It had been a
perfectly awful week and I was glad Friday had finally arrived. The intense
pressure I was having to work under was really beginning to get me down.
In the fast few
months, much of my time and effort had gone into providing enough money for my
parents in order for them to continue to prepare their defence in an American
court. They had gone on a ’once in a lifetime’ holiday to Florida, only to have
been involved in a terrible accident. Dad had swerved to avoid a dog and, for
some unexplained reason, had completely lost control of the car which had then
skidded across the road and bounced over the curb, hitting a little girl
cycling on the pavement. She had subsequently died from her injuries. A test showed there was nothing wrong with
the car. The State Police concluded the accident was his fault and had
subsequently charged him with causing death by careless driving. The trial date
was now less than two months away and I was becoming increasingly concerned as
to what might happen to them.
It is ironic, I said
to myself, here I am, a very competent barrister, a junior partner no less, in
one of the most respected chambers at Lincoln’s Inn, yet I’m powerless to help
my parents when they need me most. I had
been refused permission to act for them in America so all I could do is work
every hour possible in order to provide the necessary funds which, of late,
seem to be becoming a never-ending drain on my resources. As a result, my
social life has all but disappeared, I had not had a relationship for months
and my sex life consisted of using either my fingers or my friendly vibrator to
satisfy my increasingly frequent waves of frustrated desires, always provided,
of course, I could be bothered. My energy levels of late seemed to be getting
less and less.
I gave myself a long
hard stare in the mirror, thinking ‘What’s gone wrong, Julia Weston? You don’t
look that bad.’ I am 35 years old, with shoulder length dark brown hair, fairly
attractive it has been said, 5 feet 7 inches tall and, with decent clothes,
could show off my figure to its best advantage. I usually complain of being a
size 14 top on a size 12 bottom. My bust is a firm 36C, waist around 24 and 34
hips. At least I know I have good legs but today, my calves were aching because
of having to wear flat sensible shoes all week and for some reason my bra had
been rubbing my nipples, making them feel sore. I hate having to wear one but
the dress code in my chambers is very strict. Blouse buttoned to the neck, dark
fitted suits, flat shoes (actually quite useful when running between court
cases), hair either plaited or fastened up in a bun and the minimum of make-up and
jewellery. Sometimes, when I felt frustrated or rebellious I allowed myself the
pleasure of wearing stockings and suspender belt but no panties. I suppose it’s
my childish way of putting two fingers up to authority and anyway I enjoy the
sensation. After all, there was no-one close to me who could possibly find out
and tell me off. I sighed. If only ...
I had recently
finished ‘The Story of O’ and found it one of the most erotic novels I had ever
read. I felt a definite affinity with her situation of being completely
dominated and I found even just thinking about it very exciting. Since reading
it I had tended, while masturbating, to fantasise about having my very own Sir
Stephen as a Master and how he would bend me to his will.
As I stood in front
of the mirror. I began to rub my mound through my skirt, letting the fingers of
my left hand prescribe small circles which slowly descended towards my
clitoris. Several times I had sat in court rubbing myself, using my gown to
hide what I was doing. I love to feel my sex getting wetter especially as there
is nothing I can do about it at the time because anything more would make me
squirm and that would be too noticeable. Even a crusty old judge would take
notice of a lowly barrister thrusting her hips against her fingers. I smiled at
the thought.
Suddenly the door
opened. I spun round both in surprise and anger, ready to remind whoever it was
of the courtesy of knocking and waiting before entering. When I saw it was in
fact the senior partner, I just stood there, feeling my face going red and
hoping he had not noticed what my fingers had been doing. For some reason, I
clasped my hands behind my back. Perhaps it was because this was the man I had
used as the model for my very own personal Sir Stephen.
“Miss Weston, I have
just had Marcus Weatherby on the phone. Apparently his solicitors are still
waiting for your opinions in regard to his case. May I ask why the delay?”
James Frobisher had
an intimidating presence. He was six foot two or three, allegedly in his mid-fifties yet with a
lean body many a thirty-year-old would be pleased with. He was known to be fanatical about polo and
played a quite lot of squash. For some reason he had never married and, in
fact, very little was known of his personal life except that he had a large
house in Hampstead. Personally I find his eyes fascinating. They seem able to
change colour from icy blue when he is angry to a much deeper softer blue, the
infrequent times when I had seen him smile.
I felt somewhat
easier as I went over to my desk and looked at my notes.
“As you instructed, I
sent my clerk with my assessments and recommendations over to Kinston and
Shelbie’s office just before lunch, James. I suspect they will by now have had
an opportunity to draw their conclusions. The plaintiffs will have a hard time
attempting to prove liability with the evidence they have so far produced.”
I realised at once
something was wrong. His eyes had gone quite cold.
“Surely you mean
Jenkins and Willoughby, Miss Weston. Kinston and Shelbie are engaged by the
other side in this matter. I sincerely hope you have not given the case details
to them.”
For a moment, I
thought I was going to faint. I could feel the blood drain from my face and
there was a rushing noise in my ears. Somehow I managed to press the intercom.
“Jenny, who did you
deliver the Weatherby papers to?”
I could hear her
shuffling some papers. “To Messrs Kinston and Shelbie, Miss Weston, at the
address you wrote on the document bag. I have it here. Do you wish to check
it?”
I could feel his eyes
boring into me and could not bring myself to look up. I spluttered, “No thanks, Jenny,” and
switched off the intercom.
He was obviously very
angry. “This is a very serious matter,
Miss Weston. How on earth could you make
such a mistake?”
I forced myself to
look at him and could feel the tears forming in my eyes. “I cannot imagine,
James. I have been under a lot of pressure lately. I must have misunderstood you and written out
the wrong delivery details. I’m so very sorry.
What can I do to rectify the matter?”
“Nothing! Your
actions may well have placed these chambers in a very serious situation. It is
now quite likely Weatherby could easily lose a case he is expecting to win.
Also, if he were to find out the reasons why, these chambers could be sued out
of existence and the partners’ reputations, especially yours, probably ruined.
I do not think saying sorry will be enough. Leave this matter with me and be in
my office at six.” His unblinking eyes held me. I could almost feel their anger
and contempt. He turned abruptly and left my office.
For the rest of the
afternoon. I could neither work nor think properly. All I did was worry about
losing my job. If that happened and in view of the reasons why, I would never
get another position in any other chambers. I would have no income and my
parents would certainly suffer as a result of my stupidity. They had made many
sacrifices so that I could become a barrister. Now I had let them down. I just
sat at my desk, refusing all calls and crying most of the time.
Promptly at six, I
knocked on the door and meekly waited for permission to enter. Hearing “Enter”
I opened the door and went inside. James was sitting behind his enormous
Edwardian desk. I went to sit down but he said, “No. You will remain standing.
“Miss Weston, your
mistake is more than sufficient to justify my removing you from the partnership
without any form of notice or compensation and that I am obliged to report this
matter to the Bar. Such actions will certainly end what was a promising career.
What have you to say in your defence?”
“You are aware of the situation in regard to
my parents, Sir?” Why did I call him ‘Sir’? “and the efforts I have been making
to ensure they receive the best possible legal assistance? I have been under
severe strain for many weeks now and, whilst not using it as an excuse, the never-ending
pressures on me were obviously instrumental in causing the error.”
Tears were filling my
eyes, blurring his face. “Sir, I beg you not to take such drastic action even
though you are justified in saying it is warranted. I desperately need my job and the income it
brings. If I am reported, I’ll never get
another position again. My parents and I
will suffer out of all proportion to the one mistake I’ve made. I will do
everything in my power to help you minimise the damage I have caused. Please, James, I’ll do absolutely anything!”
I stood in front of him, tears rolling down my
face, sobbing,.
“Control yourself.
Miss Weston. As it happens, there is a means of containing the damage you have
done but it requires your total acceptance and willingness to comply with all
the conditions. It would mean, should you agree, that your future here would
continue and your parents’ current circumstance would be unaffected as a
result.”
With an effort, I
stopped crying. “Whatever is required of me, Sir, I will undertake without
hesitation. No matter how much additional work I have to take on, I will do it
properly and to the best of my professional abilities and absolutely promise
you I will never ever make such a mistake again.”
“I have no intention
of exacting any form of retribution from you by increasing your work load. I
will expect you to continue to perform your duties as before. What is required
of you has nothing to do with your work in these chambers. Simply put, Miss
Weston, if you wish for me to recover the situation caused by your
carelessness, you must agree, unconditionally, to becoming my personal property
at all times you are not working. It is as simple as that.”
What he had just said
did not make any sense to me. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you. Sir. How can
I become your personal property?”
He opened a drawer
and took out some papers. Pushing them across the desk towards me he said “This
is a contract, Miss Weston, quite unlike any you will ever have seen before, I
suspect. You will take it away and digest its contents which are quite clear in
their intent. If you choose to accept the conditions without reservation, you
will come to my house tomorrow morning at ten, having made suitable
arrangements to allow you to stay over the weekend. If the terms of the
contract are unacceptable to you. You will come to the chambers on Monday in
order to hand over all your outstanding cases. Do I make myself clear?”
I picked up the papers and read the heading.
‘Contract of Submission. I looked across the desk at him. His expression gave
nothing away. “You want to control me? I am to be your personal woman? You want
me for sex, is that it?”
“There is nothing to
be served by discussing this matter any further at this stage, Miss Weston. I
suggest you go home and seriously consider what I have said and all the
implications of your mistake. The choices confronting you are yours to freely
make. Good night, Miss Weston.”
I was obviously
dismissed so, without replying, I turned and quickly left his office.