29 comments/  22366 views/  18 favorites

Somtimes, Life's Not Fair

By: amyyum



Without exception, all sexual encounters and feelings in this story are by people 18 or older.



On a Friday afternoon shortly after my tenth birthday I sat at the kitchen table with my head down on my folded arms, sobbing. My mother came over to comfort me – sort of.

"What's the matter, Amy?" she asked, touching my shoulder.

"It isn't fair, it just isn't," I continued to sob, not really answering her question.

"Tell me about it, Amy."

"Well, my friend Jamie dropped a plastic bottle out of her backpack when we were going back to class after lunch. I picked it up but couldn't return it to her yet because the bell sounded and she sits on the opposite side of the classroom from me. So I put it on my desk so that I wouldn't forget it," I replied before stopping to sob some more.

"So what's the problem?" Mom asked.

"Well when Mrs. Morton came by my desk a little while later she saw the bottle – it was for something called 'Alive' I think," I continued before Mom interrupted me.

"Aleve?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's it. So I had to go to Principal Johnson's office with it and he said that it was bad for me to have it and that I had to serve detention all next week." I sobbed some more then lifted up my head to look my Mom in the eye. "I was trying to do the right thing, but now I'm in trouble – it's just not fair, Mom."

"Did you tell the Principal that it was Jamie's bottle?" she asked.

"No, because when he told me that it was something kids weren't allowed to bring to school I didn't want to get her in trouble too," I sniffled.

"Sometimes it may seem that life just isn't fair even when you do the right thing," she philosophized while stroking my head; "but it's God's will."

I didn't see how "God's will" had anything to do with it, but that seemed to be my parents' cop-out response to every question. They never had a solution, just a trite adage.

I was in a total funk until my thirteen year old brother, Rob, came home from basketball practice. He was my best friend, my protector, and my advocate when my religiously severe parents wanted to punish me for one transgression or the other against the Lord, like wanting to put lipstick on.

"Knock, knock, Squirt," I heard his familiar voice as the door to my room opened while I wallowed in self-pity on my bed. As he entered he said "Why the long face?"

"Rob, I got detention all next week for trying to do the right thing," I grumbled, on the verge of another bout of crying.

"Hey, cool Squirt," was his smiling reply. "Now I'm not the only black sheep of the family."

"No Rob, it's..."

"Listen, Squirt, when other people are jerks you can't let it get you down. You need some quality time with your big bro, and you'll forget all about it," he chuckled. Then he started to tickle me until I agreed to play my favorite video game with him. Then he let me win the video game (he said that he didn't but I know that he did). Then he spent the last of his money from moving lawns for neighbors to take me for ice cream even though Mom would have a conniption fit. By the time that I went to bed I was a happy camper.

I had a wide variety of other demonstrations that life wasn't fair throughout my teenage years. These included Rob getting suspended for a week for beating the shit out of three boys in my grade who were harassing me by grabbing my emerging boobs (I was well ahead of my classmates in the tit department) even though the school itself took no significant action against them; and when Rob was sixteen him having to go without a car that he worked hard to buy with his own money when our father let the insurance lapse and it was totaled by a hit and run driver when it was in his workplace parking lot.

I don't want to give the impression that life has been completely unfair to me. I was born with some significant advantages. They included having much better than average intelligence, much higher than average empathy (which I consider a benefit), and good looks. 

As far as good looks are concerned, I was born with, and developed by my own sweat, all desirable female physical equipment. My face was pretty enough that I could have become a model as a teen (although my parents would hear nothing of it because "It would be consorting with the devil"). I was constantly hit on by guys who called me either "Killer," as in "killer thighs," or "Busty Betty," because I had a full D by the time that I was seventeen, or "Sultry Sue," because – well because I assume that they thought that I was sultry.

When I was nineteen I got admitted to the college of my choice. My parents had agreed to pay my expenses, which was fortunate since their income was high enough that I didn't qualify for need based scholarships. After my first semester, however, the situation changed. Quite unexpectedly – at least to me – my parents ended up getting divorced. The reason was even more unexpected given the severe religious beliefs that they both espoused when I lived at home – they both were having affairs.

The contentiousness of their divorce, which I refused to be drawn into, plus an inexplicable change in their attitudes about education ("You can get a job at a fast food restaurant and work your way up; a college education is over-valued," according to my father), left me without means to continue the second semester of my freshman year even though I had worked hard and had gotten good grades. "Another 'life isn't fair' moment," I groaned to myself as I shook my head.

My brother Rob came to my rescue once again.

Rob had always worked while going to school and even though he had not graduated from college yet he had saved enough money to cover my first tuition payment for my second semester, and books. He just gave it to me, although I promised to repay him. That bought me enough time to apply for a loan for the second and third tuition payments my second semester; he even co-signed the loan.

"Hey, Sis," he counseled, "you can't go into debt too much for your education. If you can't swing a job to pay for next year's tuition, you need to drop out a year; so get good grades this semester so that you can easily get back in once your economic situation changes. Also, while you can come live with me this summer – returning home is not an option considering what's going on with our hypocrite mother and father – you're still going to have expenses this summer."

"You're right, bro. Got any ideas for employment?" I queried.

"None off the top of my head. Just consider what your strengths are, talk to friends at school about what they're doing, and let me know if there's anything that I can do to help," he responded.

"Thanks, Rob, you're the best."

I got the loan in time to pay my second tuition installment and for my dorm and meal plan. I spent an inordinate amount of time talking to people about part-time and then summer employment to pay my way. One of my friends suggested that I talk to a senior named Gwen Swanson who always seemed to have enough money without getting loans, and who was estranged from her parents. The friend pointed Gwen out to me and said that she often went to the Student Union between classes because she had her own off-campus apartment.

Gwen was really exotic looking. She had long slender legs, shoulder length silky brown hair with auburn highlights, a striking face, and a regal demeanor. Unlike most college students she wore classy and fashionable clothes. She looked eminently successful.

The next day I sheepishly went up to Gwen at the Student Union right after lunch. She was sitting in a booth. I waited until a handsome guy sitting with her left, then apprehensively approached her.

"Hi, you're Gwen, aren't you?" I gulped.

"Yes...," she expectantly replied.

"I'm Amy Boston, a freshman here. I badly need a part-time and/or summer job and one of my friends told me that you were the most successful money-maker on campus and that I should ask your advice. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

Gwen looked me over carefully – I can't actually describe her demeanor as she did that, but it was not hostile.

"Did your friend speculate on what my part-time job was?" she asked with raised eyebrow.

"No – I'm not even sure that she knows. She just said that you really have your act together and that you'd be the most worthwhile person to talk to," I replied.

"I've got a class in fifteen minutes. Why don't you come to my apartment tonight – it's only a ten minute walk from here. Can you do that?" she said.

"Yes; that's really nice of you, Gwen. What time, and what's your address?"

"How about 8:00 p. m.; here's my address," she said scribbling on a sheet of paper.

With that she got up and walked away, giving me a quick smile. Being up close I was surprised to see that she was as tall as I am – five feet ten inches – and that she had the poise of a fashion model. "I wonder if she is a model?" I asked myself, and then thought better of it. "She's not skinny enough to be a model," I mused since she looked much better than someone who starved themselves, like models are known to do. "I guess that I'll find out tonight," I chuckled to myself as I walked to my next class.

_________________ 

I got to Gwen's apartment building a few minutes before eight. I couldn't fucking believe it. It was about as far from student housing as you could get; it looked like a first class building. It even had a security guard.

"Amy Boston to see Gwen Swanson," I self-consciously told the security guard.

"You're on the list," he said with a big smile after checking a clipboard in front of him. "She's in 3C, elevator on your left."

"Thanks," I said, returning his smile.

Obviously the guard had called up because Gwen was waiting for me with her door open when I got to the third floor. She was now dressed casually in Daisy Duke cutoffs and blouse. She looked HOT (and I don't mean because the air-conditioning was broken; it was working just fine).

"Hi, Gwen; thanks for seeing me," I chimed.

"Would you like a glass of Pinot Noir?" she asked as I walked into her apartment.

Though I was not yet twenty, and I didn't normally drink, I knew that Pinot Noir was wine, and I wanted her to like me so I said, "Sure, if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble," she replied.

I was shocked by her apartment. It had classy furniture with color-coordinated drapes, what looked like original artwork on the walls, and a hardwood floor with an oriental rug. While it was small it gave the vibe that it was really expensive; certainly everything was in good taste.

"Wow, nice digs," I exclaimed as she handed me a glass of wine, while holding one of her own. I was trying not to be star-struck, but I probably didn't succeed.

After some chit chat about where we were from, what courses we were taking, etc., Gwen crossed her long tanned legs and started interrogating me.

"So, Amy, why do you need a job?"

"Well, my parents are divorcing and cut me off. I got a bridge loan from the University and my brother fronted me the first tuition installment, but unless I get a job I won't even make it through the summer. I'm not willing to go into debt $100,000 to go to school. I'll have to drop out."

"It sounds like you don't need just a job, but a high paying one if you expect to afford going to school without loans or help from your parents."

"Yeah – I guess that I do."

"What types of activates did you participate in before college, Amy?"

"Well I was a good volleyball player and was All-Conference when I was a senior in High School; I took modern dance for several years..." I started in. Gwen interrupted.

"When did you take dance, and where?"

"Well, Gwen, I took it from the time that I was eight until I turned fourteen, and a dance school run by a former professional from Broadway. I actually danced in two musical productions at school, and three in Community Theater when I was between fifteen and seventeen."

She seemed satisfied with my response so I continued. "I also was on the yearbook staff, and was the women's sports reporter for the school newspaper for my sophomore and junior years. I also sang in the choir – ugh – from the time that I was little until I was finally able to finagle out of it when I was fifteen." I paused to reflect. "That's about it, I guess, aside from playing other sports in recreational leagues."

"What activities did you like the most?"

"Ha, ha – actually videogames with my brother were number one. However, I also loved both volleyball and dancing in the musicals, although I didn't much care for practice for either – just games and actual performances," I smiled.

"Pretty typical," Gwen said returning my smile. "How is your interaction with guys?"

"Actually, pretty embarrassing most days. I am constantly getting hit on, and whenever I meet a guy the first thing that he normally looks at are my boobs, followed by my ass and thighs." Then with a chuckle I continued "I don't think that I have such a bad face so I don't know why they do that?"

"My situation is similar," Gwen replied with her own chuckle. "I need to get really personal with you if you want my help. Are you willing to answer a few personal questions?"

"Uh...sure," I said, with more apprehension that my voice and response indicated.

"Are you a virgin?"

"No; I'm not real experienced either, though; I've had sex only five times since I turned eighteen."

"How old are you now?"

"About a month from my twentieth birthday."

"Who did you have sex with?"

"This is just between you and me, right?" I replied, I'm sure turning red.

"Our entire conversation is between you and me, scout's honor," she said, making a poor attempt at a Boy or Girl Scout's salute.

"With one of my classmates my senior year in High School – twice. With a guy I met at a one week dance camp – I forgot to tell you about the dance camp earlier, sorry – once. And,... this really can't get out; twice with my three year old brother's best friend from college when he was staying over at our house about a week last summer."

"Are you sharp with or nasty to guys when they hit on you?"

"Not usually; unless they are real creeps. I usually either ignore them or am polite even if I'm not interested. I don't like to hurt people's feelings."

"How are you at handling lesbians?" was her next startling question.

"Are...are you one?" I hesitantly inquired.

"Hell no, completely hetero," she laughed. "I have a real reason for asking, though."

"I've never been hit on by a lesbian as far as I know," I cautiously replied.

Gwen paused in obvious reflection. She finished off her glass of wine, stood up and asked "Another Pinot Noir?"

"No, I'm good," I replied after staring at my still only half-consumed glass.

When Gwen returned from pouring herself another glass she took a sip, sat down, crossed her long legs again and then changed my life.

"The reason for my questions, Amy, is that I make good money working part time as an exotic dancer;" after she paused for effect, she continued, "that is a stripper. When all is said and done I average about 200 bucks per hour when I work weekends, and about $75 per hour on weeknights. I also do private parties, but only with a male chaperon, during which I typically net $1,000 or more. I don't ever fuck, suck, or allow contact with my merchandise, although I do give naked lap dances. The only exception is that I'll let the groom feel me up, and maybe even finger me, at a bachelor party if the price is right and I have the right protector with me."

I'm sure that I was bug-eyed. I hadn't considered that she was a stripper, for some reason, although I was naïve in thinking that she could live in the comfort that she did unless she was a stripper or call girl.

"Interested?" she asked with raised eyebrow.

"Uh... well.... tell me what it's like," I mumbled while I was turning the concept over in my mind.

"I rarely encounter problems at work. The club I work at is high class and has big, tough bouncers. It took a little while to get used to the lesbians, since almost half of the strippers swing that way, but now they're no problem either. You have to be friendly and talk to the customers between your numbers, but to be honest I feel more comfortable, and less exploited, doing that than I did when I was a waitress."

"Oh..." was my intelligent remark.

"As a part time waitress I made $15,000 a year. As a part time stripper I make $150,000," she said with a grin.

"Do you think that I have what it takes?" I timidly inquired.

"You're going to think this weird, but if you want an honest answer to that question, you're going to have to take all your clothes off right now," she said, glaring at me with a cobra-like stare.

"Uh,... what?"

"If you're apprehensive to strip in front of me in a private location, stripping isn't for you, so there are two reasons for my request. The first is to test your adventurousness, and the second is to see if your body is as good naked as it appears to be clothed," she stated without passion or sarcasm.

I stood up, quickly removed all of my clothes, and did three or four slow pirouettes. 

After looking me over completely Gwen smiled. "Amy, if we trim your pubic hair so that you only have a landing strip, and if you can dance worth a damn, you'll make as much money as I do. You have the perfect body. Now get dressed so that I don't feel so insecure," she laughed.

After I got dressed Gwen continued.

"I'm a nice person, Amy, but I'm also a businesswoman. I have a proposition for you. I'll give you some basic stripper lessons, and I'll introduce you to Jeremy, the owner of the club that I work at. If he likes your audition and hires you, I'll make sure that our schedules mesh for the first month and introduce you to all of the other girls as my friend – and implicitly not to be messed with. For the first month, if you like it and last that long, you'll give me 10% of your tips. For the next two months you'll give me 25%. After that, it's all yours; plus after two months I'll tell you how to negotiate for $15/hour in addition to tips. Deal?"

I sat with my mind in turmoil for a while. Then I thought to myself "What the hell; I can pay for school plus some. It might even be fun. I can do it."

With a big smile I stood up, held out my hand, and said "Deal!"

That night I got drunk for the first time – Gwen and I finished off two bottles of Pinot Noir and part of a fifth of Scotch. She insisted that I was too drunk to walk home, and she was right, so I spent the night on her couch. It was more plush and comfortable than my bed in the dorm, and the surroundings were certainly more quiet and relaxed.

_________________ 

Gwen was true to her word. She taught me a number of stripper moves; the little vixen actually had a stripper pole in her bedroom! She said that I caught on to the Cross Leg L Climb, the Russian Splits, the Up Pole Transition, the Sexy Flexy, and the Bumslide to Splits pretty quickly, and had real potential. She had me come and watch her performance, and her interaction with customers, the next Saturday night. She told me to practice interacting with guys that night too. 

Gwen's performance was spectacular – the best one that I saw. Her interaction with customers was so smooth – I'm sure that after college that she'll be running her own successful human relations firm.

While visiting the club I got hit on dozens of times but except for one guy – who I just walked away from and repositioned myself near the biggest bouncer – they were all decent. All of them asked me if I worked there. I told them that I might soon. Without exception they asked me what my stage name would be – I had, with Gwen's help, already come up with "Amberlite" – and told me to have Jeremy publicize it (including by sending emails to his regular clientele) so that they could be sure to catch my maiden performance.


Somtimes, Life's Not Fair



After Gwen finished her last routine she introduced me to Jeremy. His eyes lit up. "When can you come in for an audition, Amy?"

"Well, as long as it doesn't interfere with a class, anytime that's convenient for you. Thing is, though, that I don't think that I have a suitable costume," I replied – which is exactly what Gwen told me to say.

"That's no problem. I'll provide one. Can you come about ten tomorrow morning, Sunday?" he asked.

I glanced at Gwen. She nodded her head "Yes." "Sure, Jeremy, see you then."

Gwen drove me home. "I'll pick you up at 9:40 tomorrow morning," she said as she dropped me off – in her new red Mustang convertible with leather interior and boss sound system.

"Thanks so much Gwen. I really enjoyed it tonight. You were so awesome; I hope that eventually I get to be half as good as you are. I can't believe that you're going with me to my audition, that's so nice."

"How else are you going to get there, girl?" she chortled. "I know that you'll be hired and we'll drive together the first month. After that you'll have to make other arrangements if our schedules diverge."

Surprisingly I got to sleep quite easily that night. Watching Gwen, and interacting with guys in the audience, really reduced my stress level.

Gwen gave me a pep talk before I went onto the stage for my audition, and made sure that the costume Jeremy had given me fit properly. Jeremy, one of the bouncers, Jeremy's minority business partner (a fifty-something woman named Gloria), and Gwen were the only people in the audience.

I felt no nervousness after the first few seconds on the stage – as soon as I opened up with a Cross Leg L Climb the butterflies left. As I started working up a sweat I really got into it and when I provocatively exposed my pussy near the end of my routine despite the loud music I heard a noticeable gasp from the bouncer, who was standing right where the most aggressive customers would be during a real performance.

When the lights came back on, Gwen walked up to me with a robe and whispered "Great job; you're in."

In fact, I was. "When can you start?" Jeremy asked.

"Uh... well a number of customers that I talked to last night asked me to be sure that you publicized my maiden performance because they wanted to be there, so maybe..." I said before Gwen interrupted.

"The first month she needs the same schedule as I have, so why don't you publicize a Wednesday opening for her," Gwen said.

"Sounds good," Jeremy replied with a smile. He pulled a contract out of his briefcase, signed two copies of it, and handed them to me. "Sign them both and bring one executed copy with you on Wednesday. See you then."

I must have made a real impression on the guys that I met Saturday because Jeremy told me that it was the biggest Wednesday crowd that they had had in a year. Almost all of the guys I had talked to Saturday were there, in many cases with several buddies. Gwen gave me another pep talk and I do believe given that it was my first routine ever that I killed it; at least the reaction from the audience, and the tips tucked into my G-string as I crawled along the edge of the stage before my completely naked finale, would indicate that.

I ended up enjoying my job as a stripper. There were no incidents at the club that I, sometimes with the help of the bouncers, couldn't handle. The money was as good as Gwen said that it would be. I didn't make as much as she did because I only did one private party – I didn't like it since I almost had to fight for my life to get out of it without getting fucked – but I worked two or three more hours per week at the club than she did. Even my very first year after I paid Gwen what I had promised, and paid back Rob and my bridge loan, I had plenty left over to pay for all of my summer living expenses, and all school expenses for the next year, and to have a good time besides.

I told Rob what I was doing. Once he was convinced that I was safe, like he always did my whole life, he encouraged me. "I'll bet that you're making lots of guys very happy!" he said with a smile. Of course I never told my religious freak, hypocritical, parents.

I don't know whether Rob told his best bud from college, Chris, about me performing, but one Wednesday night he showed up. It was about three months after I had started, and by that time I was the third most popular stripper at the club (next to Gwen and a redheaded firecracker lesbian who performed under the name "Dawn"), which was the biggest club in the city. Chris stuck a $50 bill in my G-string when I recognized and smiled at him. He waited until I was off work and then drove me home so that I didn't have to take a cab.

"You know, Amy, I look back on those two nights at your house last summer as the best times of my life," he said, obviously angling for an invitation to my dorm room. Since I lived alone in a single in the dorm, and since he was by far the best fuck of my limited experience, of course I invited him in.

"Hey, Chris, you're very welcome to come up to my room, and even stay the night. However, I should warn you that I'm totally wiped out. I got up at six this morning, had four classes today, worked out at the gym, and gave four performances tonight. You might be fucking a dead body," I giggled.

"Yeah, but WHAT a dead body," he chuckled.

I found out that night that under the right circumstances fatigue can be an aphrodisiac. I was dead tired, but my libido was high from the reaction that I had received to my performances, and Chris' expert handling. Even though I didn't participate much I had my best two fucks up to that point in my life.

Chris washed me all over when we showered together to get the sweat and glitter (part of my last performance) off of me. That was a little dicey since the shower stall was in a communal bathroom; but we didn't make any noise or fool around much, and as far as I know no one else came in.

He carried me to my bed – no mean feat since I have 145 pounds spread over my five foot ten inch frame – and immediately got to work on my pussy with his tongue, lips, and fingers. He must have gummed my labia for five minutes, tickled my clit with his tongue until I had a first large orgasm, fingered my G-spot to a second large orgasm, and then spread my legs and put my heels on his shoulders.

Having handled only about a half dozen dicks in my life up to that point, I couldn't be sure – but I thought that Chris's dick was particularly "girthy." Even after I gained more experience, looking back it is still the "grithiest" cock I've ever experienced. It took him a while to bury himself in my tight pussy, despite the volume of lubricant that I was putting out. I mostly just lay there, completely fatigued, as he pounded the shit out of me. When he ejaculated into me I had a truly satisfying orgasm. It wasn't mammoth, but it was sustained. I had a complete buzz on even up to the time that I fell asleep, with his cock still in me as we snuggled face-to-face.

The little devil fucked me again in the middle of the night. Once more I was almost comatose as he was fucking me, although I did feel his thumb in my asshole. I got another completely pleasurable sustained orgasm when he pumped his jism into me. I think that my fatigue enhanced the effect of the endorphins flowing through my system, because I was still feeling euphoric when I awoke the next morning.

After Chris had been so nice to me when I was exhausted and couldn't really participate, the least that I could do was to energetically fuck him in the morning. I woke him up by sucking his cock hard – wow it had a lot of stuff caked on it – and once he was completely with the program rode him cowgirl style.

"Oh fuck that feels good..." he said as I bounced up and down while he manhandled my large mammary glands. Even though I didn't orgasm I was thrilled and satisfied when I sucked another load of his cum into my pussy by squeezing my pc muscles and milking his cock. About ten minutes after I moved off his softening cock he was finally completely coherent.

"Holy shit, Amy; that was beyond awesome...you are one fantastic fuck; my best ever by a light year," he moaned between kisses.

You have no idea how good that made me feel. Good enough so that we made a regular habit of him attending my Friday performances, and then afterward making two or three sperm deposits in my pussy before he left the next morning. We weren't in a relationship – but it was great sex!

__________________ 

My entire sophomore year, and through most of the school year when I was a junior, I regularly worked at the club. Gwen left after my freshman year to start her own public relations firm – I knew that she would be a success – and Dawn moved out of town midway through my sophomore year. That – combined with the fact, that in all modestly I had really honed my techniques and performances – made me the top attraction at the club. Jeremy told me that business was at least 30% higher on nights that he advertised that I was working. That meant that he had no problem paying me $20/hour in addition to my tips.

I continued my Friday fucks with Chris until the start of my junior year, at which point he too moved out of town. I likely could have had any guy at school fuck me, but I didn't date or fuck much for the rest of college, only enough to retain my sanity.

Then, of course, came another "life's not fair" development.

The city passed a new ordinance banning entirely nude dancing. All dancers had to have at least a G-string on at all times. Jeremy never told me that; I think the reason that he didn't was because he intended to challenge the law in court and figured that I would be the best candidate to be the test case. I wasn't interested in being a test case, especially since after graduation I intended to go into the legal profession in one way or another, but he didn't give me a choice.

It may have been the most lucrative night of my career as a stripper the day that I was busted. I was so jazzed up by the loud crowd that I did some impromptu maneuvers that wowed them to the extent that the entire building was vibrating from the noise. I probably had $1000 in bills that I removed from my G-string and laid on the stage when I ripped my G-string off, tossed it into the crowd, and did a number of kicks and twists that readily exposed my glistening pussy. That's when two cops, one male, one female, came onto the stage and cuffed me. I saw the female cop pick up my money.

I have to give the cops some kudos for bravery. There was almost a riot. If the cops hadn't had another dozen other fuzz as backup I'm sure that some of my regular fans would have beat the shit out of the two that cuffed me. They made it out alive, however, threw a robe over me and tied it at the front, and then took me to jail.

Jeremy got some clothes to me in my cell but he wasn't able to bail me out until the next morning. When I finally was released about 9 a. m. I was madder than I could ever remember being. I cursed Jeremy up and down and told him that I was quitting.

"Please, Amy, just wait until you talk to our attorney. I have a meeting set up for 1 p.m. today. I'll pick you up and take you to lunch then drive you there," he said as he tried to calm me down.

"Don't bother, asswipe," I screamed. "Just give me the address and the attorney's name; I'll get there on my own."

After he wrote the attorney's name and his address down I slammed the car door and didn't look back when Jeremy whined, "Please Amy..."

This may have been the only time in my life that a "life's not fair" situation ended up working out in the long run.

I dressed up nicely, in my only "business" skirt, blouse and jacket, to go to the attorney's office, the law firm of Arnold, Watt & Compton. Charles Compton was the club's attorney. I had looked him up on the Internet; unless I was mistaken he was the biggest bad-ass attorney in our little city. He once had been the District Attorney, and he had handled almost all of the high profile criminal and civil cases in our fair city the last five years.

When I got to Arnold, Watt & Compton, Compton, an associate attorney whose name I didn't get at the time, and Jeremy were already there in the conference room. Compton took the lead.

"Hi Amy, I'm Charles Compton, this is my associate –blah, blah, like I said I didn't get the name – and of course you know Jeremy," he said.

"I wish that I didn't know him. Tell me Charles, can I sue the bastard for not informing me about the new city ordinance, or should I just shove his balls up his ass," I replied in my most "ladylike" voice.

"I like your fire, Amy. Let me assure you that not only will all charges be dropped, but that your arrest will be expunged as well," he said with a look halfway between a grin and frown.

"What about the money that the cops confiscated?" I asked, crossing my arms and refusing to sit when Charles motioned me to a plush conference room chair.

"I hadn't heard about that," he said glancing over at Jeremy.

"Sorry I forgot to mention it," Jeremy cautiously said, waiting for me to start verbally abusing him again. "Amy had about her best night ever for stage tips and the female cop just picked it up off the stage and stuffed it in her pocket."

"It better be in the police report," Charles snapped. "Go check on its status," he barked to the nameless associate, who quickly got up and scurried away. "I can assure you that you'll get every penny back," Charles said, staring into my eyes.

I finally did calm down, and actually sat at the conference room table. Charles laid out what he planned to do – obviously he had thought up most of it long before my arrest. Basically he intended to get the new ordinance declared unconstitutional under both the State and Federal Constitutions, and to also demonstrate that my dancing was art, not pornography. I asked numerous probing questions – after all it was my record and money that was on the line. He answered them all quickly, thoughtfully, and honestly, including "I'm sorry, I don't know," if he really didn't instead of making up some bullshit.

Once we had discussed everything that needed discussing, as Jeremy and the associate were getting up to leave Charles touched my arm and softly said – though not in a whisper because he wasn't hiding it from Jeremy and the associate – "Amy would you mind staying for a few minutes more. I need to get some more information from you that we don't need Jeremy or – nameless associate – for.

I looked at him funny. He didn't appear to be the type to hit on me; "OK," I diffidently replied.

After Jeremy and the associate left Charles got right to the point.

"Amy I believe in directness. I'm very impressed by your intelligence. The questions you asked were what I would expect an attorney to ask, not an exotic dancer. What are you studying in school?"

"I'm technically an English major however I'm taking classes in criminal justice and legal research since I want to work in the legal profession in some way after I graduate. That's one reason why I badly want my arrest expunged."

"What are your grades like?"

"I've been on the Dean's List the last three semesters; around a 3.75," I shot back.

"How did you do on the SATs?"

"610 in math, 780 in verbal, 780 in the writing sample," I replied with a total lack of humility.

"Great!" he exclaimed. 

"What have those questions got to do with my arrest?" I asked, truly puzzled.

"Nothing," he chortled. "Have you considered working as a paralegal?"

"That's one option I've considered. I'm planning on taking a paralegal course the first semester of my senior year."

Charles paused, looked up at the ceiling, and then continued. "I'm going to be even more blunt than I normally am," he articulated, emphasizing the word "blunt." "Your combination of looks, attitude, and intelligence is rare. Right this minute I'm offering you a job as a paralegal. You can work here this summer to see how you like it, and then when you graduate come to work for us full time."

"What have 'looks' got to do with it?" I cautiously inquired.

"I'm a realistic; I don't deal in political correctness," he continued. "I can tell you that clients – who I would groom you to deal with – are happier when they deal with good looking service providers, as long as the job gets done. Maybe it shouldn't be that way – but it is, at least in our practice. Like I said, I'm being blunt."

"I'd say uber-blunt," I responded with a big grin.

"Well?" he asked.

"Let's see if you get me off this lewdness charge, Charles. If you do, and the money is right, I'll likely accept," I said, standing up and holding out my hand.

"A good negotiator too," he laughed as he too stood up and shook my hand. "That gives me as much incentive as I've ever had to win a case."

Despite my equivocation to Charles, when I walked out of his office I was on cloud nine I felt so good.

__________________ 

Like I said, this time the "life's not fair" situation was turned on its head for the only time in my life. 

Despite Jeremy's begging I had stopped working at the club. However since both my ass, and Jeremy's to a certain extent, were on the line, and Jeremy was paying Arnold, Watt & Compton's bills, I attended the preliminary hearing at Charles' insistence. It was obvious that the judge acted very deferential toward Charles, and wasn't buying what the present D. A. was selling. Charles verbally cut the D. A. to ribbons.

Despite an overruled objection from the D. A. Charles also showed the judge a three minute video of the performance that resulted in my arrest, including the fully naked part. Jeremy had obviously filmed it just for this purpose. Charles convinced the judge that it was to demonstrate that my performance was art, not pornography, and to show that the patrons were all adults and not unruly. 

The judge paid close attention to the video – in fact after the hearing Charles told me that that was the closest attention he had ever paid to a piece of evidence during any of the dozens of hearings or trials Charles had had before him.

The coup de grace that Charles was able to deliver was handed to him on a silver platter by the police. They had failed to note in the police report my tip money which they had confiscated, or in the items that I was admitted to jail with (my silver ankle bracelet and LED earrings were the only things listed on the intake form). When Charles got done examining the policewoman – Officer Wilson – who picked up the money I almost felt sorry for her – "almost." She was beet red and sweating.

Charles then put me on the stand to estimate the amount of tip money that I had collected, and to talk about the artistry of my performance. Charles had coached me on how to sit, and to look straight into the judge's eyes when I answered Charles' questions, or if the D. A. was foolish enough to ask me any on cross-examination.

I do believe that I charmed the old codger. He even asked me a few softball questions himself. When I sweetly turned all of the D. A.'s stupid questions back on him I could see a big grin on Charles' face. The judge three times had to tell the D. A. to refer to me as "Ms. Boston, not Amberlite." The judge finally told the D. A. to sit down with the admonition "Mr. Baxter you obviously have no appropriate questions of Ms. Boston. I won't allow you to harass her any further – I've heard all that I need." After that admonition the judge turned to me and with a big smile kindly said "Thank you Ms. Boston; you may step down."

I smiled back and said "Thank YOU, Your Honor."

The judge called the D. A. and Charles to his chambers. When they came out fifteen minutes later Charles and the D. A. went into a conference room in the Courthouse. When they returned after another fifteen minutes Charles had a big smile on his face.




Somtimes, Life's Not Fair



"What's up?" Jeremy and I excitedly asked almost simultaneously.

"Let's go back to my office and talk," Charles said with a Cheshire Cat grin that indicated that he was having a hard time restraining himself.

As soon as we got into the conference room at Arnold, Watt & Compton, Charles almost screamed "We got everything we wanted. The D. A. is dropping all charges, expunging Amy's arrest record, the city is paying Amy $2,500, and Officer Wilson, is being formally disciplined."

Since I had testified that I estimated my tips at $1,000 that surely was a good result for me.

We broke out a bottle of champagne, and were joined by all of the people who had participated in the case, including Jeremy's minority business partner Gloria and several associates. I felt so good that I was even nice to Jeremy, although I told him that I wasn't coming back to work. I had more than enough money to pay for the rest of my college expenses, and buy a new car (a Mustang convertible that looked almost the same as Gwen's).

During the impromptu celebration Charles introduced me to the head of paralegals, and also called Mr. Watt in just for the purpose of introducing me. "I would introduce you to Arnold too," Charles chuckled, "only the cemetery is a long way from here."

Charles again asked me to stay after everyone else left. I did.

"Amy, you were marvelous on the stand; so poised, so quick-witted. Judge Jensen fell in love with you during the twenty minutes that you were testifying," Charles chortled.

"Are you sure that it wasn't lust after watching my video?" I snickered.

"Maybe both," he laughed. "Say, have you thought about my offer?"

"Well you certainly came through on your end, didn't you," I replied with a smile. "Email me a formal offer and I'll likely accept it – if the money is right."

Charles' grin was even bigger than in Court after his talk with the D. A. "You won't regret it," he said.

I worked as a paralegal for Arnold, Watt & Compton during the summer. I liked it. I graduated a semester early from college, after having taken two paralegal related courses, and started working full time for them in February.

______________ 

Life was good for me at that stage. I enjoyed working with clients – I was the only paralegal to sit in on meetings with the firm's best clients even if Charles wasn't involved – and the job was challenging but not overly taxing.

There was one bad thing though; Rob got married to Denise, a woman that I really did not care for. My brother seemed to be in love, however, so after a few pointed questions directed to him over a few months before the marriage, I pretended to get on board and be happy for him. To make matters worse, I had to put up with my squabbling parents during the lead up to the wedding and the reception; since Rob had no patience for them and since he had helped me so much in life I assumed that unpleasant task. 

My tears during the wedding were not of joy, but of apprehension. I knew that nothing could disturb the bond between Rob and me, but I was concerned for his long term happiness with that bitch Denise.

As part of my job I attended depositions of clients, normally the only paralegal in the firm who did. In his typical straight-forward way Charles told me the reasons why. "First, because you handle the documents so well and take great notes. Second, if it is female deponent your presence is a calming influence on her. Third, if the attorney on the other side is a male you are a distraction and can really throw him off his game." In the third situation I learned exactly what clothes to wear, and where to sit during the deposition. Charles thought that I was effective, and I must have at least partially been since during a break in one deposition I overheard one opposing client chastise his attorney and ask him to get me expelled from the deposition venue.

It was during one of those depositions that I met my future husband, Tim Simon. He was the attorney on the other side of a contentious dispute between a church, his client, and an adult book store, our client. He was probably the only male attorney in all the depositions that I had attended up until that time that didn't consistently ogle me either during the deposition or during recesses; I remember laughing to myself "Either he's gay or I've lost my touch." 

Tim also was the best looking opposing counsel I had seen. He was about six three, maybe 190 pounds, with curly short black hair, green eyes, and a movie-star face. He had a melodious voice, and based upon the questions that he asked and his demeanor during the deposition he obviously was bright.

Everyone else had left and I was alone in the conference room, packing up the documents from the deposition at our offices, when Tim walked back in.

"Did you forget something, Mr. Simon?" I genuinely inquired.

"It's 'Tim,' Amy. Yes, I did Amy," he said with a grin. "Well actually it wasn't so much that I forgot something is that I didn't want to do it in front of other people. I see no ring on your finger, and I'd like to take you out to dinner...Please."

The way he said that was commanding, respectful, and pleading all at the same time; actually really cute.

I wrote my cell phone number on a sheet of paper. "Give me a call after this case is over, and we can talk about it," I replied. When I handed him the slip of paper I stroked my hand across his. I swear that a bulge formed in his trousers, and he gulped. "I'll be in touch," was all he said as he put the slip in his shirt pocket, picked up his briefcase and left.

About a week later, Bill Jamison, the attorney at Arnold, Watt & Compton handling the case, came into my office. "Amy, I'm getting a call every day from this guy Tim Simon talking about settling our adult bookstore case, and he usually mentions you in some way or another. Do you know why he's so anxious to settle the case?"

It was all that I could do to suppress a smile. "No, I don't," I lied. "Maybe his client just wants to move on. Are the terms he is offering reasonable?"

"Yes – I think that our client will sign off on it shortly. What I don't understand is how he was such a bulldog before the last deposition, and suddenly has turned into a pussycat," Bill mused out loud.

Again it was all that I could do to stop myself from giggling.

Just three days later Bill Jamison called me into the main conference room. He told me to bring my Notary Seal. Tim, the lay officer of his church client, the president of our client, and Bill were there. "Amy, could you notarize all the signatures on the settlement agreement?" Bill asked.

"Sure can," I replied. I notarized the signatures of all four of them on two originals. I made copies for everyone involved and after handing them out everyone shook hands and left – except for Tim. "Amy, there are one or two documents in this case that we lost our copies of and I wonder if I could talk with you about getting them from you for our file?" he asked.

The others, realizing that they didn't need to be there, left.

"What are these alleged documents?" I asked in my most sultry voice, crossing my long legs as I sat and made sure that my skirt rode up my thighs a little. 

As Tim was staring at my thighs it seemed that his shirt collar was tightening. "Uh, that was just a ruse; we have all our documents. Uh, well...I," he stammered. I wasn't going to make things easy for him as I glared at him while I bit my thumb. "Would you like to go to dinner tomorrow night?"

"Where?" I asked; pretending that I wouldn't agree to dinner if I didn't like the restaurant. I did this merely because I enjoyed flustering a hot shot attorney; I knew that I was eventually going to accept.

After bantering back and forth for a while, with me asking every inane question possible, and Tim's collar getting tighter and tighter, I finally stood up and said "I'd love to," getting a sigh of relief from him. "Here's my address," I said (Gwen's old apartment, believe it or not; I bought all her furniture too) handing him a slip of paper that I had scribbled on. I did my trick of sliding my hand over his while passing the address slip to him, smiled, turned, and sashayed out the door, provocatively wiggling my ass. "That'll give him something to think about," I laughed to myself."

To make a long story short, we really hit it off. We fucked the first night. I had never before come close to fucking someone after knowing him for such a short period of time. The next closest one was when I fucked Rob's friend Chris, but that was after he had first stayed at our house for almost a week.

Tim was charming, chivalrous, cute, and had a marvelous way of staring into my soul when he made eye contact – which happened often. In bed he was a fucking energizer bunny. The bastard literally ripped my panties off and after giving me marvelous oral with his long and muscular tongue, providing one of the best, if not the best, oral-induced orgasm that I had ever had, he penetrated me with his long cock.

The little devil kept switching positions on me. I would be just about to cum when he would move us into another position. At one point I thought that he might be trying to hit all of the Kama Sutra positions in one evening. Finally, he got me into doggy position, held onto my tits for pleasure and support, and banged the ever-loving shit out of me until we had truly galactic simultaneous orgasms.

Tim and I were married four months later. This time I didn't put up with any shit from my parents. I made it clear to them that I was making no special accommodation for their squabbling and that if they didn't like it they didn't have to attend. After some huffiness they got with the program.

__________________ 

Tim and I had been married a little more than a year when Arnold, Watt & Compton got a potential new client. He was one of the wealthiest men in the world that no one had ever heard of, James Offenbach, a multi-billionaire. Charles Compton was trying to bring the bulk of his business into the firm. I think that the partners could see dollar signs from his future billings in their eyes.

Offenbach had made his money early in life. He was only thirty years old when he became a potential client, a mere three years older than I was. He was not particularly good looking or charming – in fact he had the reputation of being difficult and demanding.

Before our initial meeting with Offenbach Charles Compton called two partners, two associates, and me together in a conference room. "If this first project for Offenbach works out we have a chance for millions of dollars of billings per year. Two other firms have already told him that what he wants to do is not possible; we need to find a way."

"You mean it's something that he just can't buy?" one of the partners asked.

"Yes, and it is something that means more than money to him. His boyhood home is about to become part of an urban renewal project, and the city has rejected all of his offers to buy it or revise the project," Charles continued.

"What's so special about his boyhood home?" one of the associates asked.

"His parents and sister were killed in a private plane crash, and his only tie to his youth is that house. It means more than money to him. So – let's find a hook," Charles said.

He handed a dossier to each of us, assigned the two associates to work together, and the two partners and me to work individually. He had some initial suggestions on what to try, but we were supposed to "get creative." He concluded the meeting with, "Oh, by the way, if we don't have a legitimate request for a TRO on file by tomorrow, the house will be destroyed.

"What?" the five of us groaned in unison.

"Sorry," was all that Charles said in response.

When I got to my desk I looked over the first three documents in the dossier; the third was a photo of the house from an unusual angle. I thought that there was something odd about it. I once again – for the zillionth time in my life – needed Rob's assistance. He worked for a trade association of architectural firms. I scanned the photo, sent it to him by email, and then called him.

"Hi big brother, this is your favorite sister calling for her one billionth favor from you," I started right out in a sing-song voice.

"Are you sure that it's that few?" he laughed.

I described the problem to him. "No big deal, sis. I know just the person. I can have him look at it next week when he gets back from China."

"Uh – bro – I need it today," I groaned.

"You want a miracle?" he chuckled.

"Listen, if there is any way that you can contact him I'll do anything that you ask," I begged.

"A two hour foot rub," he snapped back. He used to make me give him half hour foot rubs when I was a kid and he did something especially nice for me. I pretended to always be turned off by it, although even though I didn't like it I didn't hate it either."

"Four half hour ones," I countered.

"Wow, you really want this bad, don't you?"

"Please, pretty please..." I begged again.

"OK, I'll see what I can do but no promises," he replied then clicked off.

I don't know how he contacted the guy, but I had an emailed response about ninety minutes later from a professor of architecture from Harvard's graduate school. The most important part of his email was: "It is the only remaining example in your city of an unusual architectural style known as 'gilded neoclassical;' actually, I'm surprised that one still exists. It is historic."

I profusely thanked him by return email, insisted that he send my firm a bill, then started legal research. I came up blank for many hours. I called Tim and told him that I wouldn't be home for dinner, and just had a small pizza delivered to my desk. By eleven p. m. I was really tired, but tried one more computer search. When I did my fatigue caused me to misspell both "neoclassical" and "temporary" as in "Temporary Restraining Order." Out of the computer popped the perfect case.

I wrote up a short memo and made copies of the case and email. Though I was euphoric I got a cab home because I was too tired to drive. I woke Tim up, and joyfully fucked his brains out, my fatigue providing a wonderful aphrodisiac.

The next morning with my memo, and copies of the email from the Harvard professor and the prior court decision in which "neoclassical" and "temporary" were both misspelled in the same way that I had misspelled them, I went looking for Charles Compton. He wasn't in his office so I went to the main conference room. There was a guy that I recognized from press photos as James Offenbach, along with another guy who was obviously his bagman/secretary, and two body guards. Offenbach had a snarl on his face.

I went up to him. "Mr. Offenbach, I'm Amy Boston, a paralegal here. I was looking for Mr. Compton because I have some good news for you," I said.

His response was the most rude that I had ever encountered, even when I worked as a stripper.

"What are you, the window dressing around here?" he snarled. "Where's Compton."

"What!" I exclaimed, dumbfounded.

"Unless your 'good news' is that you're going to pull out my dick and suck it, just find Compton for me," he snickered.

I slapped him – hard – turned and stormed out of the conference room. Charles was just walking toward the conference room at that time and apparently saw the slap and me storming out. He must have asked Offenbach about it, and then came to my office.

"I'm sorry that Offenbach offended you, Amy, but you can't go around slapping clients," he said, not cruelly, but not nicely either.

"Well you won't have to worry about that any more Charles, because I quit. No one is ever going to talk to me like that, and since obviously you've sided with him I quit this fucking job." I snarled. Compton was shocked and actually took a step backward.

"His fucking loss, too, because I found a 90% sure hook to get his TRO granted; but I'd rather die that tell him about it now," I virtually screamed as I packed the shit from my desk into a banker's box.

Charles knew me well enough to know that I wasn't lying about either quitting or having the answer to Offenbach's problem. "Is there some way that I can make this right?" he pleaded.

I stopped packing my stuff for a second, looked Compton in the eye, and said "Yeah. The asshole comes up to me, gives me a sincere apology, and begs my forgiveness. You know that I'm an expert at detecting bullshit, and if the apology isn't sincere he can get fucked."

"Please hold on," Compton said as he scurried out of my office.

I continued packing, and when no one had arrived by the time that I had finished I walked to the elevator and pushed the button. Just as the elevator door opened to my shock there was Offenbach, running up to me, sans body guards.

"Amy, wait," he said with desperation in his voice. I got into the elevator. "I want to talk to you," he said, pleading.

"Then you better get into the elevator, we can't make these fine people wait," I said motioning with my head to the startled man and two women already in the elevator.

Offenbach got in with us.

"Listen; uh, I really want to apologize; uh..." he stuttered. He looked uncomfortably at the other three people in the elevator, who were staring intently at us. We had twenty five floors to go before we got to the parking level, and others could get on in the meantime. "Uh, can we go back to your office and talk privately?"

"It wasn't in private that you insulted me, so anything you have to say you can say in front of these fine people," I unsympathetically snapped.

He sighed, and said "I truly am sorry about what I said. That was completely uncalled for. While it isn't an excuse I've been so stressed about this house thing that it has clouded my judgment in a number of areas. I'm not normally like that, and I assure you that I will never insult you again. I don't want you to quit your job just because I was an ass."

I could feel the other three people staring at him even more intently now. The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and one of the women was about to get out when I said to her. "Please, ma'am, could you stay with us. I want to ask the three of you something."

She smiled and got back in. She had obviously been enjoying Offenbach humbling himself.

I turned to the three other passengers and said "The three of you hold the fate of a multi-billionaire in your hands. Do you think that his apology was sincere?"

"I do," said the woman who was supposed to get out on the fifth floor.

"I'm not sure," said the other woman.

"Yeah, I think it was sincere," said the guy.

"Two out of three believe you, Offenbach, but you have to convince number three," I said staring at him. "I have one more question before I decide. Are you apologizing just because I can save your precious boyhood home, or because you truly are sorry for acting like a pig?"

He immediately shot back, "Both; but I am especially sorry for acting like a pig, and I beg your forgiveness."

I looked at the woman who had been unsure just as the elevator reached the garage level. "Do you believe him now?" I asked her?

"Yeah," she nodded, "I think that you should accept his apology.

"OK, I accept," I said staring at Offenbach. "I think that you should reward these three fine citizens who saved your ass."

Offenbach didn't miss a beat. "If the three of you will ride back with us to the forty first floor my secretary will give each of you a $100 bill."

They all smiled and either got back in or stayed in the elevator. Offenbach pushed the "41" button, and I chit-chatted with the three of them on the way back up.

As soon as we got out at 41 Offenbach told them "Please wait here in the lobby," ran to the conference room, and returned with his secretary who gave them each $100. They left with big smiles on their faces.




Somtimes, Life's Not Fair



As I walked to the conference room I could see that everyone else was there with expectant looks on their faces. I poked my head in and said "As soon as I return this box to my office I'll be right back." Charles Compton followed after me.

"Amy, I'm so glad that you came back. Everyone else's ideas just won't cut it. Can you really come through?" he said.

"Just watch me," I smiled.

When I walked into the conference room and started my presentation I had everyone's undivided attention as much as I ever had even when stripping. Well maybe they weren't as attentive as when I did my ultimate performance the night that I got arrested, but second only to that night. When I got done laying out my strategy and Compton and Offenbach read the professor's email and the case that I had found, there were smiles all around. Of course I didn't tell them that the only way that I found the precedent that we were going to rely on was by misspelling two words when doing a computer search; I'm not stupid!

Charles immediately grabbed one of the partners who had been working on the case, who is a whiz at quickly drafting papers. "Jack, take this and get the motion for a TRO prepared as quickly as possible. We need to file it by 2:00 p.m. I'm going to the courthouse to talk personally with Judge Proctor's clerk and tell her it's coming and get on the docket at eight tomorrow morning."

Charles barked out a number of other instructions to all of the others, Offenbach got on the phone with somebody and was having an excited animated conversation, and the entire office became a beehive of activity.

"What should I do?" I asked Charles.

"Take the day off," Charles said giving me a big hug. Apparently Offenbach overheard him. He motioned for his secretary to give him a wad of cash.

"Please, Amy, go buy something really nice for yourself," he said handing me a stack of hundreds. "I hope that you can come to the hearing, tomorrow,"

"I'll be there," I said with a smile.

As I left I counted the money; three thousand two hundred dollars. I drove to Tim's office, told him the good news, and "made" him fuck me on his desk. After we picked up all the stuff that used to be on his desk, with big smiles on our faces, I kissed him goodbye, told him that I was going to buy a pair of $900 Christian Louboutin shoes and an appropriate dress and accessories, and exited his office wiggling my ass.

__________________ 

The hearing on the TRO went great. Judge Proctor was impressed with Charles' presentation and granted the TRO. We all left the courtroom believing that the city would have to negotiate to change their urban renewal plans or to make some other accommodation. Offenbach was very solicitous of my goodwill. He asked me to ride with him in his limo back to the office; I agreed.

After some chit chat he got to his point. "Amy, I'm pleased that you accepted my apology, but wonder if there is anything else I need to do to court your goodwill."

"I accepted your apology. It's water over the dam as far as I'm concerned," I replied with a smile.

"I would really like you to continue to work on my projects for your firm," he continued. "I expect to have lots of dealings with you in the future. I hope that you can learn to tolerate the fact that I'm mercurial and that I may insult you again in the future; but I hope that you can put up with it, because I'll never mean to do it, and will sincerely beg your forgiveness if I do."

I paused for a second. It isn't often that a paralegal has the upper hand in a discussion with a multi-billionaire.

"I tell you what, James – you don't mind that I call you 'James,' do you?" I said.

"No, please do," he gushed.

"I tell you what, James; I'll be tolerant of you but you have to understand that I might give back as could as you give. If you can't stand a paralegal dressing you down in front of other people, then we need to end our relationship right now – no hard feelings," I replied.

"Despite what you might have heard, I'm not really a prima donna. If I give you shit I'll expect it back; no hard feelings. Shake?" he said, extending his hand.

"Deal," I replied, shaking it.

Thus began one of the stranger relationships firm-client history. Offenbach transferred about 60% of his work to Arnold, Watt & Compton. Compton and lowly little paralegal me were the point people on getting his new projects, and we were the only two people at the firm that he would talk to if he had something new. 

Offenbach even offered to pay to send me to law school, but I was happy as a paralegal and in no way did I want to go back to school, so I politely declined.

Compton and I also travelled with Offenbach to his business interests around the world. It was on one of these trips, in Paris, that something mega-bizarre happened.

We had concluded a successful negotiation, and were celebrating at a bar. Compton and the others we were with were short hitters. That left only me and Offenbach – and his two bodyguards who were off to the side and out of hearing – at the bar. I had had little to drink, but Offenbach had consumed more alcohol than I ever had seen him before. Right in the middle of a discussion about something totally unrelated he burst out with slurred speech "Amy, I saw a tape of you dancing. You're the sexiest woman in the entire world. I'd pay a million dollars to have a week with you."

I was cool and composed. "Is that all? A million would only get you one night, dude!"

"Would you really do it?" he expectantly asked.

"I doubt it – but who knows; life's not fair sometimes, and one can never know how things will change. But don't hold your breath," I replied.

He looked at me wide-eyed. He lifted up my hand and kissed it about ten times, then got up and as he left said "I've either got to masturbate or get a call girl," and stumbled away from the bar, helped by one of his bodyguards.

By that time in my dealings with Offenbach his comments no longer fazed me, especially when he had been drinking. I didn't think that he'd remember it, but the next day as we departed his private plane when we got back to the U. S. just before he got into his limo, and I was getting ready to ride with Charles, he quickly pulled me aside.

"Amy, I just want you to know that last night it wasn't the alcohol talking. I really meant it, even though I never would have verbalized it if I hadn't been drinking. I won't bring it up again, but I was serious," he said. He had turned beet-red as he talked. He then quickly turned and entered his limo and was gone.

"Interesting," I chuckled to myself.

When I rode back to the office with Charles I nonchalantly said, "Say Charles; how did Offenbach get to see a video of me stripping?"

He turned beet-red. The golden tongue orator was almost tongue-tied as he stuttered, "Uh, well, I have the video from the lawsuit where I first met you in my office because it's evidence. I needed to retain it in case something comes up in the case again. Uh, well, one time when I was out of my office and left Offenbach there when I came back he was viewing the video intently. He asked for a copy but I wouldn't give him one."

"From now on I'll be in charge of retaining that evidence in case there is a need for it in the future," I said with a sneer.

"Oh, ah...sure Amy," he replied and then changed the subject. I got the tape from his office that day and locked in the safe in my office.

__________________ 

Tim and I had been married about three years when another "life's not fair," so far the worst ever for me, occurred. At that time our marriage was pretty good, but not great. We were very compatible sexually, but there were some irritating things that we had never found out about each other in our world wind courtship, so everyday living – when not in the sack – was hard at times. 

My brother Rob, my rock, my best friend, and my protector for most of my life, got very ill. He went through a dozen doctors before they diagnosed the problem. He was sick enough so that he couldn't work, and was put on extended sabbatical – without pay – while he dealt with his problem. His bitch of a wife Denise deserted him during his illness, exacerbating matters significantly. I would have killed the bitch if I ever got my hands on her.

I took an extended leave – also without pay – from work. Compton was very understanding, and he talked to all of the clients, including Offenbach. Offenbach actually called my cell phone to give me his condolences. Tim was not as understanding. He resented the time that I spent with Rob, and the loss of income. I had Rob moved to a hospital closer to me.

After two months of VERY expensive treatment Rob was no better. He was on the verge of maxing out his health insurance, and still no diagnosis. I finally got ahold of an international expert, Dr. von Geist from Berlin. I paid for his flight to the U. S., and he properly diagnosed the problem; a rare cancer that few people ever recovered from. I asked him if there was any hope. I won't try to duplicate his accent.

"Only two people have ever survived – the good news is that they eventually thrived. However, the treatment that was successful is experimental and very expensive, and the success rate so far is only 33%," he said while stroking his beard.

"How expensive?" I asked.

"In Germany it was on the order of one million Euros," he replied. "I don't know if it would cost more or less here."

"How long does he have without the treatment?" was my next question.

"If he doesn't start the treatment within a month, he will be dead within two months – and it will be a painful death," he replied.

Over the next week I talked to Rob's insurance carrier, the hospital he was in, and other hospitals across the country; probably ten meetings and fifty phone calls. The bottom line was that his insurance company would not pay for it, it would cost roughly $1,100,000 for him to have the treatment in the U. S., but that it could be done in the suburban hospital that he was presently in.

I could scrape together about $70,000; Rob had already gone through his savings with his illness and with the divorce from the bitch, so he had only about $25,000 left.

I talked to my parents. My mother was willing to help, but her fortunes after she and my father split were not good, and she could only contribute about $10,000. My father – who was in a much better situation monetarily – refused to help, the selfish bastard.

I talked to Tim about getting a second mortgage on our house and/or getting a personal loan. Tim adamantly refused.

"There's a one-third chance that he will survive and we go into hock for the rest of our lives? I don't think so, Amy; it's not a rational business decision," he said during the third heated argument about it.

"But he's my brother, and he's been the most important person to me throughout my childhood and early life. He'd do the same for me; this isn't business, it's family and it's life and death," I snarled.

Nothing was resolved; we merely ended up completely pissed at each other, and not talking.

I tried to get a loan on my own, but the bank almost laughed at me when I told them that I wanted $1,000,000. Just to see what the situation would be if Tim also signed the loan – his earnings were high and likely to increase since he was just starting the prime of his career – they likely would be willing to do it if they also had our house and other possessions as collateral.

Unless Tim agreed that left me with just one option – James Offenbach.

The night after my visit to the bank I made one last attempt to get Tim on board. It was difficult just to get him to sit down but I assured him that what I had to say he needed to hear. I told him about what the bank had to say, reiterated about how important Rob was to me and my need to do anything possible; then hit him with my zinger.

"My only other option, Tim, is to approach James Offenbach. I never told you this, because there was no need since I never seriously considered it, but Offenbach has offered me $1,000,000 to spend a week with him. I'm going to take him up on his offer," I said, with a tear forming in my eye.

Tim was stunned. After he recovered he said "Offenbach must have been drunk when he said that. He couldn't be serious."

"Why not; don't you think that I'm worth it?" I roared with my arms crossed. Under other circumstances this would have been a horrible question to ask him but under the present circumstances I wasn't particularly concerned about putting him at the horns of a dilemma.

Tim didn't answer for the longest time; my expression and stare didn't waver. "You're serious, aren't you?" he finally said more than asked.

"As serious as I've ever been," I calmly replied.

"It's over between us if you do that?" was his cold response.

"Then we're done – put the house on the market or buy out my interest right away," I retorted, just as coldly. I got up, went to the phone, and called Offenbach's private number while Tim was still in the room. It went to voice mail. I left a message, still in Tim's presence. "James, this is Amy. Please call me on my cell. I have something very important to talk to you about; we need to meet face-to-face as soon as possible. It relates to our discussion in Paris."

As I was moving my things into the guest bedroom Offenbach called my cell phone.

"What's up Amy?"

"James, I really need to talk to you in person. Do you have a chance to meet with me?"

"I'll only be an hour's flight away from you tomorrow. I'll have my private jet pick you up at the airport at ten tomorrow morning, and my assistant will bring you to my location. Is that acceptable?" he asked.

"That would be great; see you tomorrow morning," I replied, staring at Tim who was standing in the guest room doorway.

________________ 

When I got to Offenbach's location – a conference room in one of the many businesses that he owned – he had a serious look on his face; I'm sure that mine matched his. We exchanged hugs.

"What's up, Amy?" he asked, getting right to the point.

"James, I want to take you up on the offer you made in Paris; I want to spend the week with you for $1,000,000."

He saw that I was dead serious.

"What's behind your acceptance of my offer?" he probed.

I explained the entire situation to him, holding it together until just near the end when I started crying. I then got to see firsthand how someone only thirty two years old could have become a multi-billionaire. He was clear thinking, decisive, and motivated.

"If I just give you or your brother the money you'll have to pay gift tax on it, and I get no tax benefit from it. Let me work something out," he said with a determined look on his face.

One half hour and eight phone calls later he said "Good news. I'm donating 1.25 million to the non-profit hospital where your brother will receive his treatment and they'll do it for free. I get a tax deduction and kudos for being a philanthropist, and you and your family don't have to pay a cent."

I started crying, got up and gave him a big hug.

"When can I join you for a week?" I asked.

"Amy; I'm an asshole and a shark, but I truly care about you and...there is no way that I'm going to take advantage of you under the circumstances. I remember how I felt when my parents and sister were killed; I would have done anything to save them, and I really respect you for being the same way. Consider this payment for past services," he said. Then he got a glint in his eye. "However – I would like a copy of the tape of you dancing!" he chuckled.

I kissed him; not just a little peck, either, while pushing my boobs into his chest.

"Don't make me change my mind," he said, exhaling with wide eyes. His cellphone rang. "I have to take this," he said looking at the caller ID. After a two minute conversation he said "Something important has just come up. Listen, do you mind flying commercial back home – my secretary will get the ticket for you. I've got to take my plane to another meeting right now."

"Thank you again," I said, again starting to cry.

He gave me another hug, and was out the door. His secretary booked me first class on the next available flight and had a limo drive me to the airport. I was shortly on my way home more relieved than I ever had been before in my life.

I went into my office the next day, got the tape of me dancing my last performance out of the safe, had it duplicated, and expressed it to Offenbach's office. I marked the envelope "Personal and Confidential" in red at about ten places, and put a label on the tape that said "For the PERSONAL use of James Offenbach, only!"

__________________ 

Once I sent out the tape I avoided contact with Tim the next two days. At the end of the third, when I got back from the hospital, he had me served with divorce papers. I called up Charles Compton. He had one of the partners who specialized in family law immediately draft papers countersuing Tim for divorce and those papers were filed the next day.

I almost never saw Tim even though we theoretically lived in the same house. I spent most of the time at the hospital where Rob was receiving the best care imaginable during his experimental treatment. I don't know how often Tim stayed in the house.

Dr. von Geist from Berlin actually visited two days – at the hospital's expense – to make sure that everything was progressing properly.

Rob was three weeks into his month long treatment – and doing well enough that his prognosis was now a 70% chance of not only surviving but thriving – when Tim called my cell phone, the only time that he had done that since I went to see Offenbach. I was tempted not to answer, but realized that I'd have to talk to him sometime.

"Hello," was my cold greeting.

"Uh, Hi, Amy. This is Tim," he said in a cheery voice. I didn't respond.

"Say, how's Rob doing?"

"Fine," I tersely replied.

"Is the treatment working?"

"Seems to be," I responded without emotion.

"Uh, great...Say, Amy, I was wondering if we could meet some time?"

"Why?"

"Well, uh, there's something I want to talk to you about."

"Have your lawyer talk to mine," was my emotionless response.

"Well, actually, it's something lawyers can't do for us. Please, let's just meet for dinner tonight. Anyplace you say."

I was tempted to tell him to go to hell; but I was curious. "The hospital cafeteria at 7:00 p. m." I retorted.

"Well, I was thinking maybe our favorite French restaurant, the place where...." I cut him off.

"I thought that you said 'anyplace I say.' Did you not mean that?" I snarled.

There was a pause. "OK, I'll see you at the hospital cafeteria at seven," he replied. I think he was going to say more but I cut off the call. 

Tim showed up right on time, dressed in a three piece suit. He looked handsome, but apprehensive. He tried to give me a peck on the check but I turned away. He tried to chit-chat as we went through the cafeteria line – I barely responded. He tried to pay the $8.34 for my meal; I declined and paid for it myself.

After we sat down, when I stonewalled some more chit-chat I finally said, not meanly but not nicely either, "Why did you want to meet, Tim?"

"I wanted to meet to eat some crow," he started out, putting his utensils down on his tray. "I understand that Offenbach arranged a donation to the hospital and that you never went on a trip with him."

"Who told you that?" I asked between bites of my salad.

"Your attorney told my attorney," he self-consciously responded.

"What difference does it make?" I asked.

"I...I really miss you and am distraught with the present state of affairs. And, well, ... uh... well, it caused me to think that maybe I made a mistake," he stuttered.

"No Tim, you didn't make a mistake," I replied in a monotone. I could see hope in his eyes, which I quickly dashed. "A mistake is forgetting to put the toilet seat down; a mistake is dialing one number when trying to reach another; a mistake even might be running out gas. You didn't make a mistake. What you did was demonstrate that you are incapable of understanding me, unconcerned about what my needs, wants and desires are in life, and more concerned with money than relationships. You had a massive, unforgivable fuckup that turned my love for you into indifference."




Somtimes, Life's Not Fair



He was really taken aback. As I continued to eat my salad he finally blurted out "I think that we could make it if we tried..."

I cut him off. "I don't have the slightest interest in trying. I simply don't care to ever see you again. I don't wish you ill – I just don't give a shit what you do or what happens to you."

Tim's mouth and eyebrows drooped. I got up and left without another word, dumped my remaining salad and juice in a trash can, and went back up to Rob's room.

_________________ 

Rob was one of the 33% who not only survived his rare, previously incurable, cancer, but actually thrived. Dr. von Geist told me that part of the reason was that I forced Rob to have a positive outlook on life, and that my love for him and faith in him gave him something to live for. I think that Dr. von Geist was just gilding the lily, but whether or not he was sincere I felt great; maybe the best that I had ever felt. It was a long, strenuous, difficult, process, but within a month of when the treatment was concluded Rob was back to his old self.

Actually, to me he was in a better place than before because he no longer had the albatross Denise around his neck, weighing him down.

Arnold, Watt & Compton was nice enough to have my job waiting for me when Rob no longer needed me on a daily basis, and I threw myself back into my work. Rob's job at the Association he worked for was also available. They had filled it in his absence – twice, in fact – but neither person had worked out so they were glad to have Rob back.

My divorce came through about the same time that Rob was back to his normal self. The reason that it came through so quickly was because I didn't ask for alimony – or anything else from Tim except ½ of our assets – and I sold him my interest in our house for a bargain basement price. I truly believe that he was disappointed that I didn't bring up significant issues because then he would have had an excuse to talk to me. As I told him in the hospital cafeteria, however, I just wanted out.

I had only one unresolved issue from Rob's illness; what to do about James Offenbach. In my contact with him while working at the law firm once I returned our relationship was the same as before; sometimes friendly, sometimes edgy, always interesting. I had earlier given him heartfelt thanks and he wasn't the type to want me to be constantly thanking him, or turn into some obsequious dullard. But I couldn't just let his unbelievable gift to Rob and me go unrewarded. I knew what I had to do.

About a month after my divorce came through Offenbach was in our offices. In a break in a meeting I asked him to come to my office because there was something that I needed to ask him about before I brought it up to the group trying to brainstorm a solution to one of his endless problems. When in our offices his two bodyguards waited in the 41st lobby since the only access was from the lobby elevator on 41; his male secretary normally followed him around but stayed put when told to.

Once Offenbach walked into my office – which I had cleaned up just for him – I pushed him against the inside of the door. "James, there is one more thing I need you to do for me," I said as I pushed his chest with one hand and stroked the side of his face with the other.

"What's that?" was his startled reply.

"I need you to take me away with you for a week on a tropical island and fuck my brains out," I sternly said, staring into his eyes, and then giving him a passionate kiss. He was about six feet one inch tall so with my three inch heels on we were eye to eye. I stroked his crotch as I kissed him.

His cock got hard, his eyes got wide. When I broke the kiss off and continued to stare at him he was speechless for a few seconds. Then he said "I told you, you don't owe me anything and you don't have to..."

I pushed him against the wall again, keeping one hand on his chest and the other on his crotch. "I'm not doing this because I owe you anything. After Rob's illness and my divorce I need a vacation, and I need your cock in my pussy. I'm asking for another favor, not doing you one!" I snickered. Then I gave him another passionate kiss, which ended up with his hands on my D boobs.

When I broke that kiss I stared at him again. "So, are you going to give me what I want or not?"

Guess what his answer was!

Two weeks later Offenbach and I were on his private plane on route to Martinique, where he owned a resort hotel. Of course we had the penthouse. My goal was to give him the best time of his life including by giving him anything that he wanted sexually. We started fucking as soon as the door to the penthouse closed behind the bellhops. He was more excited to get his tool into my pussy than any other lover that I had ever had in my life.

James was, to be honest, just a so-so lover. However, this trip wasn't about my pleasure, it was about his. We fucked twice every day except for one, one fuck each day clearly courtesy of the little blue pills he didn't know that I knew that he was popping. I orgasmed about a third of the time, but the rest of the time I did a marvelous job of faking one. I was so good that I could tell for certain that he didn't know that they were fakes.

One time that I didn't need to fake an orgasm was when we were getting a twilight couples massage in a tent on the beach. I was so relaxed as the masseuse gave my body a complete work-over. I wasn't exactly asleep but was groggy when suddenly I felt the sheet covering me being pulled off. Both masseuses were gone, the previously open tent wall was closed, and naked James crossed my legs so that I was on my back and pulled my ass to the end of the massage table. It was the perfect height for him to penetrate me and for his cock to rub my clit.

Without any foreplay James put my heels on his shoulders, penetrated me with his rock hard throbbing cock (he must have overdosed on the little blue pills for this one), started squeezing my boobs, and started banging away. In this position I couldn't really participate except by squeezing my pc muscles, which I was more than happy to do. I swear that it wasn't three minutes before he ejaculated what seemed like a pint of cum into me, and I was overtaken by a massive orgasm. 

His head fell on my stomach, his hands stayed on my tits, and I wrapped my legs around him. We lay close to comatose for the longest time, randomly letting out a groan or sigh as an aftershock coursed through one of our bodies.

When we both finally were back with the cognizant I planted a passionate kiss on him then whispered in his ear "You fucking animal. What were you trying to do fry my nerve endings? Well you succeeded, you brutish bastard, I don't know how I can walk out of here, especially with a pint of your cum slithering down my thighs."

I swear that I never saw a happier look on anyone's face in my life. I could tell that when he heard that from me that it was worth more than a billion dollars to him. He was on cloud nine the rest of the evening, and I made sure that he went to sleep with a smile on his face by giving him one of the best blowjobs that I've ever given anyone, and then cuddling next to him while massaging his balls.

Although I wasn't anywhere close to in love with Offenbach, and certainly didn't want a long standing relationship with him, the week in Martinique was very enjoyable for me too. Everyone should try living the life of a billionaire for a week – it really has its perks. You can do anything that you want without even the slightest concern for cost.

One benefit that I hadn't anticipated was the jealous looks that I got from other high roll female guests at the resort – most of whom knew Offenbach, and those that didn't knew of him – when he would proudly introduce me as his "girlfriend." I gave him permission to call me his "girlfriend" since the week was about him and that obviously made him happy.

In his private plane on the way back he hit me with what I hoped wouldn't happen, but was prepared to deal with if it did.

"Amy, this was the best week of my life by such a wide margin that nothing else is even close. Marry me," he said, not on bended knee but damn close to it.

"Hey, James, I'm truly grateful to you for fucking my brains out this week. I honestly and truly enjoyed the hell out of it. However, I'm not in love with you, and you're likely not in love with me, either – just infatuated. Our personalities are both too different and too alike – we'd end up grating on each other's nerves and either have an unhappy marriage or it would end faster than my last one did," I said as pleasantly as I could.

"You never had a problem speaking your mind, did you?" he chuckled.

"I know that that IS one thing you genuinely like about me," I chuckled in return.

"You know, Amy, not one woman in a million would turn down a marriage proposal from a billionaire, don't you?"

"I'm sure that you're right – but I'm one in a hundred million," I replied returning his smile.

"Well if this is going to be the end, I'm going to manipulate your tits or finger fuck you the entire way back."

"Have at it stud," I laughed as I removed my bra without taking my top off and yanked off my panties.

The bastard did. I could barely walk off the plane, much to his amusement

________________ 

A mere two weeks after I got back from my trip with Offenbach, I got the ultimate lesson in "life's not fair." Rob was going to pick me up to look at a new apartment for me since the short-term lease that I had signed on the old one had expired. He was supposed to be at my old apartment at 1:00 p. m. on a Saturday. He is rarely late, and hadn't called. When he still hadn't shown up by 1:30 I thought that maybe he had misunderstood and had driven directly to the new apartment so I called the real estate agent. She said that he wasn't there, and she hadn't heard from him.

At 2:00 my cell rang. I was about to chew Rob out when the female voice on the other end said, "Are you Amy Boston, related to Rob Boston." My heart sank.

"Yes...I'm his sister," I cautiously responded.

"I'm Officer Greene. I found your number as his emergency contact on a metal bracelet he was wearing. Your brother was in an accident. His car was hit by a drunk driver. You need to go Tri-County Hospital to sign some papers," she continued.

"Is he alive?" I asked, almost hysterical.

"I'm not sure, but you need to get there," she responded.

I was in no condition to drive. I had a neighbor bring me to the hospital. When I got there someone from the Emergency Room, who obviously has the unpleasant job of doing what she was doing, told me that Rob was dead.

I had put every ounce of my being into keeping him alive – and after I has succeeded, and he was thriving, a measly four months later some drunken asshole ended his life.

___________________ 

I was a basket case after Rob's death. To her credit my mother stepped up to the plate and comforted me while dealing with her own loss. I knew that I had to plan a service for Rob, so after a day of essentially doing nothing but crying in bed I rose to the occasion. With my mother's help I organized a memorial service for Rob. There was no way to display Rob's body since it had been mangled and burned beyond recognition.

Some people in my situation would open up their hearts and accept any condolences that anyone had to offer, regardless of previous situations. Their heart would be filled with forgiveness. I'm not one of them. 

With what some might consider a mean streak I made it clear to the funeral home that we had the service in that it was a private, invitation only, service. I hired three off-duty cops as security guards and in discussions with them and the funeral director impressed upon them the importance of not letting any uninvited guests trespass. They found it unusual, but agreed.

Just as I was about to give the eulogy I felt my strength sap, and I was a few moments away from breaking down. As I stood up I looked behind me. Suddenly my strength came roaring back with three shots of adrenaline. Sitting in the audience were the three people who needed to help Rob and turned their backs on him; my father, Tim, and displaying the epitome of hutzpah by being there Rob's ex-wife Denise.

I stormed back to where the three interlopers were sitting, in the last and second to last row. "Officers, get these three trespassers out of here," I screamed, pointing at the three of them.

Denise looked startled. Tim looked like he wanted to plead with me to be allowed to stay. The off—duty cops quickly removed the two of them from the premises without a fight. My father sat staring forward with his arms crossed.

"Get the hell out, asshole," I said right in his face.

"He's my son, and I have a right to say goodbye," he angrily spat at me.

"You gave up that right when you turned your back on him when he needed you most," I yelled.

By then all three security guards were back. They dragged my father out of his seat and literally threw him out of the funeral home. He was yelling as he was being dragged away, but I couldn't hear what he was saying because to my joy it seemed like everyone else there was applauding.

Fired up, I do believe that I was brilliant in delivering the eulogy! At least that's what Charles Compton, and several other partners who were at the reception after the service, genuinely told me.

The biggest flower arrangement there was from James Offenbach. My mother was impressed by the card. "I apologize for not being able to be with you in your time of sorrow. I wish you all the best. Love, James. P. S. I am making a donation of $100,000 to the charity dearest to Rob's heart. Please call my secretary and tell him where to send the check."

___________ 

It's now a month after Rob's service. I'm still trying to cope. I'm seeing a therapist because I don't want to go through life waiting for the next "life's not fair" scenario to bite me in the ass, but I'm having a hard time taking charge of things. I feel like a ship drifting on a sea of despair.