Dutch Legal Tactics

I was being told a story by a Nordic Scheherazade under the soft rustle of the budding birch leaves. A rhythmic thud-and-scratch of waves grinding at the beach provided a muffled, distant undertone. The city, its tall towered canyons and insistent brightness, felt very far away even as I soaked up her story of lust and power.

She had gathered her long blonde hair, retro-style, under a scarf decorated with a complex interleaving of vines, all brought out in a pale green that was well-matched with her eyes. The light on the porch was largely provided by candles in storm lanterns. It was a light that swirled as stray eddies of wind caused the flames to dance. It was a light that bathed her skin, normally so pure and so white, with the faintest tan-like glow of orange.

Her face was defined by high cheekbones, clear lines and lips that were softly pink, elegant with just a hint of plumpness. She was middling tall, athletic and as thin as she'd been in college, but the fitness did not come at the cost of femininity. Shapely legs met a rounded hip and rose to high C cup breasts that were straining against the embroidered top that spoke of India in the language of fashion. She had a far superior beach body to most younger women in their 20s or 30s.

I was leaning forward, like the Sultan in one of those classical Persian paintings, even as she sat back at her ease with one elegant arm, ever so slightly freckled, draped over the side-rest of her chair. Sir Richard Burton, adventurer and translator as he was, would surely have called her one who "had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts, and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred". She told stories that required some patience. This story will require a little bit of patience.

Her story was told neutrally and almost softly, with a rolling lullaby-like modulation at odds with the sex and power of her narrative. The story had the power to grab attention. As she told her story, she kept mainly still, but her breath caused her breasts to rise and fall, straining against the outline of her shirt and her cardigan (the lightest two ply cashmere, Bergdorf). Her nipple had grown harder as she told the story and was outlined against the fabric. The rise and fall of her breasts was more than a little hypnotic.

The story had the power to grab. And to shock. I like to think of myself as jaded. This story happened during the first Age of Weinstein, but even after all the revelations it is had to deny that the power mash-up of Park Avenue law firm and Hollywood can startle.

She told me the story, and I will make it my story to you. Once upon a time there was a lawyer. A lawyer just like her. She was a beautiful and accomplished lawyer at a firm that billed its partners out at more than a thousand dollars an hour. She was a lawyer that focused on acquisitions, not entertainment. That is not to say that she wasn't entertaining. She was very entertaining and that was one of the things that made me fall hopelessly in love with her.

In her story she named a producer. A prominent producer but not a famous one. He had an office in New York and another in Hollywood. He had enjoyed success at the box office and success with the critics. This was pre-Weinstein, but his reputation was not like that of Weinstein. He wasn't known for being kind to cats and orphans. But it wasn't a reputation that would reduce a woman to apprehension merely by walking into the same room with him. Harry also had a habit of meeting people in offices, which is much more above-board than the hotel rooms so happily chosen for meetings by other kinds of producer. He was smart. He wasn't from nothing, but then he wasn't exactly from money either. He was the kind of power broker who ensures they are just famous enough to get a table, and to rely on their power and enough obscurity to be rated by those who mattered.

The producer has a name. She told me his name, but I won't repeat it to you because that would not be a wise thing to do. He has a name, but we'll call him Harry. Like Harry the prince (but this man wasn't a prince).

The story began in the early summer. Hers was a white shoe firm, but she didn't wear white shoes unless she was playing tennis. The city was warm, but not to the point of being hot. She didn't wear white shoes and, because it was warm enough for women who were European (like her) or who knew Europe to sport bare legs under their perfectly tailored A line skirts, she didn't wear nylons. Did I mention that she had fantastic legs? That she didn't wear nylons isn't really that important to the story, except to tell you that she was more free spirited than many of the people who had succeeded in those carnivorous law firms.

The part of Hollywood this producer controlled was buying some assets that had a corporate home in New York. She knew the seller. The seller was a well known fund, a good client for her, for the firm. A client from just down the avenue. A client that they wanted to keep happy and to keep producing fat fees.

Harry was the buyer. Harry was a nightmare to negotiate against. Not because of skill but because of his power to irritate and be unpredictable. He had lawyers, but he thought he knew better. Sometimes he didn't and deals blew up. Harry was famous for deals dying at the finish line.

In this deal price was not really the issue, and a deal should have been a simple matter to negotiate. It wasn't close to being a mega-deal: it didn't even cause the scale to top one billion dollars. So let's drop the voice-over and go back to something a little easier to visualise: a boardroom.

Now this is not yet erotic, unless you remember that our beautiful lawyer is in this boardroom who cannot help but ooze a buttoned-down sexuality. Actually, there is more than one attractive woman in the room: some are associates in their 20s, looking severe and tailored and determined to be partner worthy. Our lawyer isn't dressing to make partner, she is a partner. She isn't wearing nylons on those long, shapely silky-smooth legs. She taken off the decortique blazer, but she is still wearing a tailored dress from Margiela, belted. Her waist, lean, small, is bounded by a thin red and pink Spanish leather belt (two narrow bands of dark red bordering a line of pink). The red of her belt is much redder than her slightly plump pink lips. On the navy blue of the dress the belt sat slashed across in a bolt of color. The lecherous could imagine in that belt the reddened folds of an excited woman, red lips framing a pink gash. It would be truly lecherous to imagine that unless you were already thinking about it. There is a soft hum as the air conditioning keeps the temperature low, a soft and comforting hiss.

Now Harry drifts in and out of this meeting. His interventions slow things down.

When he's in the room, Harry stares at her a great deal. Some of it obvious, some of it less so. He walked to the end of the boardroom table to stare down the length of the table: was it to glimpse her legs (long, lean and silky-smooth)? Did he lean back when talking to see if she would lean forward, her breasts straining against the fabric of her dress. He certainly looked at her, even when other people were talking.

The meeting was inconclusive, but as it ended he suggested that they have a private meeting to resolve things.

Imagine it is another early summer day, the next day, a bit sunnier, a bit cooler. "What were you wearing?" I asked. "A black short sleeve ribbed dress, slightly above the knee, with button accents, nude suede pumps and a red Oscar de la Renta light peplum jacket." I observed she had a good memory. She smiled, as if to say that she'd just imagined a look to tell me, and that the reality was different, but let's hold that look in our mind's eye because it does set off that pale skin and blonde hair quite beautifully.

She was at Harry's New York office. He had part of a floor in a good building, his office set at the corner. Not too high, but a view through the canyon of towers to a glimpse of Hudson Yards and the river. The lobby was eerily quiet, but as she was shown into Harry's corner den the soundtrack became a murmur of traffic - grumbles, honks and squeaks - from the Midtown snarl thirty floors below.

The office was large and L-shaped. An enormous desk, black lacquer, faced the door at the apex. The open view lay behind his desk: building-bounded cloud and sky and river. Two large sofas, brown leather perfectly tuned to pick out the brown of the wavering cross-hatch in the hand-loomed carpet, occupied one side. A long table, for conferences or eating, the other. Behind the table was an open door revealing a dressing area and a bathroom and shower.

On entering into the office she noticed a couple of other things. Firstly, there was an assistant perched primly and erectly at the edge of the nearer sofa. She was a twentysomething woman with dark hair pulled back, silver hoops surprisingly large for an office environment, and prominent breasts. She was dressed fairly casually: cropped jacket, hip-hugging white jeans. The second was that Harry's eyes were fixed on her: our lawyer, the center of the story.

He was gazing intently. Hungrily.

"Was Harry in a tough mood?".

"Yes, or he began that way. I sat down on the chair facing his desk. He was doing th classic boss-man behind his desk routine. I crossed my legs. He looked at them and then gathered himself and grumbled that the purchase agreement that had been drafted 'fucked him'. He didn't like 'feeling fucked' and he'd be inclined to kill the deal unless he felt he got something that 'didn't make him feel so fucked'." He then looked at her in a way that even hungrier and even more intent.

I can see where this was going, and so can you.

She looked at Harry in silence. She held his gaze for almost thirty seconds, in silence. He broke first, which was bad, and probably made him feel weaker.

"So" he said " if I can fuck you then I won't feel so fucked myself."

"Oh Harry, you are a charmer. With smooth lines like that you must get lots of girls. Where did you learn your game?"

Harry actually stood and put his palms on his desk.

Now there was a bit of back and forth. Harry was Harry, I suppose her thinking was getting that notch on her belt and getting this deal signed would be interesting. It wasn't a great deal for Harry, and it was a major win for her. So she agreed. And she pulled the binding documents out of her bag. And for five minutes he signed them, because he really wanted to fuck her and it wasn't such a make or break deal and when you are rich enough other things matter.

The assistant moved for the first time, gathering Harry's copies. She then returned to her perch on the sofa and her birdlike watch.

"So tonight, Harry?"

"No, now."

"What if it's my period?"

"There are two other holes" and he smirked.

"And what about her" she said, gesturing to the assistant.

"I need her for everything."

"A threesome wasn't part of the bargain."

"No, Stacey (birdlike assistant now had a name) watches."

"So we're going to have sex. Here. In front of Stacey?"

Harry nodded.

" Harry, that's seriously weird. But alright. I have a dinner tonight I'd prefer not to cancel. Now both of you put your phones in the safe." That was something Stacey achieved quietly and efficiently. My brain ran down a detour, thinking that perhaps that was a dinner with me, as we were just starting to date.

Harry smiled. "Take off your clothes." What was he doing, channeling Kundera?

She paused. He was impatient. "Look, hurry up. I am wheels up at five and traffic is bad. We don't have time. Undress."

And so our lawyer began undressing. I wondered if this counted as a billable hour?

She gracefully slid off her heels. The blazer, draped carefully over a chair. Her thin waist-belt (a green so dark it matched the black of the dress, gold buckle to match the gold Rolex) was unhooked and slipped off with a flourish. She undid the first button, holding Harry's eyes. Slowly she glanced over at the assistant, who was staring at her with a blank face but intense eyes. Her blonde hair swished lightly as she turned her regard back to Harry.

Harry was breathing harder as another button came undone. Somehow that made having an audience of two less disconcerting.

Two of five buttons were now undone. Then three. The soft white of a sternum showed. And four buttons. Now a navy blue lace bra (partially see through) and the swell of creamy cleavage is on show.

She stood by the chair to give Harry a better view (she hoped no one across the chasm of the street was looking her way). The assistant lost some of her angle with that, but no matter. The dress was now open to the waist, to a perfect belly button, and it slithered off easily, requiring only one shake of the hips.

She was wearing matching blue lace thong panties. The delicate tracery of lace over her grown was a darker blue, and danced sinuously in drawing attention to the visible cleft of her pussy. She's not wearing nylons, but then we mentioned that. Sometimes clothes do come off so easily.

The act of undressing had disordered her long blonde hair on her shoulders. Standing there, in bra and panties, she raised her lithe and athletic arms and reordered her golden mane. Harry made guttural, urgent noises. She reached back and unclipped her bra. The straps slipped over the shoulders, but she held the bra cups in place for a moment, a long moment, locking eyes with Harry. She was ignoring the assistant ignored, but she felt the sensation of Stacey boring holes into her with her eyes, the sensation of being quite on show if any office workers bothered to look was also very present.

She let the bra billow off. Her breasts have a natural roundness underneath, and the C cups (a smaller C Cup, but generous proportions all the same) were adorned with soft pink nipples the size of a quarter. As the air conditioning was on, and the office slightly chilly, her nipples were moving from slightly perky to erect.

"Shall I keep going, Harry?"

It was an odd power dynamic, and odd power exchange. Is was slightly exciting to hold this power over this man, whose face is slightly, so slightly flushed.

Harry was not reflecting on that. "Nothing beats perfect natural tits" says Harry, which is a compliment, but not one a perfect gentleman would utter.

She hooked her thumbs in her panties, and paused. Harry is staring, leaning forward just as I am leaning forward in this story. Leaning forward the way the Sultan does in that persian painting.

She pulls them downs and her hip bones pop into view above the pantie line. They are fine hip bones and they set off the perfect swell of the hips. The fabric was pulled down to the top or the pudenda. Harry stared at the smoothness. "He was truly curious to see if I had a Brazilian. He... stared", she continued.

Then she slid the panties, inch by inch. She had to bend to drop them. She bent a bit to the side and that exaggerates the swell of the breast and outlines the perfect curve of the hip, the hip that is so traceable.

The assistant had more of a full-frontal view until she turned back to face Harry. And so she stood staring straight at him. She was waxed bare. He gazed at the white skin and blonde hair and dark red nails and ever so slightly plump line of her hips and her pert, tight, quarter-sized pink nipples.

He stared at her full frontal, waxed bare beauty. He motioned her forward and "that is when it became clear that he had a full bulge, really a good sized bulge, going on in his pants".

She came round the desk and his hands, surprisingly soft and well-cared for hands, began to trace over her body. Across the road were office workers, oblivious. Next to her was the assistant, far from oblivious but completely silent.

"Harry's hands traced my back, up and down my back. They slid over my bum, lightly tracing the cleft between her cheeks.

And then was he really leaning forward in this 22nd floor office to trace her right nipple with his tongue?

A hand caressed her bum and then pulled her forward to give more access to the mouth greedily licking at her nipple. That wasn't usually her thing, but it was just fine today. Harry's other hand was on her stomach - he had soft hands - and then her hip. And then the lips of her pussy. This was going to happen.

He stood and took his blazer off and, looking weirdly at his assistant, hung it on the back of his Aeron chair. Then he took off his gabardines. She noticed that the blazer was cut of impeccably soft merino and linen. He took off his shirt: he looked fatter in clothes than with his top off, but the time with the personal trainer had not removed his solidity. There was fat and muscle intermingled in a strong looking bulk. Then, hand cupping her left tit, he struggled out of his tight, black jockeys. Nature had given Harry an impressive cock. Half erect it must have been six inches, topped with a bulbous circumcised head, faintly looking like plum-red lollipop on a thick flesh stick. His cock swung as he stood. He trimmed but didn't shave his groin. Harry also had big balls, which shouldn't have been a surprise. He took her hand to his penis, and it swelled another half inch as she held the shaft lightly. Then it grew another half inch. "This will be eight when I'm done" she recollected.

Harry motioned down with his head. The universal signal. She went on her knees and fellated him, grateful for the chair and desk blocking the view. As she looked up she saw him motioning the assistant closer, which continued the weirdness.

She began tracing the length of the cock up and down, licking the edge of the glans when she reached it. Harry was in a rush to get her to take the head, and he guided her mouth onto that plum-red top, and then sought to slide in. It was a mouthful, in both senses, at the border of comfortable. He moaned as her tongue caught the underside. She inhaled a bit, hoping to accelerate him cumming, but all that it produced was a slight additional swelling and some guttural moaning from Harry.

She drew back and returned to tonguing up and down the shaft. His hand fell to his cock and he lifted the shaft up, presenting his balls. They were kept hairless, and had a prominent vein or two. She licked and slurped, beginning lightly and then adding more power. A hand on her head directed her down: he wanted full coverage. She had her hand on his shaft, stroking his stiffness. He toppled back into his chair, spreading his legs to provide access and arching his back to present cock and balls. She took the head back into her mouth and swirled. He popped his cock out and once again emphasized access to his balls As she approached them he lifted his ballsack up and spread his legs wider. He clearly wanted his perineum to have some attention and she obliged, using a wet, scissoring motion. "I think he wanted rimming, but I wasn't going there on a first date, so to speak." She returned to sucking his shaft, up and down, saliva dripping to puddle on his chair. His thick, ropey veins stood out, the shaft slick.

Popping out he raised her to her feet and then backed her onto his desk. His plum-tipped cock (the head really did look like a plum) swayed. He slowly inclined her back onto the smooth and empty expanse of lacquered desk. He spread her legs. She noticed that the assistant was now in one of the two armchairs facing the desk, but only Harry had the Penthouse view right up her pussy as he spread her legs and used an index and forefinger 'V' to massage her pussy lips and open her slit wider. He lined his cock up on her.

"Were you a feeling transactional? Excited at this point? Or revolted?

"Excited. I'd won. I had the contract. He'd been weak and I had power. I had the signatures. I was a sex show."