soap. She pumped his cockrod harder and began to circle his hole. After a few circles she flicked her tongue over it.

Strangely, he was moaning but his shaft grew just that much softer. Intensifying her efforts, she pumped more, but he did not cum. She used her index finger to probe at his ass, which he seemed to like, as she tongued the top of the pucker and the crack above it. Her other hand held his right asscheek. His cock was thwacking off her head as she did. His moaning increased. She moved a hand back to his groin; gripping it she felt his cock had softened to perhaps 80% hard.