In the Family Business

"Ben?" She asked, barely awake now.

"Yeah, mom?"

"Get me a glass of water, honey. I don't want to be a mess in the morning."

"Yes mom," he said, turning to leave.

"Such a good boy," she said, in a faraway voice.

*

He's such a good boy, Margaret thought dreamily as she watched him from the other side of the desk, chin cradled in one hand. Ben was talking animatedly to Emma Carmichael, explaining the offshore and out of state properties that her husband had hidden during discovery, and what kind of leverage that gave them. None of the other fuckboy clerks could have done as well without a hand-written script and serious coaching beforehand.

"Once we have a talk with his lawyers -- off the record of course -- we think he'll make a significant settlement in your favor."

"Really?"

"If he doesn't want to have to explain Carmichael Seychelles LLC to the government he will." Ben leaned over, and laid one of his hands atop hers. "We'll take good care of you, Emma. I promise."

A little thrill of motherly pride tingled up Margaret's spine.

Emma sat up, staring into Ben's big eyes, her hands caressing his forearm, those big fake balloons she'd had strapped to her chest almost pouring out of the frilly blouse she wore.

"Well, I do like to be taken care of," big garish rings sparkled in the light as the frosted blonde traced figure eights up his arm. "Do you promise you'll always take such good care of me, B-"

Margaret felt the heat rising in her face. "Mister Fletcher here has done a fantastic job," she said in a louder-than-necessary voice, straightening herself in her seat, tugging fitfully at her blouse. "He's one of the rising stars at our practice."

The soon-to-be divorcee turned to regard the other woman, but her hand never left Ben's arm. Mrs. Fletcher's nostrils flared, but her voice remained under control.

"Once we make Carter see sense, I'm sure you'll end up with almost everything you want," one of Maggie's hands curled into a fist, then relaxed.

"Almost?" Fingers wandered upwards, over Ben's bicep.

"You lived with Carter Carmichael for over thirty years, I'm sure you can manage one last small disappointment." She made a fist, but didn't let it go. "In fact, why don't we have a look through that asset list one last time, see if we can't find some concession so we can at least appear reasonable. Mister Fletcher," Margaret turned to regard her son. "Can you go speak to Glenys, and have another copy of the full list printed?"

"Right away, Mrs. Fletcher," Ben gave her a little nod, stood, and left. Emma turned in her seat to stare as he walked away, leering at the hard, square maleness of his behind.

"Well, while we're waiting, I think I shall go and powder my nose," the older woman said without turning back around, snapping her clutch shut.

"What a fabulous idea," was her unheard reply as Margaret watched her go, tottering away on platforms too high for her to really manage. No sooner was her client out of the room than the red-haired lawyer was reaching up under the clingy jersey of her dress and extracting the sticky silver bullet of her vibrator; she'd detached it from the connecting wire in her haste to hide the evidence when Ben strolled in to let her know that their two o'clock was in the building. It had been a very long time since she'd managed to get any kind of alone time in her office to take care of that particularly personal business. She cleaned it with a wipe and put it back in its place in the desk.

Outside, in the main office, Ben was chatting with their client, she could hear them. Emma laughed at something he said, and Margaret couldn't suppress her eyeroll. The woman was relentless!

"Not that I can blame her," the lawyer settled in her chair, feeling a familiar wetness in her panties now that the vibrator had been removed. It was an old story, after all. Attractive wife marries promising, handsome, older husband, spends her life taking care of his business, his house, his son. Then what does he do, just as she's hitting her stride, becoming successful in her own right, discovering just how powerful the engine of her libido could rev? He loses interest, can't keep it up, would rather hang out at the bar with the other threadbare old fuckers with hot wives they don't fuck. Who could blame a woman for starting to look elsewhere? For really going for it for the first time in her own life? Taking control of her own goddamn sex for once? Especially with such a fine specimen right in front of her, practically parading his big, young cock right in her face?

Ben reappeared in the doorway. "I've got those files, Mrs. Fletcher."

"Good. Put them on the desk." Not just the best clerk they'd had in years, but probably the best-looking as well, with his lean, swimmer's body, boyish good looks and easy smile. A real tempting target for a frustrated older woman. A wicked thought struck her suddenly, and before she could second-guess herself, she said. "And when you're done that, can you get me one of the volumes from the top shelf? The State Supreme Court decisions?" He plopped the redundant stack of papers down on the desk and sauntered over to the bookshelves; the hem of his jacket stretched high as he reached, and the fabric pulled tight on his ass. Margaret found it hard to suppress a smile. "No not that one, to the left," she said, idly swivelling her chair back and forth.

"Have you thought about it?" He asked, apropos of nothing in particular. "This one?"

"No, keep going left. Volume 51." Margaret made up a number, and played an index finger over her lower lip. "Thought about what? Offering you a permanent position?"

"Not a heck of a lot of left left up here." He scanned further along the shelf. "No, I meant treating me like the other clerks, getting a big sendoff when I'm done clerking. This one?"

"No that's 41." She watched him for a long moment. "Is that what you want?"

"Heck yeah," Benjamin stood down from his tiptoes. "If it's up here I can't see it."

"Do you trust me, Mister Fletcher?" Margaret asked as he seated himself again.

"Yeah, of course."

"Do you like working under me?" One of her hands dipped below the desk. "If we do this, you're going to see a different side of me."

"Mrs. Fletcher," Ben said, sitting ramrod straight. "Believe me, working under you has been one of the best experiences of my life; where you lead," he leaned forward, "I will follow."

"I'll make you a deal," she said, as her right arm moved back and forth under the desk, those big green eyes practically glowing. "If you promise to listen to every word I say, and if you get to the end of the summer showing the same passion for the job, the same attentiveness to my...needs, I promise I will give you exactly the same treatment as the other clerks. Deal?"

"Deal," he reached across the desk to shake her hand. Without thinking, Margaret slid her hand out from underneath and shook it once, firmly. "Are you okay, Mrs. Fletcher? You look kind of pale?"

"I'm sure," she said. "I mean, I'm fine. It's just been a long day." Her right hand slipped back under the desk. Ben looked down at his palm. "Can you go and find out if Emma's fallen into the toilet? I'd like to get this wrapped up today if at all possible."

"Yup, yes. I mean, yes Mrs. Fletcher." Ben snapped a salute, and left. His mother stared at his ass just as Emma had, her hand working rhythmically under the skirt of her dress, two fingers playing idly with her slick mons before dipping in between her folds, pressing and circling her clit; she felt dizzy and slightly stupid with arousal, but it was so good, that frisson of extra naughtiness, dancing on the line of the taboo, was so much more exciting even than just fucking the brains out of whatever dumb stud happened to be working there.

She'd never go through with it, probably, would she? Giving her son a send-off fuck at the end of the summer before hiring him full time? No, of course not; it was just an extra-sexy fantasy from a woman who hadn't been properly fucked in months. Just pent up arousal making her think of Ben's big cock under those pants, the pants she'd bought, the cock she'd made. That made them hers, didn't it? She could do whatever she wanted with her property, couldn't she?

Those fingers were sliding deep into her pussy, now, curling at the down thrust, making her shiver and pant in her office as she gave herself the fastest fingerfuck she could manage.

All that work she'd put into him, making him a good lawyer, making him a good boy, an obedient boy, didn't that make him hers to do with what she would? And if that meant pushing him down into that chair and riding his thick youthful cock until it filled up his boss', his mother's pussy with so much fuck cream that it poured all over his lap and onto the floor, wasn't that her prerogative?

Little squelching noises filled the office as her fingers sawed in and out, her eyes closing as she got lost in her horny reverie.

And if she wanted to lead him around the office by that silk tie in nothing else but his socks, pulling that boyish, eager face between her thighs and into her sopping wet pussy so he could make her scream with pleasure and feed him all the sweet juice leaking out around her digits, that was her prerogative too, wasn't it?

Margaret's breath caught in her throat and her body arced in the office chair as an orgasm washed over her, the walls of her pussy clamping down hard on her fingers as they did their job, carrying her through the pleasure as fast as she could drive them.

"You. Fucking. Belong. To. Me!" She grunted, coming down now, gasping for air as the last of the ecstasy ebbed, and she momentarily crashed down in the chair before the realization of what she'd done stole over her.

There was no time to consider it, though. Her hands were a blur as she hastily composed herself, hearing Ben and Emma just outside the office. She was still wiping her hand clean when they strolled in, the old bag laughing at something he'd said.

"Now," Margaret said, in a loud voice. "Let's put this to bed for the day, shall we?"

*

Carter Carmichael, the county's elder statesman, publishing magnate and (alleged) inveterate tax cheat, could afford representation from one of the biggest, most expensive firms in the country.

Their bathrooms were almost as nice as the ones at Fletcher & Fletcher but when Emma shoved it with one firmly planted foot, the door to the ladies' burst inward and bounced off the wall like the one at any old roadside dive. She dragged Ben inside by his tie.

"Mrs. Carmichael, I don't-"

"Emma," she corrected him, running a hand down his chest. "In here you can use my first name, Ben-jamin."

"Emma," he tried again, trying not to squirm under her touch. "This is not a good idea. Your husband,"

"Ex-husband," the older blonde pulled him downwards by his tie and began nuzzling against his neck.

"Almost ex-husband, and his lawyers and my m- Mrs. Fletcher, are all just outside in the boardroom." She wore too much perfume; it made him a little dizzy.

"Exciting, isn't it?" Her lips brushed against his ear, hot and moist. Nimble fingers undid a button or two and suddenly there were nails taking lightly over his abs. "You take very good care of yourself, Benjamin."

"Look," a tremor ran through him as her fingers wandered south of his navel. "Look, if somebody finds us- ah!"

"There'll be real trouble, won't there?" Rings caught against his belt for a moment, then with a push, she had slipped down into his pants. "You might have to start looking for a new job. Maybe I can find you an opening with me." She laughed softly. "I will need a poolboy."

"You've got to stop," he insisted. "We don't have time to do this."

"I don't think I will, no." Emma said, letting go of his tie and grabbing his belt. "I'm tired of playing the passive housewife: it's high time I took what I wanted, don't you agree?" There was a little metal noise as the belt fell open, giving the hand in his pants much more room to play.

"Hey-"

"Besides," her fingers wriggled downwards as her other hand started on the button of his fly. "I'm pretty sure you like aggressive women, don't- oooh yes you do!" Ben gasped as those long talons curled around the big lump hiding in his briefs. Locked together like that, they danced their way into a stall, Emma dragging him by his hard on, Ben weakly protesting as her mouth worked on his ear.

"It's okay, honey," she hissed in his ear, "the way you hop every time your boss snaps her fingers, I figured you liked being told what to do."

"What? No! She's my m-fffuck!" He lost the rest of the sentence when she squeezed him; the catch on his pants finally popped open and the zipper hummed as it obliged her questing arm.

"I know she's your boss, sweetie," Emma fiddled with the waistband of his shorts. "But you should see your face light up when she tells you do do something. It's okay," she yanked the waistband down and his fat, veiny cock sprang free, hard as a rock and thicker than her wrist. "I hear from my friends that lots of young men are into it these days."

"Into what?" Her fingers were cool as they danced up the velvety skin of his shaft.

"Older women, women who know what they want, women who aren't afraid to take control." Emma seized his cock. Ben opened his mouth to object, but couldn't find the words, and not just because of the teasing hands working his cock. Was that why he liked working for his mother so much? Because he liked being ordered around, because he got off on letting his mom dictate to him? "Women who know that the best thing for a boy like you is to stop asking stupid questions and use that mouth for something useful like-"

"What. The fuck. Is going on in here?" Margaret's strident voice echoed off the bathroom walls as she stood just outside the stall, staring at the pair of them.

"Now Margaret, don't be such-"

"You will get yourself and those awful bolt-on tits," Ben's mom spat the word like it left a foul taste in her mouth, "that Carter bought you, out of this bathroom and into that boardroom immediately, so that we can finally put an end to this nonsense and I will hopefully never have to look at you ever again." Their client let him go, and made a show of straightening herself, rearranging her skirts, checking her makeup in the bathroom mirror.

"And Emma?" Margaret said, just before she exited. "This will most certainly be reflected in your invoice at the end of the day."

"And as for you," she stepped inside the stall to prod him in the chest with a finger.

"How- how long were you standing there?" Ben stammered, head spinning, trying to remember what had been said.

"Long enough." Her fingernail drilled harder into him, even as the tip of his cock brushed against the silky fabric of her pinstriped pencil skirt. "As for you, young man. You will put that...that-" Margaret looked down at his cock for a long moment, and Ben thought he could hear her breath catch.

"That thing," her finger dropped from his chest to his cock, and stayed there a little longer than strictly necessary. "Away and join us outside in five- no, ten minutes, and you had better pray to god in heaven above that nobody walks into this bathroom in that time."

"Mom- Mrs. Fletcher, I am so sorry. So so so sorry I don't know-"

"We will have a very long talk about this later," she said, voice softening. "It's not all your fault. It's very easy for a woman like that to lead a young man astray." Margaret shot a meaningful look towards the bathroom door. "But I am very disappointed in you, Benjamin. I thought you knew better."

"I do, I swear!"

"Then prove it to me." She wheeled around on one tall heel and stalked out. Ben's eyes, already low, dropped to her calves as she left, watching them flexing underneath their sheer nylon, catching a glimpse of the prominent curve of her behind in profile. Somehow, his own fist had wrapped around the shaft and was stroking it lightly.

"No, Jesus. What am I thinking?" He stuffed the solid mass of his disobedient dick back into his pants and rearranged himself.

It took almost the full ten minutes for his erection to go away completely.

*

"Glenys said you wanted to see me?" Benjamin poked his head inside the door.

"Yes, Mister Fletcher." Margaret closed the file she was looking at and regarded him coolly. "Have we received the documents back from Mr.Carmichael's representatives yet?"

"Yes, they came in this morning."

"Completed?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Any amendments?"

"None that I could see."

"You're sure? I don't trust that old fucker."

"I checked three times myself and asked Danny to check again just in case. No changes."

"Good. Get it notarized and we'll file it with the court tomorrow. It's too late to send it over now."

"Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. Was there anything else?" Ben began preemptively pulling himself out of the doorway.

"Why yes, I believe there is," Margaret said, archly. "It's four o'clock, isn't it?" She rose from her desk and made a show of checking her watch. "Why so it is." With the snap of an elastic her hair came tumbling down out of its loose ponytail; strolling around the corner of her desk, the hem of her red shirtdress swirling around her thighs, black with her opaque tights. The black patent leather of those tall pumps looked slick and glossy. A narrow black belt nipped in around her waist, revealing the sweep of her hips and the swell of her breasts under her dress. Two or three of the top buttons were undone, revealing a deep cleavage where a tasteful opal pendant lay nestled.

Margaret toyed with the necklace as she approached her son, grinning.

"Come in, Mister Fletcher, and please close the door behind you." She let one hand drag across his chest as she passed him in the doorway and sat down on the big leather couch, crossing her legs showily, letting a heel dangle from her left foot. Ben did as she instructed.

"Now," she said, "You did such a good job on my neck this morning, I thought I'd let you rub my poor, tired, aching feet. No," Margaret warned him as he moved to sit on the other end of the couch. "On the floor, I think."

"Mrs. Fletcher-"

"Are you complaining?" She asked, recrossing her legs. "It's not enough to humiliate me professionally and personally, but you think you can complain about your punishment? I suppose I could just fire you, and make sure the bar association knows about your penchant for 'indiscretions' with clients. Besides," Maggie's voice softened; she leaned forward and watched his eyes drop into the depths of her exposed cleavage. "Don't you want to help out your mom, Benjamin John Fletcher?"

"Sorry, yes, of course, of course." Ben said, taking off his suit jacket and neatly folding it before laying it over the nearest arm of the couch. He rolled up one sleeve, then the other before taking a knee in front of his mother, the muscles in his forearms standing out as he flexed his fingers.

"Shoes." A foot circled in front of his face. Her son's hands were warm and strong as he cradled one calf, then the other, taking care to place her shoes neatly next to the couch. "Good boy," Maggie cooed. "When you want to be." The heel of her left foot sat in his outstretched palm as he pressed a thumb into the arch, pushing upward towards her toes.

"Mrs. Fletcher, I don't know how many times I can apolo-"

"Apologies don't mean anything unless they're followed by some corrective action, Benjamin," she could feel the tension starting to let go as he worked through her arch. "Show me how much my approval means to you, don't just tell m- ooohhhhh." Maggie let out a long, slow moan as her son worked the kinks out of her foot. She relaxed back into the embrace of the cushions as he pampered her feet, switching back and forth between them as she demanded.