In the Family Business

"She grabbed my ass, twice." Ben opened the door and stepped out into the fitting area where his mother waited, arms crossed across her chest, a dark look on her face. "Twice, M-Mrs. Fletcher."

Maggie's hard look evaporated. "We're not on work time, you can call me mom." She gave him another of those long, appraising looks, and twirled a finger in the air. He turned around obligingly.

"Touch can actually be a very important tool in our kit," she said, tugging critically at his short. "Playing grabass with a client is obviously beyond the pale, but with one touch," her fingers rested at moment on his hip, "we can redirect a client's focus," they moved to his waist, "reassure and show empathy," his mother walked around him as she spoke.

"Establish trust and rapport," she stood in front of him now, eyes an inch or so above his in her summery, cork-heeled wedges. "An instant connection. So for instance, when I say," her hand was suddenly on his left pectoral, fingers lightly massaging him, while her eyes held his, "you look good enough to eat," Maggie's hand stayed on his chest for a moment before sliding away, "I know you'll believe whatever I tell you."

It was a long moment before Ben realized he'd been holding his breath.

"Um, yeah. Yes. Yup."

"See? I bet you wouldn't learn that stuff in school," his mom smiled brightly, and leaned in to give him a peck on the cheek, leaving a sticky warmth on his skin that lingered for a few seconds before she sauntered away; the hem of her cream-colored sundress danced around her knees as her hips clocked an eye-catching rhythm, big red flowers twitching back and forth. Margaret sat down again in her chair, crossing those long, bare legs and rearranging her skirt above her knee. One foot bobbed idly as she snapped her fingers imperiously and called out for the owner. Her toes were painted a soft, matte pink to match her fingernails.

Giuseppe, the obsequious little man who ran the shop, ran in through the curtain separating the fitting rooms from the main retail area.

"Yes Missus Fletcher? What can I do?"

"The inseam is still too long," Maggie waved her hand at Ben, standing now in the centre of an array of mirrors. She recrossed her legs, watching his eyes flick down towards the movement; it was good to know she had his attention. She rearranged the hem again as the skinny tailor played with Ben's pant leg, tugging and pulling.

"But they fit ok? Not too tight?"

"No," she said before Ben could respond, eyeing him in the mirror. The fabric flattered the shape of his behind much better than the pants he'd worn yesterday. "The fit is...fine, just the inseam needs to come up."

"You're the boss," Giuseppe knelt in front of the boy, spooling out a long measuring tape and hanging it over his neck. "Spread 'em, please." She watched the little man fussing over her son, pinning and chalking and generally being a nuisance.

Not nearly as much of a fuss as Emma had yesterday, that harlot! Maggie fet the heat rising in her cheeks. The way that old bat had kept pressing her enormous fake tits into his arm, slutty red nails stroking his chest as she'd explained the "irreconcilable differences" between herself and her husband, the octogenarian publishing magnate who hadn't had an erection (real or pharmaceutical) in five years. The way that silicone-enhanced bitch had said 'erection' to Ben, to her son! And then tweaked his ass, right there in her office!

He was so cute when he blushed.

It had happened before, of course; handsome clerks were half the reason these soon-to-be divorcees showed up on Maggie's doorstep. A little beefcake went a long way towards securing horny wives as clients. But she'd never felt this way about it before, never so jeal-

"Hey!" Ben's sharp rebuke pulled her out of her reverie.

"I'm sorry, so sorry, but I gotta, I have to."

Angrily tugging on her skirt, Maggie looked up to where the skinny tailor was trying to take Ben's inseam again.

"Can you keep your hands out of there, please?"

"I'm sorry, I got to! Missus Fletcher, I have to make sure I took it right the first time."

"That's fine, Giuseppe. Benjamin John Fletcher," her voice was soft, the velvet glove around an iron tongue, "you will behave like an adult and let the man do his job."

"Yes mom," he said, stiffened up. He was such a good boy, so willing to take direction, she reflected. Much better than Jordan, much better than most of these know-it-all sons of rich men who clerked for her; they were arrogant, and self-important, and very aware of what kinds of favors their big cocks could get them. She always broke them before the end of the summer, of course, like any good rider. Ben, on the other hand, had been learning at her knee all his life.

Maggie watched as Giuseppe's hand zipped up the inside of his leg, sliding along the tight, smooth fabric until it bounced against-

Ben shifted uncomfortably, but didn't protest this time. Instead of focusing on the tailor, he kept his eyes locked on his mother, who was watching the proceedings. For some reason, a look of shock flickered across her features. The tip of her tongue swept across her mouth and the look was gone. She began fiddling with her hem again, letting it slide further and further up her thigh. None of the girls at school had legs like that, except the ones who dabbled in track: long and lightly muscular, velvety smooth and blemish-free.

Giuseppe was saying something, but it seemed far away as he watched her leg bounce, fingers drumming against her bare knee now, sharp pink nails looking like candied almonds. She was in control of the situation, as always; when he was away at school, he'd forgotten how easy it made life to let her run things, to follow her direction. It was much less stressful to let her figure out how this tailoring shit worked, for example, than it would have been to try to muddle through it himself.

"No, the shirts are perfect," she said. "We'll take four; I'll let you know the colors. These pants will do once the inseam is fixed, and a navy pair in the same style, with the matching jackets. Do you still have his measurements for those?" The tailor nodded, and she rose quickly out of the chair. "Good. Let's go look at some ties. Benjamin, honey, you can change back to your street clothes now. Once we're done here, we'll see if we can't find you some appropriate shoes. God knows you can't come back with those awful brogues of your father's."

*

Maggie sat on the fitting bench, thinking she'd made an error in judgement, which was neither a familiar nor a particularly good feeling. Her sandals sat on the bench, among a number of half-opened shoeboxes, including a new pair for Ben that they hadn't yet paid for.

Logically, killing two birds with one stone like this made a lot of sense. He needed new shoes, she needed to replace the year old Pigalle pumps she practically lived in, why not do both, especially if she could get in a little browsing on the side?

Logically, it should still make a lot of sense. And yet, she felt-

A snarl drew itself, unbidden, across her mouth as the petite blonde salesgirl laughed by the counter; it was like nails on a chalkboard: a high-pitched, nasal, girl- no, babyish giggle. It was affected, insincere, aimed at the worst, stupidest impulses of rich, inattentive husbands who wandered in with their wives.

Naturally, she'd attached herself to Ben the second they walked in.

"Those shoes are, like, so good on you," had been her enthusiastic endorsement of Maggie's own pick for her son, giving him that insipid laugh and twirling a badly-dyed strand of blonde hair around one finger.

No, that wasn't it. Not alone. She'd dealt with her share of idiot salesgirls. What galled her was that he was falling for it, the great idiot.

Maggie watched the two young people chatting in subdued tones at the sales counter, leaning in close to one another, apparently having a great time ignoring the customers in the store. She said something, he responded, the girl laughed that laugh again and it made Maggie's teeth grind.

Ben was smarter than that, she knew it. He was just letting his hormones get the best of him, letting his cock lead the way. His big, young cock that she'd spied lurking underneath the ludicrously expensive tailored pants she'd just bought him. It might even be bigger than Jordan's, hard as that was to believe. Once it got up to full mast, who knew? She sucked her lower lip, trying to banish the thought of her own son's dick.

Then that laugh. "Benjy that's, like, ugh!" The girl playfully pushed against his chest.

"Benjamin," Maggie called, softly. No response. An angry flush stole over her face, and she opened her mouth to shout, but thought better of it.

"Benjamin John," she called again, in a sweet-but-firm, sing-songy kind of a way. His head snapped up like she had yanked it by a lead.

"Yeah? I mean, yes?" He asked, giving his head a shake.

"Can you help me here, please?" Maggie said, pouring on the sugar. "If you're not too busy?"

"No of course not, but don't you need Bryci to-"

"No," she shut that down immediately. "I don't think we need Bryci."

"Uh okay," he gave her a confused, puppy-eyed look, but sauntered over.

"I need your opinion, sweetheart," Maggie said, looking up at him. "Which do you think, black? Or nude?" Slowly, she extended first one leg, then the other, demonstrating the pumps on either foot. It gave her a little internal thrill to see his eyes zero in on her gams, eyes crawling dangerously far up her legs. He'd already forgotten about that little bitch now.

"It's a hard choice, isn't it?" She crossed her legs and dangled the nude pump from her foot.

"Yeah," Ben's voice was a little distant.

"I guess that means we're taking both." Leaning back on the bench, she lifted both legs at the same time. "Be a dear and put them back in their boxes? We spent so much time picking out suits for you, my feet are really quite tired."

Her son hesitated for a moment, and she gave him a little expectant moue. He laughed -- a real one -- and took a knee in front of her. His fingers felt warm on her calf as he slipped one shoe, then the next, from her feet.

"Thank you, honey." Maggie scrunched her toes up against his left thigh. "You're such a good boy for me." That brought another smile to his face. "It's not so bad helping your old mom out, is it?"

"You're not old," Ben chuckled as he put the shoes back in their respective boxes. "And no, it's not so bad."

"Well," she put on her business voice now, "hopefully we can get a few notches above 'not so bad' before the end of the summer, Mister Fletcher." He froze, and looked half terrified until she broke character and they both laughed their way to the cash to pay for their footwear.

*

"So," William Fletcher, patriarch and technically controlling partner of the family practice, slurred through a mouthful of food, flecks of it spraying onto his chin. "How's it going at the office?"

"How good of you to remember our little arrangement, dear." Ben winced at the acid in his mother's voice. "It was only your idea, after all." Her fork clinked against her plate as she stabbed it through a noisette of halibut.

"Hey listen, just because I'm at the courthouse all day long taking care of business and not at a desk, holding some old biddy's hand because her husband had a wandering eye doesn't mean I don't care." The elder Fletcher waggled his fork at her, not caring where the risotto fell.

"And how many of our clients have court dates this month, darling?" She asked archly. Everybody at the table knew 'at the courthouse' meant 'carousing with the other overstuffed lawyers at the bar across the road.'

"Networking," Ben's father deflated a little, skewered by his wife, his paunch somehow swelling as his body slumped into the chair. "Anyhow, how's the kid doing?"

"Benjamin," she said, emphasizing his name, the hard look on her face evaporating fast, "is doing fabulously. Over the last few weeks, he's distinguished himself as one of the best clerks we've ever had."

"Really?" Ben felt a flush creep over his face, suddenly a little giddy with praise.

"Really, honey." Maggie smiled at him, eyes glowing with maternal pride. "You're smart, for starters, and you've got a keen eye for detail. I didn't even see Mr. Carmichael's property up in the Poconos. Plus, you know when to pay attention and take instruction from your boss; you don't object to extra work or constructive criticism..."

"Momma's boy," Bill muttered under his breath, not quite covering it with an untidy belch. His wife shot him a look.

"To answer your question -- the one that you asked, about your son, at our practice, which was your idea -- he's doing quite well, thank you."

"Sounds like you've got everything well in hand." Ben's dad tossed his napkin over the remains of his meal, and pushed away from the table with a grunt. "I'm headed down to the big room to watch the game, kid; want to come?" He picked up his half-empty pint glass and drained it in two pulls; there was a lot of beer to get through down there.

"Uh, yeah. Sure, dad. Maybe." The young clerk glanced at his mother, who was glaring elsewhere. "Once I'm done."

"Sounds great," his father belched again, put the glass back on the table and sauntered away. It wasn't until they could hear his heavy tread heading downstairs that either of them spoke.

"I'm not hungry," Maggie said, throwing her own napkin down. Standing, she picked up her glass of white and her plate. "Can you help me please, Benjamin?"

"Sure, yes. Of course." Ben stacked his own empty plate atop his father's, and the two gathered up the silverware.

"You're such a good boy, honey." She gave him a tired smile. He took the serving dishes in his free hand, and followed her into the kitchen. The hem of her loose cardigan was only slightly shorter than the abbreviated emerald-green satin shorts she wore underneath it, letting her long, bare legs breathe in the warm summer air. He watched the smooth fabric flutter and slide over her skin longer than he meant to, and almost tripped over the lintel between kitchen and dining room.

Maggie laid the dishes on the countertop, and leaned against the island, sipping her wine.

"In the there please, sweetheart," his mom vaguely waved the glass around.

"Did you mean all that stuff from before?" Ben asked, as he scraped the plates clean before loading them into the dishwasher.

"What stuff?" Maggie polished off her drink and poured another.

"You know, about me being the best clerk you've had?" He began slotting the dishes into place.

"I've had-" his mother let the sentence trail off, thinking. "You're doing well enough that I'm already thinking about offering you a permanent position -- after you pass the bar, of course. That's not an offer I'd make lightly, son or no son."

"Seriously? This isn't some weird game with dad?" Maggie began idly sliding her left foot up and down the calf of her other leg; there was a loud clatter as Ben almost dropped one of the plates.

"I don't play games with the practice, Ben," she said, suddenly serious. "So long as you don't mind working under your mother, you'll have earned a place with me."

"Why would I mind?" He shot her a grin. "Gotta learn from the best, right?"

"Some of the other clerks, bristled at first, working under a woman." Maggie plucked open the button of her cardigan, a faraway smile creeping over her face as she drank. "Most of them eventually settled down and learned a thing or two..." The light grey sweater fell open, revealing a silky green camisole underneath to match her shorts, the scalloped black lace around the neckline not nearly enough to hide the swells of her breasts, and certainly doing nothing to disguise the shape of her nipples poking through the thin fabric. Suddenly, she came back from wherever her smile had taken her.

"But none of them showed any real aptitude for the law, certainly not the kind we practice. Not like you do. You're a good boy, and I think you'll be a great lawyer."

"You know me," Ben said, standing and slamming the dishwasher shut. "Always trying to impress."

"Oh you've definitely made an impression." Maggie refilled her wineglass again, looking at the bottle in mock confusion as the last couple of drops plunked out of the neck. It rattled and spun once as she placed it back on the counter. "You're...very impressive. I think you're more impressive than Jordan, and he was the most impressive I've been impressed by yet."

"Didn't you say he didn't have much going on upstairs?" Ben took the bottle and washed it out in the sink.

"That is true," she ventured, slowly, measuring out her words. "But he did show a very improved performance by the end of his clerkship."

"Well, I hope I measure up- what's so funny?" His mother was giggling, now.

"Nothing, nothing. Just an inside joke, honey. You wouldn't get it. I am sure you are a much better boy than Jordan was." Maggie drained the glass one final time, and gave him a once-over. "Why aren't you wearing those pants I bought you? They were very impressive."

Ben felt slightly shabby in his basketball shorts and t-shirt. "I didn't think $500 dress pants were appropriate for dinner at home?"

"You should have more of them." His mother pushed herself away from the counter, and sauntered over with a crooked smile. "If you're a very good boy," she said, pressing one sharp nail into his chest and leaning close. "Maybe you'll get a closetful when you finish your clerkship, Ben-ja-min."

"Do you buy all your clerks closetfuls of pants?" He arched an eyebrow. "I thought you were going to treat me like all your other clerks?"

"Do you...want me to treat you like all the others?" His mother asked, arching a professionally-shaped eyebrow to match his own. She licked her lips, clearly thinking about something.

"Of course," Ben said. "I'm really looking forward to that end-of-the summer party the other guys got."

"I will..." Maggie's eyes narrowed. "I will...consider it." She swayed dangerously, leaning against him, the soft warmth of her breasts pressing against his chest. "But I have had too much wine to think about it." She nuzzled into his shoulder for a moment, filling his nostrils with the scent of her hair. "Can you carry me upstairs, Benjamin John Fletcher? I'm not sure if they're safe right now."

"Do you get all of your clerks to carry you to bed?" He laughed as she turned her head to look up at him, pouting.

"Only the very very best boys," Maggie wrapped her arms around his neck. "And you're a very good boy, I already said so."

"Well, I do want to be the best," Ben said, as he lifted her into his arms.

"That's my boy," she said, cradling her face into his bicep.

Like that, they ascended to the second floor, heading for his parents' bedroom, though there was no telling how often they shared the same bed these days. He suspected it wasn't often. She deserved the best, after a lifetime of labor to build and maintain his father's practice, their beautiful home, and what she got was a husband who seemed entirely uninterested in her or their business.

It didn't make a lick of goddamn sense, he reflected, as he gently laid her out on the bed. She was easily one of the most beautiful women he'd ever known, something he'd become painfully aware of over the last few weeks. Maggie Fletcher had always been "mom" to him, but since coming to work under her, knowing her as her employees did, seeing her operate with clients, finagling the best deals for them in separation, divorce, pre-nuptial, she was something else, she was herself. Now, lying on the bed, hair a tousled curtain spread across the duvet, the barest smile curling those plush lips, breasts just barely hidden from view as the green satin slid across them in each breath, impossibly long legs cycling as she tried to kick some of the covers back over herself, now she looked like some kind of nymph, some kind of seductive mythical creature who-