God damn him! Chauvinist bastard! So the bar association wanted to hand his honor another useless honor. Why couldn't some man do it? Or if they needed a sex symbol why not hire some bunny to shed her ears and tail and pop out of a cake? She had been dialing him back to tell him to go stuff it when she realized he must have cooked it up already, that he had fixed it up with Christ only knew how many other people, and that if she were to let them down the bar association would cooperate with his honor's administration to find dozens of little ways to make her life miserable. Vacation schedules could be reshuffled. Promising or at least nonviolent clients would go to more favored officers. She could end up with the psychotics and the gorillas. Her paperwork could be sent to the wrong office, everything delayed. No matter how she might despise it, Paula knew you could kick only so hard at the system before it started kicking back.
Shit! She'd worked till after eight this evening. Now she'd have to be there with her hair all fixed and everything in place in less than-less than nine hours! What on earth was she going to wear?
She rummaged through her closet with a sense of despair, knowing there was nothing even remotely suitable except the gown she had worn once twelve years ago, back before she had discovered exactly how much of a man's world the law world really is, back before she'd become so embittered that her wardrobe had gradually become nothing but pants suits.
To hell with them! They were all men and they wouldn't know whether she was in style or not. And she didn't care. She got it out. The gown was not at all what might be expected of an evening gown. It had long sleeves and a high collar, with seed pearls strategically placed around the bust line. But at least it fulfilled the requirements. It was floor length.
She stood before the bathroom door mirror, holding the lame gown before her. Could she still get into it after twelve years? She stripped down to bra and panties and studied her reflection. She was full grown. But she really wasn't much bigger than she had been when she graduated. She slipped it over her head and struggled into it.
It fit a bit tight about the hips but she guessed an audience of men would probably approve. And if any women saw her, to hell with them. But the bust… she wondered if she could get away with buttoning it only halfway. Perhaps some pins or brooches…
The only real trouble was her undergarments. She had put on just enough weight in the last twelve years to make the gown fit more interestingly than the first time around. But now it fit just tight enough to outline bra and bikini panties with perfectly visible creases. She sighed and took the damned thing off. Then with sudden inspiration she took off bra and panties too.
Standing before the mirror she surveyed full un-draped splendor. Poor stiff-pricked bastards… no wonder they couldn't keep their minds on the law when they were looking at that body, trying to decipher its gorgeous outlines through all the severely tailored outfits-camouflages she was in the habit of wearing.
Her hair, when she let it free of that confining chignon, hung straight and blond almost to her waist. Her legs were long and straight and, by some quirk of nature, possessed a special prick-stiffening quality which made them appear, even now when she stood barefoot, as if she were standing in exaggerated spike heels.
Her hips were full and rounded, framing a belly that curved with feminine allure punctuated by a deep navel built for licking. Her waist was not really tiny but seemed that way because of the lovely bulge of hips beneath and midriff above.
And her tits-those lovely jugs! Full, firmly all-American, upstanding, looking steadfastly onward, forward, upward with all the unlimited enthusiasm of Kiwanis and Lions. Like twin headlights they illuminated her mirror, their nonsagging, never-need-a-bra roundness still capable after all these years of turning heads on the street, of making judges forget or ignore the finely spun thread of some legal argument.
She didn't need a bra-wore one only as an added safeguard lest her firm, hard little nipples show through layers of clothing and drive one of those haunted-eyed yearning clients right over the wire mesh that separated them. She turned sideways and studied her figure for sag. There was none. Her belly bulged in just the proper direction. Her full, firm jugs' upper slopes were twin ski jumps, curving with wicked unexpectedness as that long gentle slope approached a perky, skyward-pointing nipple. Their under surfaces were ripe with the lushness of grapefruits-twin melons full of sweet promise.
And how long had it been since a man's lips had closed over one of those nipples? How long since a man's hot hardness had slipped gently between her thighs, parted the blond-fuzzed labia of her vulva and done its chauvinistic best to rearrange the topography of her cunt country?
Angrily, she tore her gaze from the mirror and began struggling back into the formal. It still fit snugly and she knew she would have to walk carefully if it were not to ride up on her hips. But, with a will, plus the help of a few pins and brooches it could be done. She hung the dress where she could find it in the morning and stepped into the tub. While it was filling she lay back, reveling in sensuality as near-scalding water gradually rose round her recumbent body, inundating her until her ass was bathed in a roseate glow of not quite contentment. She lay inert while the rising water converted the blond bush on her mons veneris into a tiny triangular island next to the larger round island of her' navel-punctuated belly. Finally these islands were submerged and rising water exposed only the pink-tipped, firm-nippled aureoles of her matched set of jugs. She sighed and sunk deeper in the water. Christ but she was tired!
Paula nearly went to sleep in the tub but she was finally aroused from her lethargy by cooling water. She pulled the plug and toweled off hastily. Not even bothering with a nightgown, she went to bed naked.
And dreamed.
She was a fair-sized woman but he was a giant and he was not ravishing her in the traditional sense of the word. He didn't have her on her back in missionary position while he held her down and poured his masculinity to her in eight-inch doses. Instead, he lay on his back and she was on top and she wasn't even lying down atop him. She was sitting, legs extended, her full ass firmly spiked on a prodigious prod that was not going in and out of her but was literally screwing, winding her down on his spindle while she spun down on him like a nut.
He had his hands on her waist and he had his pelvis raised and he was spinning her, eliciting a melody from her long-playing body as if she were a rock-and-roll record spinning on the erotic turntable of his cock. And oh chauvinistic Jesus, did it ever feel goooood!
She was gasping, her whole body quaking under the erotic onslaught of his prodding spindle. With each erotic turn he screwed it deeper into her. Her legs were high; she was jackknifed, her whole body weight supported on that lovely lance that was stabbing her to a lovely death.
Then suddenly she was not just spinning, screwing her hot humming nut down around his bolt. Now he was bucking too, tossing her up and down while she spun; her thrumming vagina was being screwed to death and now as she bounced up and down he was driving it still deeper into her with each savage, soul-shattering thrust. She could feel her innards start to melt, shift, transmogrify into startlingly new and erotic shapes.
He sat up and such was his strength, his size, and his agility that even sitting up he could still hump her up and down, bend her legs up past her ears and keep her spinning while still feeding his firm eight inches into her, bouncing her up and down atop and around his erotic pogo stick. Only now he was no longer turning her by her tiny waist. Now her full firm jugs were his handles and he was spinning her faster, so fast they stuck out even straighter, more provocatively skyward-pointing and with each turn he ducked his face in to plant a kiss on first one humming, thrumming, rock-hard nipple and then the other. And oh Jesus chauvinist, didn't it ever feel gooooood!