Scott Chadwick, Summer Associate Ch. 02

This is a sequel to "Scott Chadwick, Summer Associate: Chapter 1"

Sunday July 2nd

Scott got up early. He normally watched all the Sunday morning talk shows, but this being a holiday weekend, he knew nothing of importance would be covered. As he made coffee he looked at the living room, proof that yesterday was more than a bad dream. There were still half a pizza on the cocktail table, and empty beer cans and bottles. Damn! he thought as he looked over the scene. Those are Kronenburg bottles! And there was Kronenburg in the house all along! Why did Wilson send him ... Damn, I'm slow! Scott thought.

As he listened to George Will brag about being a Cubbie, Scott recollected that the Cubs had won last night, 4-3 on a Sammy Sosa grand slam in the bottom of the ninth with two out. It wasn't only Wilson who got fucked last night. Four years as an undergraduate and a year at law school gives one a taste for cold pizza and stale warm beer at 8 a.m. Scott sat in the armchair, opened one of the bottles and took a slice of pizza. He looked at the sofa, convinced he'd never sit on it again. Even cold the pizza wasn't bad. The Kronenburg was sweet, with a pleasant aftertaste. Not bitter like Heineken. No wonder Wilson didn't want any German beer. WhenThis Week ended, Scott looked around, debating whether to clean the place. In addition to the beer cans and bottles and the empty pizza boxes were Wilson's and Quentin's pants and underwear, bunched on the floor next to the sofa. The feces-coated condom on top of Quentin's clothing decided the issue: their fuck up, their clean up. Well, at least the clothing. Scott began gathering the beer containers and the pizza boxes. He had just finished when Wilson and Quentin came down the stairs.

"Morning, Chadwick," Wilson said, echoed by Quentin.

"Good morning," Scott returned, desultorily.

Wilson looked around the living room and the kitchen approvingly. Only when he saw his and Quentin's clothing did he frown.

"Seems like we left some of our mess down here," he said to Quentin. Each went over to his clothing, picking the pile up. Quentin gingerly picked up the condom, depositing it in the garbage Scott was taking outside. Scott screwed up his nose although there was no scent.

Quentin opened the door and Scott quickly made the trip to the dumpster. The townhouse was part of a cul-de-sac in a gated community, the cul-de-sac being made up of five two story townhouses, all owned by Elkington, Townsend, Meier, Castanini. The dumpster served all five townhouses. Three were used as summer housing for the summer associates, or relocation housing for new associates and partners. The fourth was the firm's guest house, and the fifth for assignations and rendezvous of a nefarious nature. The townhouse at the rear of the cul-de-sac were for female associates, and Evelyn's residence. The dumpster was next to it. Scott felt some relief that Evelyn's car was gone.

When he returned to the house Wilson and Quentin were sitting at the dining table drinking coffee. Scott saw that the pot he had made was empty. They could've made a new pot, he groused to himself. He put the garbage can back under the sink, then went to watch more talk shows. The clothing had been removed. Wilson finished his coffee then looked at Scott then Quentin.

"You gonna eat?"

Quentin knew that Wilson was asking him to fix breakfast. "You're the bitch," he responded.

Wilson never liked this part of being a bottom. At some point the top expects him to take on traditional female roles. He never did, but the expectation always upset him. "Only in bed, Daniels, only in bed. Forget that, and I'll make you the bitch."

The thought of Wilson's nine inch prick with its three-inch wide head invading his ass sent shivers through Quentin. He'd taken it in the ass only a few times, and only once voluntarily. "Why don't we go to IHOP, my treat?"

Good move, thought Wilson. "Chadwick, Quentin's buying breakfast. Wanna come?"

Scott shook his head. "I've already eaten." Wilson looked around the kitchen for signs of a meal having been prepared. "Pizza and beer," Chadwick added.

Wilson nodded in acceptance of the explanation. He took out his car keys and headed for the door, followed by Quentin like a puppy.

***

Wilson and Quentin returned around 1 p.m. to find Scott channel surfing the tv. After passing on NASCAR and golf, he settled on another baseball game between teams he didn't care about. Wilson and Quentin resumed their same positions on the sofa they had the previous evening. They had watched the first seven innings when Scott got up and got a beer from the fridge.

"Make that your last one, Chadwick," Wilson ordered. Scott looked at him in confusion. "We have a date with the Klijsters this evening, remember? I don't want you spurning their cooking." He looked at Quentin. "Or you either."

The admonition raised a question Quentin had meant to ask the previous evening. "What was all that shit about whether I'd ever fucked a woman? And in the ass, yet?"

Wilson looked at Quentin, then at Scott. He knew he would have to explain more than he had intended. "You don't know who--or rather what--Mr. Klijsters is," he began. "He's a she, a woman. Laura's lover." He looked at Quentin. "And she can give head as good as you. I would say better, Quint, but you're one cocksucker that's hard to top." Quentin thought that he had just been given a compliment,maybe. "And she takes me up the ass. All the way. So 'Mr. and Mrs.' Klijsters and I get it on regularly. And she tries to take me in her pussy every now and then. I'm the only cock that's been there in the last two years. Or in Laura's. Laura don't care about being fucked, but Mr. Klijster likes to tease Laura's pussy with my cockhead like a giant dildo. The two of them have a thing with me. Could say I'm being used, but the way they lick and kiss my cock while they're rubbing their pussies with it makes it all right with me. Like Bill Withers says: 'If it feels this good being used, you'd wish that you were in my shoes. They can keep on usin' me, 'til they used me up.' " Wilson sung most of this off key, proof that not all Blacks got rhythm or soul. He went to the counter and got another beer.

Quentin was not satisfied. "What does that have to do with whether or not I ever fucked a woman?"

Wilson drained the can in one swallow. "You're hung. You like fucking ass. But you're not as big as me. I think Mr. Klijsters has designs on you, young man."

Quentin sagged into the sofa. Fucking a woman in the ass. He'd never even thought of that. That there are women who could handle him both vaginally and anally--and wanted to--was a revelation. Only he couldn't figure why Wilson was still calling her Mr. Klijsters.

Scott returned to his chair, still not sure why he was invited, or needed to go, except he didn't want Wilson to beat the shit out of him. It seemed so unfair. Wilson, the big fag, gets to be fucked in the ass and get his gigantic cock sucked. And might even get some dyke pussy! Quentin not only gets to fuck Wilson, but it looks like he'll get to fuck a woman in both the pussy and the ass! And he, Scott Chadwick, gets to be around three women, each of whom prefer to fuck each other or some queers with a supersized pricks rather than straight Scott Chadwick with his normal size dick. It ain't easy being a white boy!

"Look, Mr. Woodrow," he whined. "I'm cool about you and Quentin here. I'm even cool about Van Dyke now that I know the score. I said I'll keep quiet. I don't want to antagonize my boss any more than I have. But I don't want to socialize with her either."

Wilson studied Scott. Finally, he said, "Chadwick, what is the function of the jury?"

Scott was surprised at the question. "To decide issues of fact and reach a decision as to the innocence or guilt of the defendant in a criminal case, or the sufficiency of the evidence for and against each of the parties in a civil case."

"Close enough," Wilson said. "And how does the jury decide issues of fact or the sufficiency of evidence?"

Again, Scott was perplexed. "By hearing the evidence?"

"And how is the evidence presented in a trial?"

"Through the witnesses."

"And how do the jurors evaluate that evidence?"

"By observing the witnesses, their demeanor, voice, body language ..."

Wilson sighed. "Chadwick, I believe you'll keep your mouth shut. I've observed your demeanor, body language, voice, etc. But the Klijsters and Van Dyke haven't. You need to convince them that you're 'cool' with our sexual orientation."

"So I'm on trial?"

"Yes."

"And what if I fail?"

Wilson smiled broadly. "The entire firm knows you and Van Dyke went mountain climbing this weekend. No one knows you returned. Mountain climbing is very dangerous. You said two people died on that mountain this weekend? If two can die there, so can three."

The unadorned brutality of the threat shocked Scott. Keeping his mouth shut had escalated from a threat of being beaten to being killed. And the escalation was not sudden. Wilson had thought about this, maybe even discussed it with the Klijsters. He had to convince three lesbians that he was not a raging homophobe or they and Wilson might--would--kill him.

Wilson could hear Scott thinking. He smiled broadly again as he turned to the tv. If the threat of an ass whupping can be a restraining order, than the threat of death is a permanent injunction. Quentin had listened to this with a mixture of amusement and fear. Chadwick was a golden boy, an upper-middle class white boy with looks and prerogatives. Everything had been given to him as a birthright, even his good looks. It was nice to see him sweat. But Quentin realized he was in the same boat. One slip on his part, and he could destroy the careers of Wilson Woodrow and Laura Klijsters as easily as Chadwick. Of course he might be destroying his own career at the same time.

"Am I on trial, too?" Quentin asked, tentatively.

Wilson looked at Quentin sideways, then stood, unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. Wilson pulled it out fully, his handling of it giving it some rigidity. Scott tried not to look, but was drawn to it. Wilson walked over to Quentin, holding his cock so that the head was less than an inch from his mouth. Quentin looked at Scott ashamedly, then at Wilson in fear. He leaned forward and took the head in his mouth and sucked. After several minutes, Wilson pulled his dick away.

"Nope. You've been tried and found guilty," he said, nearly laughing. "Of being the world's second best cocksucker!" He then looked at Scott with disdain.

Scott watched, fascinated at seeing his first homosexual blowjob, and that Quentin could get the giant head into his mouth. When Wilson looked at him, a dread he had never known shook him. Wilson wouldn't want him to suck his cock, would he? Wilson returned to his place on the couch, leaving his cock lying alongside his leg. Quentin wondered if he'd be required to service it again; Scott wondered if he would be spared servicing it. Wilson enjoyed the ball game.

***

"Isn't this a lot of food?" Evelyn asked. On the verandah beside the pool five cut-up chickens, three slabs of pork ribs, and various links of sausages were cooking on the grill. Hamburger patties, steaks, and hot dogs were in the outside refrigerator, to which Evelyn was adding the potato salad, in addition to the cole slaw and tossed salads already there. Unopened bags of potato chips, corn chips, nachos and other snacks and several cases of soft drinks and that Kronenberg beer were in tubs, waiting for ice. In addition to the picnic table and benches, they had set up two folding tables.

Adele Klijster looked her diminutive house guest with amusement. "You know, Evelyn,, you really need to enjoy the company of men. For three women, this is a lot of food. For three men, it's a snack."

Adele Klijster was the "Mr." Klijster of the Mr. and Mrs. Klijster household. Evelyn had never understood why she was accorded this honorific. Her aunt was taller than Adele by at least two inches, the only breadwinner in the household, and the more masculine in appearance, not that she was masculine at all. It was just that Adele was the perfect suburban housewife: about five four, one hundred and fifty pounds, 48, her hair up. Still pretty, it was clear she had been a great beauty at half her age. Unlike Laura, she always wore full make-up, and never left the house unpainted. She always wore dresses and skirts. Even now she was wearing a dress that barely reached mid-thigh, in a Grecian style that evoked images of Helen of Troy and Aphrodite and Diana--or maybe Hera and Athena. The Grecian look was enhanced by the white high-heel sandals she was wearing. The neckline scooped downward, revealing the top of very ample breasts and deep cleavage. Sort of like a middle-aged Helen or Aphrodite.

Adele continued. "We're going to have three men over here in a few hours. They're going to be hungry, and thirsty. As hostesses, we have a duty to see to their needs. It's a skill you need to cultivate, young lady."

Evelyn shuddered at the remarks. Damn, she sounds like my mother, thought Evelyn. "Since I'm a lesbian," Evelyn rejoined, "why should I have anything to do with men, socially?"

Adele looked at Laura in exasperation, then at Evelyn again. "If you knew how to handle men socially, young lady, you'd be climbing some stupid mountain with this Scott boy rather than being here with two old--mature--women."

Evelyn pouted. She thought she had explained everything to both Adele and Laura. The mountain was closed to climbing and Scott hit on her. They were lesbians; they should understand. "What was I supposed to do, sleep with Chadwick?"

"No," Adele replied, "but you could still have enjoyed the mountains. Most young women your age know how to string a guy along. He's not a rapist, is he?" Adele looked at Evelyn, waiting for her reply. None coming, she continued. "You think men don't hit on Laura or me? You have to learn how to handle it."

"Okay, so I'm socially backward. How is inviting Chadwick, Daniels and Mr. Woodrow going to change that?"

"Well, I hope you will at least try to be a gracious hostess. All three know about your sexual orientation, as your generation prefers to say. I doubt whether any of them will come on to you. But we need to make sure that they keep your aunt's private life a secret. And if that means that you have to let this Chadwick boy fuck your brains out, I expect you to do it!"

Evelyn's pout turned into a fish-mouth gape. She looked at her aunt then at Adele. Both had a determined look on their faces. "Ohmigod! You're going to have sex with these guys! And they expect me to join in!"

"Yes, we do," Laura said. Evelyn looked at her aunt with shock at her acquiescence and betrayal.

"You don't have to fuck anybody, Evelyn." Adele moderated. "But you know that Laura and I have a relationship with Woody. We don't expect you to have sex withhim." The two older women exchanged knowing looks. "From what I hear of this Mr. Daniels, I don't think you need to worry about him. And both your aunt and I can handle this Scott Chadwick boy. But you've got to realize that there's nothing wrong with taking a cock in your pussy every now and then. The only thing wrong with a dick is the prick it's attached to."

Adele had made this last comment often. In fact, it was not completely accurate to call Adele a lesbian. She enjoyed sex, period. She just found it easier to live with Laura and have her affairs than to live with a man and have them. And she had to live with someone. Living alone did not suit her, and someone had to pay the bills!

"Now, you two," she said, returning to her preparations. "Woody and the two young men will be here at 6 p.m." She looked at Laura. "You know how punctual he is." Looking at Evelyn. "I expect them to see three ladies hosting a summer picnic. That means dresses!"

Evelyn was wearing the same jeans she had worn on Saturday. She had come straight to her aunt's home after dropping off Scott, seething with rage. Laura was in slacks and a pullover, having spent most of the morning driving Adele from store to store. Evelyn gave Adele a pained look and looked to her aunt for relief. None came.

"I have a couple of sun dresses," Laura chirped. "Of course, either one will come down to Evie's ankles," Laura laughed.

"I don't recommend wearing anything underneath, Laura," Adele advised, more for Evelyn's benefit than Laura's. "And Evelyn darling," she cooed, "as the person who just spent most of the last day with her face in your crotch, you need to make sure Scott ... or me ... would want to do it again."

"Now I smell?" she sneered. "You usually said she loved my aroma." Evelyn stomped off to the shower of one of the guest rooms.

"That last bit was unwarranted." Laura reproved.

"Maybe," Adele rejoined, "maybe. But if we want this Scott boy to keep quiet, we might have to sacrifice Evelyn's virginity. And a fresh-smelling twat won't hurt."

***

Wilson pulled up to the Klijster residence at 5:57 p.m. It was a single story ranch house, Prairie-style, with a 50-foot apron of lawn along its 150-foot frontage. The three of them were walking single-file, Wilson leading. The door opened when they still had ten feet of curving walkway to cover. Scott was surprised at the woman who stepped out. She held out her arms to Wilson, who scooped her up like a father picking her a small child. She through her arms around his neck, wrapped her legs around his waist and gave him a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Scott noted that this was the first kiss he had seen anyone give or get all weekend.

The woman's motion caused her gown to ride up her legs, revealing the bottom of the cheeks of her ass. She was the same pasty whiteness as Quentin, and the contrast of her arms around Wilson's dark neck, her face plastered at the lips to his again made a stark contrast. They stayed linked at the lips for some time, frenching each other, while the two interns stood watching, first disinterested, then embarrassed. After a few minutes, the woman broke the kiss and indicate that Wilson should put her down. He did so gently, like a father lowering a toddler. She smiled at Scott and Quentin, a brilliant smile diminished only by the smeared lipstick. Without a word, she took Wilson's hand and led him inside. The interns followed.

When everyone was inside, the woman closed the door. Only then did Scott see Laura and Evelyn. They had been just inside the doorway all the time. Both were wearing sundresses, the first time either Quentin or Scott had seen either woman in a dress. Laura's stopped just above the knee, Evelyn's too her ankles. Laura spoke first, but not to the men.

"Adele, you need to fix your make-up," she said, handing the woman a compact. As the woman repaired the damage, Laura walked around her to Scott, who was the last one in, then to Quentin, then to Wilson, like a drill sergeant inspecting his troops, and not pleased with what she saw. By the time she returned to her original position, Adele's make-up was perfect, and she looked liked the vivacious lawyer's wife she was. She looked expectantly at Wilson.

"Quentin," he began, " this is Mr. Klijsters. Mr. Klijsters, Quentin Daniels." Quentin thought the title extremely ridiculous when applied to this obviously feminine woman. But who was he to comment on social conventions.

Adele held out her hand. As they shook, she scolded, "So you're the one who's kept Woody away from us all summer."

Wilson continued the introductions. "Scott, Mr. Klijsters. Mr. Klijsters, Scott Chadwick." Scott also found the honorific disconsonance, and likewise stayed silent.

"So you're Scott Daniels." Adele beamed, extending her hand again. As they shook, she turned to Evelyn. "You didn't mention that he was so handsome. I don't understand why you don't want to fuck him." When she returned her smiling face to Scott, it was to a very red faced Scott. "Ohhh. Did I embarrass you, Scotty? I'm sorry." She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, taking his bottom lip between hers. "I'll see if I can make it up to you ... later."